"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 042 - Mox" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Take a look upstairs, Markham," ordered Cardona. Then, as the detective sergeant left to obey
instructions, Cardona again turned to the middle-aged man. "What time was this?"

"It was quarter past ten," said Mursled. "Mr. Greerson, he is in a great hurry when he comes in. I think he
takes a taxicab outside. I am not sure."

"It's nearly half past eleven now," growled Cardona. "That's given him an hour to make a get-away."

Mursled, blinking through a pair of spectacles, showed interest at Cardona's remark. The proprietor of
this converted apartment house was one of those individuals whose curiosity is more pressing than fear.

"What is it that you want Mr. Greerson for?" questioned Mursled.

"Murder!" retorted Cardona, swinging savagely toward the man whom he had quizzed.

"He has killed a man?" Mursled was aghast.

"A man has been killed," rephrased Cardona, staring narrowly at Mursled. "A man who knew this
telephone number. A man named Schuyler Harlew."

"Harlew?" Mursled gasped the name eagerly. "I heard Mr. Greerson talk to himтАФone week agoтАФon
this telephone. I heard him say the name. Harlew."

"What was the conversation about?"

"I don't remember, sir. I just remember the one name, Harlew. That was it. Harlew."

MARKHAM came in while Cardona was still staring at the middle-aged apartment proprietor. The
detective sergeant informed that he had entered the rear apartment on the third floor.

"Nothing much up there," announced Markham. "It looks as though the man has packed up and left."

"I'm going up," returned Cardona. "Take charge of this man, Markham."

Mursled sank into a chair. His voice was pleading as he insisted that he had done nothing. Cardona
swung on his heel. Followed by Weston and Cranston, he strode up the stairs.

In Greerson's apartment, Cardona found matters much as Markham had described them. The place was
illy furnished. It was untidy; but among the articles that had been left strewn about there seemed nothing
of consequence.

A sheet of heavy drawing paper was thumb-tacked to a draftsman's easel. Odd piles of paper showed
only rough plans of mechanical devices. A few tools, pieces of broken electrical apparatus: these were
the only articles that remained.

"Looks like an inventor's hangout," observed Cardona. "This stuff may be faked, though. Maybe this
fellow Greerson was just posing as an inventor."

After a short deliberation, the detective turned to Commissioner Weston. Tersely, he put forth his