"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 117 - Vengeance Is Mine" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

leaving for Boston on a late train, but I may want to go to my apartment
first."
"I understand, sir."
Zanwood began to pace impatiently, confining himself to the small area
just inside the door. The doorman spoke politely to The Shadow:
"Commissioner Weston is in the library, Mr. Cranston. He expects you
there, sir."
Strolling toward the library, which opened from the lobby, The Shadow
found the police commissioner in the broad doorway. Weston was a man of
military appearance, straight-shouldered and pompous even to his well-clipped,
short-pointed mustache. He had eyed the scene at the doorway; he spoke
indignantly as he shook hands with The Shadow.
"That fellow Zanwood is a bounder!" asserted Weston. "Bah! For all his
importance as a Wall Street operator, he does not belong in this club. How did
he ever manage to pass the admittance committee, Cranston?"
"George Zanwood is a life member," remarked The Shadow. "He joined the
Cobalt Club about six years ago, before the bars were raised."
Weston winced. The statement had a double significance. It meant that
Zanwood might have been lucky in joining the Cobalt Club; but it also placed
the pudgy-faced man in an exclusive class to which more recent members -
including Weston - did not belong. One of Weston's greatest disappointments
was
the fact that the Cobalt Club no longer granted life memberships.
"Let us go into the library," suggested Weston, abruptly. Then, as an
afterthought, he added, "These life members. Humph! It's time a few of them
died off!"
Weston was forgetful in that statement, for his friend Cranston happened
to be a life member of the club. However, The Shadow merely indulged in a
quiet
smile, for he knew that Weston referred specifically to George Zanwood.


IN a corner of the library, Commissioner Weston began to chat on the
subject that pleased him most: his own activities as police commissioner.
Weston found a ready listener in his friend Cranston, but he did not suspect
the reason for The Shadow's attentiveness.
Weston had a penchant for recounting odd cases that came to the notice of
the police. Ninety-nine per cent of them were chaff; but in one out of a
hundred, The Shadow found something of note that had escaped Weston entirely.
Those rare clues could prove worthwhile, particularly at a time when The
Shadow
expected moves from some hidden hand of supercrime. Unfortunately, the
incidents
that Weston recounted on this occasion were dry and pointless.
As Weston talked, his voice rose higher. With every pause, a sharp "ahem"
came from a corner of the library. A withery old club member named
Throckmorton
was mulling through his newspaper and did not enjoy the disturbance that
Weston's tones created.
Oblivious to Throckmorton's coughs, Weston kept on talking. At last, old