"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 192 - Voice of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

had name plates attached.

Two of those, the first-floor apartments, were blank. They had been occupied by artists, whose ideas of
back-rent payments had not satisfied new owners of the building. The buttons that signified the
second-floor apartments bore two names:
FRANK BARSTEAD

GUY WINROW

Pressing both buttons, Ted waited. He knew that the automatic door was probably out of order. His
assumption proved correct, when the door was opened by a frail young man with tired face, who gave a
nervous smile, then said:

"Oh, hello, Lycombe!"

Ted returned the smile. The fellow was Archie Freer, one of Barstead's set. Ted had once threatened
Archie with a needed poke on the chin, which had worried the chap ever since. Inquiring if Barstead
happened to be at home, Ted received a reluctant nod from Archie.

"Yes," admitted Archie. "Frank's upstairs in Winrow's apartment. But -"

"But he doesn't want to see me?" interrupted Ted. "Come along, Archie, and see the fun."

They reached Winrow's apartment, the rear one at the end of a long hallway on the second floor. Frank
Barstead, swarthy and dark-haired, met Ted with a scowl that turned into a rather nasty smile. He swung
to a pale man, who wore glasses.

"Go right ahead, Winrow," ordered Barstead. "I'd like to see the pictures, with the sound effects. I'll be
through with this business in a few minutes."

Guy Winrow went ahead. His apartment was something of a studio, cluttered with movie projectors,
phonographs and radio cabinets, along with filing cabinets, boxes, and a variety of junk. It resembled a
broadcasting studio more than anything else, inasmuch as Winrow was a radio technician.

"Well, how about it, Ted?" queried Barstead, coldly. "That note is due tomorrow. Are you prepared to
lift it?"

"I need a week more," returned Ted, holding his temper. "Gern has promised me -"

"I've had enough of Gern's promises," broke in Barstead, angrily. "I'm giving you a last chance! I want my
money!"

"Or you'll talk to Marian!" snapped Ted. "If you do, I'll give you this!"

He shoved a fist in front of Barstead's face. Winrow, turning from a recording machine, saw the gesture
and sprang in between. Ted thrust him aside, spilling an armful of records that the fellow carried.
Barstead interjected an excited plea.

"No, no, Ted! Leave Winrow out of this. He doesn't figure in the thing at all."