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

during a period that seemed interminable. Every time his eyes had begun to
open
he had closed them, awaiting dusk. Jarruth had not reported the prisoner as
awake until after six o'clock. Jarruth was wrong. The Shadow had aroused two
hours before.
Swallowing a few more mouthfuls of the beneficial soup, The Shadow
managed
to push the tea wagon away. He tried to rise; he failed, but tried again. He
succeeded. Wearily, his steps almost as slow as Jarruth's had appeared to be,
The Shadow faltered forward.
Once he reeled; felt himself falling slowly. He caught a table and
regained his balance. Resting, The Shadow realized that he possessed only one
capability that could bring swift motion. That was the ease with which he
could
fall.
A sprawl might seem slow; but it would be as rapid as any drop that
another man could produce. It was easy to topple off balance. It was upon that
factor that The Shadow depended. The warmth of the soup was giving him a false
sense of speeded motion; but he was wise enough not to rely upon it as real!
The Shadow reached the panel where the folding bed was hidden beyond.
Gripping a solid wall, he leaned against the panel. It began a slow
revolution.
The Shadow tightened his grip on the wall; he shifted as the panel came
around.
He seemed shackled.
Though the panel's swing was prolonged, The Shadow could not guarantee
that he would clear its path. Yet he persisted; and with success. When the bed
swung completely into place, The Shadow stood beyond it.
The Shadow raised his hand up to the catch that held the bed suspended.
He
lowered his hand; through sheer weight alone, it drew the catch. The bed was
balanced. The Shadow edged his shoulder past it. He felt a pressure; he
resisted with all his strength. Braced against one edge of the bed, The Shadow
was holding it in place. For a man in his weakened condition, it was a
Herculean task.
The Shadow watched the door of the room; held on for a long, tiring
period. The door began to open - deliberately, but not so slowly as it had
opened earlier in the day. Jarruth appeared; closed the door behind him. In
his
hand, the servant was carrying a glass of amber-tinted liquid.
Jarruth's ugly leer told that he had received the order that he wanted.
The executioner was arriving with The Shadow's poison.


LOOKING toward the easy-chair, Jarruth showed a surprised scowl when he
saw that the prisoner had left it. Wheeling so rapidly that the motion seemed
fairly fast to The Shadow, Jarruth saw the tall figure by the folding bed. The
Shadow, still guised as Cranston, was on the far side.
Jarruth did exactly as The Shadow had hoped. The servant's actions came
like clockwork. Putting a hand to his hip, Jarruth pulled a revolver and