"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 203 - Crime at Seven Oaks" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CRIME AT SEVEN OAKS
by Maxwell Grant

As originally published in "The Shadow Magazine," August 1, 1940.

Murder strikes at random, bringing The Shadow swiftly to the scene!


CHAPTER I

TRAILS IN THE NIGHT

THE sleek sepia roadster slid to a stop near the crossroads. It stood
there, motor purring idly, while the driver leaned from the leather-cushioned
seat to read the weather-beaten signpost.
It was night, but strong moonlight predominated, etching the car and its
driver. The roadster was of the convertible type, an expensive custom-built
job. On its door the initials "C.T." were visible, and the lowered top allowed
a full view of the driver.
The man at the wheel was unquestionably "C.T."; he needed nothing more
than his appearance to prove himself the owner of the elaborate roadster. He
was handsome, his smooth face darkish; but it was tanned rather than sallow.
He
was hatless, and his black hair showed sleek in the moonlight.
His was a face of lines. Black eyebrows formed straight streaks above
narrow-lidded eyes; his nose was high, aristocratic. His lips, also straight,
marked C.T. as a man of experience, quite satisfied with his place in life.
There were other lines, such as furrows in his forehead, which formed another
index.
Either C.T. was older than he looked, or he had lived a life of strenuous
action. He appeared to be about thirty, though a skeptic might have added ten
years or so to that total and been right. Whatever his age or history, C.T.
looked quite competent to take care of himself.
Even the way in which he placed a cigarette between his lips, his manner
in reaching for the lighter on the dashboard, showed ease and poise. His
choice
of a car was an added key to his character.
This youngish man seemed intent on getting the most out of life with the
least expenditure of effort; but behind his smoothness, one sensed a latent
energy that could carry through to any purpose.
One arm of the signboard pointed to Northdale. It was the road that C.T.
wanted. Sliding the car into gear, he cruised along a narrow but well-paved
road, scanning the rolling landscape that spread beneath the moonlight.
The car reached a hilltop; in the far distance, the sleek man saw the
tiny
twinkles of the town. He reduced speed to a slow coast, as the car descended a
winding road through a thick woods.
Trees filtered the moonlight, almost blotting it out. The roadster's
headlights cut a gleaming swath ahead; out of the darkness, twin masses of
gray