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

started menacingly toward the wearied prisoner.
The Shadow relaxed. His yield was instant. The weight of the big metal
bed
brushed him aside, sent him toppling to the floor. Though the fall seemed slow
motion to The Shadow, he was actually hurtled from the path that the hinged
bed
followed.
Jarruth, starting for the prisoner, saw the metal Juggernaut arching down
upon him. Once released, uncontrolled by a lowering hand, that mass of metal
had weight combined with power. Jarruth ducked away to avoid it. The Shadow,
going to the floor in a painful, slow-motion drive, witnessed the result.
The bed seemed to lower itself like a reluctant drawbridge while Jarruth
did a curiously delayed turnabout. Slowly, the metal footboard of the bed
opened out, reached Jarruth's head and tapped it a gentle blow. The sound,
though, was sharp to The Shadow's ears.
To Jarruth, the bed's fall was sudden; swift. A surge of down-swinging
metal; a crash that he could not escape. That was the last that The Shadow's
jailer knew. The Shadow, alone, watched the finish.
He saw Jarruth's lazy sprawl, watched the revolver float from the man's
grasp and do a rubbery bounce upon the floor. He saw the glass of amber fluid
tilt; spill its contents as it settled gently and cracked from the feathery
thud.
The bed had reached the floor. Its frame gave a jar above Jarruth's body.
Only the bed quivered. Jarruth was motionless. Steadying himself against the
lowered bed, The Shadow made his way back to the chair. Sinking there, he
swallowed the last of the soup. Gripping bread, he stuffed it to his mouth;
devoured it with all the swiftness that he could command.
Rising, The Shadow moved with crablike gait along the floor, to preserve
his balance. Half crouched, he passed Jarruth's senseless form. He managed to
stoop and pick up the revolver. Steadied, helped by the food that he had
eaten,
The Shadow reached the door. He paused beside a half-turned chair; on it he
saw
objects that were like old friends: his folded cloak, with the slouch hat upon
it.
Slowly, The Shadow put on the black garments. Standing by the door, he
took a look at Jarruth. It would be a while before the servant recovered; how
long, The Shadow could not estimate. He was convinced, however, that he would
have time to leave these premises before Jarruth awakened.
Escape was The Shadow's only policy. He was shaking the spell of the
hashish; each slowly passing minute brought him an increase of strength.
Nevertheless, he was in no condition for battle, nor would he be for an hour
or
more to come.
Tightening, The Shadow showed a flash of his old-time stealth as he
opened
the door and peered into the hallway. He saw the narrow corridor with its
blank
wall on the far side. The hall was deserted. Doorways to the left; another
straight ahead - The Shadow picked the most distant barrier as the probable