"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 123 - Washington Crime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

despite the fact that the fellow's painful speed did not increase.
When The Shadow found his feet, the man was already facing him. As The
Shadow tried to raise his arms, the other's right hand started in his
direction. It was coming slowly, no more than an inch a second; but the speed
was too great for The Shadow. Before he could ward off the slow-motion thrust,
the man's hand was against his chest.
Mere pressure threw The Shadow off balance. He could feel his arms
swinging wide, even though their motion was slower than a turtle's crawl. He
was falling backward, lingering as if in a dream.
At last, the weary drop ended. The Shadow was back in his chair.
Exhausted, he saw the servant again look toward the door. With a strained
effort, The Shadow managed to inch his gaze in that direction.
The door was opening inward, in keeping with this slow-motion nightmare.
The Shadow saw a man upon the threshold. He recognized Hugo Creelon. He
watched
the pale-faced spy deliberately move forward and start to close the door
behind
him.


THE lingering action continued. It could have been an hour, to The
Shadow's stressed brain, before Creelon finally reached the chair where The
Shadow sat. Then came Creelon's words - long-drawn beyond description.
"You are helpless," Creelon told his prisoner. "You need no bonds. You
have seen the futility of trying to resist."
Creelon's head turned slowly; his eyes at last faced the wide-shouldered
servant.
"Food, Jarruth," ordered Creelon, in his prolonged drawl. "Food for our
guest."
While Jarruth began a slow-footed departure, Creelon again turned toward
The Shadow. By this time, The Shadow had guessed the answer to the riddle. He
was doped; and he knew what drug had been used. Creelon had given him a dose
of
hashish.
The Shadow had witnessed the effect of that Oriental opiate when used
upon
others. To the hashish victim, every second seems a minute; every minute an
hour. A day could be a year; a week an eternity.
With his brain swept by such fancy, The Shadow mistook rapid actions as
slow ones. His own response was in accordance. Numbed by the drug, he could
not
have battled a midget. Creelon knew it, the prolonged chuckle that seemed to
ooze from the spy's straight lips was a trickling, satisfied jeer.
"Perhaps you wonder why you are still alive," said Creelon. "That is - if
your mind can wonder at anything other than your plight. I shall tell you why
you live. I may have further use for you."
Creelon paused - only for a few seconds - but to The Shadow it seemed a
space of minutes.
"You gave me information that I wanted," resumed the spy, "but the prize
is not yet in my possession. There is always a chance of some miscalculation.