"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 153 - Murder For Sale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The windows of both the living room and bedroom opened into a narrow space,
with the wall of an older hotel on the opposite side.
During the day, the rooms were anything but cheery, but at night, it
didn't matter. That, at least, was Harry's opinion.
Stopping in the living room, Harry pulled a fountain pen from his pocket
and sat down at a writing desk. The pen was provided with the special ink that
Harry used in writing messages to The Shadow. Though he intended to write in
code, inscribing a message that would fade on exposure to air, Harry was
cautious, nevertheless.
He had hardly placed his pen to paper, before he decided that a look into
the bedroom would be advisable. Rising from the desk, he opened the connecting
door and turned on the lights. Seeing no one, Harry decided it would be
unnecessary to look into the clothes closet.
As Harry turned off the lights and stepped back into the living room,
there was a slight sound from the closet door. Harry didn't hear it, for he
had closed the door between. By the time he reached the writing desk, the
connecting door gave a click; but that, too, escaped Harry's attention.
Coding messages to The Shadow wasn't an easy task. They had to be thought
out carefully, for there was no chance to read back over them, and rapid
writing was essential. Unless folded and tucked in an envelope by the time the
ink was dry, the messages would obliterate themselves before being
dispatched.
That was why Harry paused and raised his head in momentary thought. The
action fixed his eyes upon the wall in front of him. A small mirror happened
to be directly before his gaze. It gave him the reflection of the door from
the bedroom.
For a moment, Harry thought his imagination was at work. The reflected
door gave a tremble. It stopped, as he stared more steadily; but this time,
Harry wasn't fooled.
The door had opened, to the space of about an inch.
 THOUGH he saw nothing through that crack of reflected darkness, Harry
felt a distinct impression that an eye was watching him. The situation called
for cool headwork, and Harry provided it. Concentrating upon the paper before
him, he slid his left hand across the front of his body and beneath his coat.
Expecting possible trouble, Harry had packed an automatic in his right
hip pocket. The cold touch of the weapon gave him reassurance. He was gripping
it left-handed, but that did not matter. Harry could handle a gun reasonably
well with his left hand.
All the while, he was pretending to write a note; a ruse which he felt
sure would deceive the hidden observer.
Then came action.
Shifting forward, Harry sped to his feet, giving his chair a backward
kick. He spun around to the right, drawing his gun as he made the twist. It
wasn't until he was full about that he realized his one mistake.
He should either have wheeled to his left, to bring his gun ahead of him;
or, in turning to the right, he should have shifted his body, holding the gun
almost stationary.
Instead, Harry tried a long draw. It was not only belated; his automatic
hooked his vest. The tug he gave it sent his arm wide. Instead of covering the
connecting door, Harry's aim was thirty degrees off.