"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 098 - The Third Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

completed the statement; and he followed with a spasm of heavy coughing. The driver started the taxi
forward. The coughing ended; the passenger leaned forward and put a wheezy question:

"What time is it?"

The taxi driver pulled a cheap watch from his pocket and consulted it as he guided the cab toward Sixth
Avenue. The light from a small hotel front enabled him to note the time.

"Quarter of six," said the driver. "I'll get you there in ten minutes, sir."

Swinging left on Sixth Avenue, the driver encountered trouble beneath the pillars of the elevated. Traffic
was badly jammed; the cause was visible after the cab had managed to proceed one block. Smoke was
pouring from the front of a little Chinese laundry; three fire trucks were on hand, dealing with the blaze.

A hoarse ejaculation of impatience came from the passenger in the cab. The driver responded. Without
waiting for traffic to unsplice, he swung across to the left of the avenue; bucked oncoming cars, then
thrust the cab between the "el" pillars toward his right. Skidding across the path of a southbound trolley
car, he gained the slippery northbound tracks.

Safe from disaster, the driver regained control and spun for a right turn at the next eastbound street. An
arm-waving traffic cop certified the driver's action. Away from the jam, the cab sped eastward.

THE cabby was still grinning over his smartness when he pulled up at the destination. He had made the
trip in the ten minutes that he had estimated. A grunt of approval came from the muffled passenger. Then
an inquiry:

"Do you have change for a large bill?"

The driver fished in his pocket.

"For five bucks," he stated. "Wait - maybe I've got enough change for a tenner -"

"A twenty is my smallest," interposed the passenger, huskily. "Here. Take this to the drug store." He
thrust a twenty-dollar bill from a gloved hand. "Tell them it's change for Mr. Yorne. Bring the change to
my house. The name is on the door-plate: 'Lucian Yorne.'"

The passenger stooped his head. The driver knew that he was reading the registration card, whereon the
driver's own name - Luke Ronig - appeared with his photograph. A natural precaution, since the
passenger was risking twenty dollars on Ronig's honesty. The driver saw his fare alight; he watched the
muffled man ascend the brownstone steps of an old house.

Stepping from the cab, Ronig went to the drug store, which was at the corner, forty paces distant. The
clerks were busy; it was a few minutes before one of them received Ronig's request to change a twenty.
The clerk looked dubious, until he heard that the change was for Mr. Lucian Yorne. Then he changed the
bill immediately.

"Talking to Mr. Yorne, were you?" he inquired.

Ronig nodded.
"How was his cold?"