"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 141 - The Crystal Buddha" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

As inscrutable as the tiny idol itself, were the ways of The Shadow as he
pierced the veil of mystery behind...

THE CRYSTAL BUDDHA
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in
The Shadow Magazine #141
January 1, 1938


CHAPTER I.
THE SHOP OF BELA SINGH.

THE East Side streets looked sinister as Barbara Brinby viewed them from the
windows of the cab. Perhaps they were darker than usual, this night, because
of the foggish drizzle that muffled the street lamps. The rain, too, could
account for the absence of people on the sidewalks.
The cab swung into an avenue. Lighted stores, though they were grimy and
tawdry, made Barbara feel more at home. There were people here, too, shambling
along with coats muffled about their necks. The rumble of an elevated train
added to Barbara's confidence.
This seemed the real New York again; but the glimpse did not last long. The
cab took a westbound street. It was rolling into a deserted district where
muggy gloom produced the illusion of menacing lurkers.
The cab was moving slowly, the driver craning from the window to notice the
house numbers. They had nearly reached their destination; and Barbara was glad
that the trip was about to end. That cabby had certainly taken a roundabout
course to get here, picking bumpy streets and avenues that Barbara had never
seen before.
She didn't like the driver's appearance, either. Perhaps that was why she had
become nervous during the ride. Barbara was seeing his face again, as he
leaned from the window. It was a ratty face, with eyes that squinted.
Usually, Barbara took a good look at a cab driver before entering his taxi;
but, to-night, there hadn't been much time for that.
She had hailed this cab in Chinatown, where taxis were few. The rain, too, had
hurried her.
The cab stopped with a screechy jolt. The driver stared at the front of a
little shop, set just below the level of the street.
The shop occupied the basement of a building that had once been a residence
but which now looked abandoned, save for that bottom floor. The shop's windows
showed a dull glow; enough for the squinty taxi driver to make out the name
that was painted above it.
" 'Bela Singh'," he read, in a growly voice. " 'Oriental Curios.' Guess this
is the joint you want, lady."
Alighting, the taxi man opened the door. As he did, he glanced up and down the
street, his rattish eyes peering hard through the drizzle. Barbara noticed it
as she stepped to the curb. She started to open her hand bag, to find her
change purse.
That hand bag was a large one, with platinum adornments. It had a large bulge
inside it. The cabby noted it; but let his eyes shift quickly. Peering along