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

outlet.


KEEPING to the nearer door, The Shadow began a slow progress. He reached
the first door; there he paused. Ahead, The Shadow saw a sudden signal,
flickering above the end door. He knew that it might token some arrival. There
was a chance that the door would open.
 The light was sufficient to show The Shadow, even in his attire of black.
He needed a spot with which to blend. The doorway at the left provided it.
Shifting his weight, The Shadow edged from sight. He nearly lost his balance;
to regain it, he gripped the knob of the closed door. His hand seemed to skid
as the knob turned in his grasp.
A moment later, the door swung inward, its latch loosened by The Shadow's
chance turn of the knob. Losing his hold, The Shadow took a sprawl into a
space
that seemed to be a closet. His mental faculties were somewhat regained; this
spill did not have the long, delayed motion of the others, although it gave
some impression of slowness.
Striving to halt the fall, The Shadow stumbled inward. The folds of a
heavy curtain enveloped him. He sank to the floor.
His sprawl had been noiseless. Even Jarruth's revolver had made no thud,
for it struck the curtain when it slipped from The Shadow's grasp. Looking
back, The Shadow saw the light of the hall. Stretching, he reached for the
door
and pushed it shut, stopping its final close with his fingers.
Easing his hand away, The Shadow let the door go into place. The latch
did
not click; but the door was far enough shut to pass outside inspection.
Regaining the revolver in the blackness, The Shadow gripped the curtain
and drew himself to his feet. He felt steps beneath him; realized that they
had
helped to break his tumble. Pressing the curtain aside, he crawled up the
steps,
guiding by a glow that came from above. Reaching the top, The Shadow saw the
sheet of glass that formed the Argus mirror.
There was a ledge beneath it. Drawing himself to his feet, The Shadow
steadied and looked through the glass, into the reception room. He recognized
at once that his was a hidden observation post, for The Shadow had used these
Argus mirrors before.
The reception room was empty. Its ornate furnishings, the heavy curtains,
even the crackling fire on the hearth, reminded The Shadow of the house on H
Street where he had first met Hugo Creelon. Once again, The Shadow was looking
into the master-spy's lair; this time from Creelon's own observatory.


LUCK was at last with The Shadow. On this occasion, Creelon had failed to
come to his lookout post to watch a visitor's arrival. The reason for the
spy's
absence became immediately apparent. The door from the hall opened; the
bespectacled secretary bowed Frederick Bryland into the reception room.