"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 146 - Face of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

was long; its pointed chin increased its oversize appearance.

Drame didn't mind photographs, provided they showed his face alone. He had a way of shifting his
spidery shoulders out of sight, past other persons. If asked to pose alone, he made sure that the picture
was a close-up of his face. No one ever managed a candid-camera shot of Alvin Drame.

The multimillionaire looked hollow-eyed and tired; but his large broad lips retained a pleasant smile. It
was seldom that Drame appeared publicly; when he did, he let interviewers make the most of it. That
was why he stole the show from the other celebrities present. It irked some of them; particularly, Police
Commissioner Ralph Weston.

If there was one thing that Commissioner Weston liked, it was being photographed with men of
prominence. Being shunted to the background didn't please him. Twisting the points of his military
mustache, Weston looked for some one in the same position, who might draw him into the limelight. He
saw the very man he wanted. That individual was Lamont Cranston, a millionaire globe-trotter.

Tall, immaculately attired, Cranston was standing apart from the throng. If the bedlam amused him, he did
not show it; for Cranston's face was an immobile one. The only expression that came to his hawkish face
was a slight smile of welcome as Weston approached.

"Hello, Cranston!" greeted the commissioner. "Sorry I could not reach you last night, from the club. I
wanted you to meet Kent Allard, the famous aviator."

"Allard and I are already acquainted," replied Cranston calmly. "It is seldom, though, we meet in New
York. I am sorry that I was out of town, commissioner."

Though Weston did not guess it, he was actually speaking to Kent Allard. The guise of Lamont Cranston
was merely one that Allard assumed on suitable occasions. That, in itself, was amazing; but there was
more to Allard's remarkable personality.

There were times when Allard was neither himself nor Cranston. Those were the occasions on which he
became that mysterious being known as The Shadow.

SUCH an occasion was shortly due. A reporter joined Weston and Cranston. The commissioner was
pleased, when he recognized Clyde Burke, of the Classic. Weston was counting on an interview that
would include himself. Instead, Burke concentrated on Cranston, asking if he intended to contribute to
the museum fund.

While Cranston parried the reporter's questions, Weston stalked away. That put the scene the way
Clyde Burke wanted it. In a low voice, the reporter told Allard:

"Report on Clipper Threeve. Achilles Warehouse job set for midnight."

"Report received," undertoned Cranston. "Instructions! Inform Burbank to tip off Cardona at
eleven-fifty."

Clyde moved away, his face puzzled. This was the sort of case that The Shadow usually handled alone.
Instead, he was turning it over to the law. The warehouse raid would become the duty of Inspector Joe
Cardona. Ace of the Manhattan force, Cardona was competent; but this assignment would be over his
head. He might spoil "Clipper's" warehouse job; but the law could never close in soon enough to trap that