"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 231 - Garden of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

complete view of the Bendleton homestead.

To The Shadow, all was sinister.

Singular, that The Shadow, whose adventures had taken him to ghoulish, ruined manors at the dead of
stormy nights, should view the serene Bendleton mansion with a sentiment akin to horror; yet, the
consideration of one simple fact rendered the entire situation plain.

The Shadow had been in Bendleton's mansion. He knew that the proximity of shading elms and maples
produced an early darkness within the house. Always, lights were needed an hour before sunset; not only
in the gloomy halls and the deep living room, but in Bendleton's second-floor study, which had a single
window fronting toward the east.

There were no lights glimmering from the house, though Bendleton had promised to be at home.
Considering the urgency of Cranston's visit, which concerned important financial transactions that
Bendleton had not detailed by telephone, the silent house, sunlit without but darkish within, had all the
semblance of a morgue.

Cranston was alighting at the front walk which led to the house. Over his arm were black garments that
the chauffeur did not see. Quietly, Cranston spoke:

"There may be other visitors, Stanley. It would be better not to block the entrance. Take the car around
to the rear lane, and wait there until I summon you."

Stanley glanced back as he drove away. Not seeing Cranston, he supposed that his employer had
strolled directly to the front door of the great house. Stanley's guess was wrong. Actually, Lamont
Cranston had vanished.

Close to the house, he was sliding into the garments that he carried: a slouch hat and a black cloak.
Under the shelter of tree-fringed walls, Cranston obliterated one personality to become another: The
Shadow.

There was a side entrance to Bendleton's. It led through a so-called sun porch, which was only sunny in
the morning. At present, the inclosed porch was streaked with gloom, through which The Shadow moved
like a filtering stretch of blackness.

There were eyes present, sharp enough to discern the motion in the gloom, and their owner cocked his
head, to deliver a screechy "Hello!"

The sharp-eyed viewer was a red-and-blue macaw, perched in a large cage above a porch table which
bore two potted geraniums, side by side. Like the macaw's plumage, the red flowers caught the trickly
sunlight that came diluted through the tree branches outside; but The Shadow remained only a mass of
smoky blackness, drifting toward a door that led into the house itself.

Reaching the door, The Shadow found it unlocked. He opened it, stood in the block of gloom that made
the doorway.

IT was wise to pause before crossing that threshold. The whole house, horrendous in its silence, was like
a vast infernal machine.
The air was musty, but warm. The Shadow could scent a faint odor resembling almonds, which other