"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 044 - Treasures of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

This man was Hawthorne Crayle. In the light of his office, the curio dealer appeared as a tall,
stoop-shouldered old fellow, the very type that one would have expected to find in so dingy a
surrounding. Crayle's face was wizened, his whole bearing was that of the recluse.

The object that Hawthorne Crayle had taken from the door was a yellow envelope. The old man opened
it and fished out a telegram. He scanned the lines and uttered a gleeful chuckle.

Crayle dragged out a dilapidated suitcase and opened it. He fumbled with the combination of a safe,
opened the metal door and brought out two small Buddhas of gold. He packed them in the suitcase,
closed the door of the safe and left the office, taking the grip with him.

As soon as Crayle's footsteps had ceased to echo from the stairway, The Shadow again appeared. His
firm hand applied a metal instrument to the door. The spring lock gave. The Shadow entered Crayle's
office.

The light that came from the window revealed a most amazing sight. The Shadow, vague though he had
been in the hallway, was not cloaked in his garb of black. He was wearing a tawdry overcoat and
battered hat, both of a dark color; his countenance was in plain view.

Yet no one who had seen that face could possibly have gained a key to The Shadow's true identity. In
every feature, The Shadow's visage was the exact counterpart of Hawthorne Crayle, the old curio dealer
who had so recently left the office.

REMOVING his hat and coat, this duplicate of Hawthorne Crayle began to busy himself about the
office. He was familiar with the place, and in every action he was characteristic of the old curio dealer.

The yellow telegram was lying where Crayle had left it. The false Crayle picked it up and chuckled in the
old man's fashion as he read the message. The telegram was from a wealthy man in Cincinnati, asking
Crayle to come at once and bring along the two valuable Buddhas that he owned.

Hawthorne Crayle would never know what had inspired that sale. The Cincinnati collector had received
a wire describing the gold Buddhas. The message had been sent him by The Shadow, under a special
name. The collector had acted as The Shadow had expected.

There was a telephone in Crayle's office. The false Crayle picked it up and dialed a number. He chuckled
as he waited for the reply. When it came, the false Crayle talked in a crackly voice:

"Mr. Terry Barliss?" he questioned. "This is Hawthorne Crayle.... I once knew your uncle.... Yes, yes, I
am very sorry to have learned of his death. I saw the obituary in the newspaper."

A pause while the pretended Crayle listened. Then, in loquacious fashion, he began again:
"I am calling, Mr. Barliss, because of something your uncle once told me. I am a curio dealer... Yes...
Your uncle had a manuscript... Yes, that was it... A collection of original ballads by Francois
Villon...What? You think that it is spurious?... Certainly. I should be glad to give you my opinion... This is
surprising, Mr. Barliss... Yes... At your home... I shall come there this afternoon."

More chuckles as the pretended Crayle hung up the receiver. Time drifted by while he waited. Noon was
approaching. Listening behind the little counter where he stood, The Shadow heard the sound of
footsteps on the stairs.