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

Midnight! The dead line!

To Schuyler Harlew, all hope clung to that single, lingering moment. Every hand of the clock seemed
immobile; even the pointer that showed the seconds seemed reluctant to budge a hair's breadth from its
position.

Then Harlew's eyes saw space. The second hand had moved. As a gasp came from the maddened man's
lips, the pointer seemed to swing downward in a merry, care-free journey, like a motor car that had
labored over the crest of a terrific hill.

The dead line had been passed! The clock showed it!

Shrieks of laughter came from Harlew's lips. He was gleeful as he watched the friendly second hand,
clicking off bits of time which now seemed released. Five seconds; ten seconds, fifteenтАФ

Hunching upward in his chair, Harlew arose with the air of a man about to sign a momentous document.
He was holding the pen firmly; although his wrist seemed weak, it was through joy, not fear. Placing his
left hand on the sheet of yellow paper, Harlew jabbed the pen point downward.

A dab of ink upon the paper. That was all. A wild gasp came from Harlew's lips; the sound of sudden
anguish. The man's stooped body straightened upward. The pen dropped from Harlew's helpless hand. It
clicked against the face of the clock, which now marked twenty seconds past midnight.

Harlew threw his hands toward his back. His fingers clawed helplessly. The stricken man circled as he
staggered toward the door. Desperately, he clutched at the key; it came loose from the lock and fell.
Harlew swayed. His legs collapsed. He sprawled headlong upon the floor, arms in front of him.

His hands reached weakly as though they sought the pen which lay upon the desk. Harlew tried to gasp a
name.

With a final effort, he brought his left hand flat to the floor, one fingerтАФthe little oneтАФdoubling
underneath the palm. His right hand thudded as it formed a loose fist. With an effort, Harlew brought it up
and down; this time, across his left wrist.

From that instant, Schuyler Harlew did not move again. Protruding from the center of his back was the
instrument that had caused his deathтАФa long, thin-bladed knife, pointed like an ice pick, with a
cylindrical handle no thicker than a spool of cotton thread.

As the last gasp came from Harlew's bloated lips, the little clock upon the desk told the time that death
had taken. The long hand had reached one minute after midnight. The tiny indicator had clicked off ten
seconds more, on another downward run.

Like a knell for the man who had met his doom came a distant, booming chime. Its dongs resounded in
slow, funereal tone, as though they, not the knife blade, had been responsible for the end of Schuyler
Harlew.

OneтАФtwoтАФthreeтАФthe strokes continued. The final toll ended the count of twelve. That distant clock,
accurately set, had marked the midnight hour. It also, on this night, signaled the dead line which Schuyler
Harlew had feared. It told the limit of the time which the threatening fiend had given to the man who had
planned to betray him.