"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 100 - The Man From Shanghai" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

resharpened the pencils and put them all away in the pigeonhole.

Finding an odd ash tray, The Shadow dropped the pieces of graphite into it; using a small paper weight,
he ground the black chunks into powder. He poured the black grains upon the prescription pad.

Polishing paper weight and ash tray with his fingers, The Shadow removed traces of his action. He took
off his left glove; a brilliant fire opal glimmered from a ring upon his third finger. Using his finger tips, The
Shadow massaged the powdered graphite into the surface of the pad.

Spark Ganza had removed the top sheet with its telltale scrawl. The second sheet, however, told its
story. It had taken the pressure of Durlew's pencil. The Shadow's process brought unnoticed words to
view. The graphite found the impressions. From the grayish blur that streaked the paper, words stood out
like a carbon copy of Durlew's last scrawl.

The Shadow read the name and address: George Furbish, Royal Arms.

The Shadow ripped the sheet from the pad, just as Spark Ganza had taken the original. He dropped a
pencil beside Durlew's outspread hand.

Donning his glove, he strode from the little office. He found the passage that Spark had taken. The
Shadow reached the blackness of the alleyway.

HALF an hour later, The Shadow alighted from a taxicab in front of the Royal Arms. The place was a
pretentious one, twelve stories in height; but it was located in a rundown neighborhood. Like many of
Manhattan's best apartment houses, the Royal Arms had been built in a neighborhood where many new
structures were planned. The building boom had halted, leaving much of the district still unimproved.

There was a uniformed doorman on duty under the waterproof canopy that formed a marquee to the
Royal Arms. He was the only man in sight.

The Shadow was no longer attired in black. He looked like an ordinary arrival at the apartment. He was
wearing light overcoat and gray fedora hat. His features were plainly in view. Though they bore a slightly
hawklike aspect they were full and rather rounded. The Shadow's nod was genial; his smile a friendly
one. The doorman saluted, taking this visitor for the sort who would have friends at the Royal Arms.

"Good evening," greeted The Shadow, in an easy tone. "Can you tell me which apartment belongs to Mr.
Furbish?"

"Mr. Furbish has not occupied his apartment, sir," returned the doorman, politely. "His furniture has been
installed; but he has not informed us when to expect him."

"I see," remarked The Shadow, with a smile. "Of course, you know Mr. Furbish when you see him?"

"No, sir," confessed the doorman. "Mr. Furbish has never been here. For the moment, sir, I thought that
you might be Mr. Furbish; but when you asked about his apartment -"

"I was asking about my own apartment."

The doorman gaped; then queried, "You are Mr. Furbish?"