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

Meeting an officer shoulder on, in the middle of the hallway, The Shadow side-stepped and caught his
adversary's ankle with the cane handle.

A revolver bullet punched the ceiling as the cop hit the hardwood. The Shadow was gone again, through
the curtains, as flashlights burned his way. He yanked a curtain loose and flung it, with a spreading
sweep, from the living-room side.

Police blazed shots into the room beyond; then, their flashlights showing no one in sight, they took it that
the fugitive must have reached the porch.

Some went across and around the crumpled curtain; others cut out by the front door and reached the
screened porch by a route so short and quick that there was no chance for any fugitive to be gone before
they arrived. Yet when those two quotas of police met each other with their glaring flashlights, there was
blank space in between.

The fugitive, whoever he was, had seemingly vanished in their midst. As if in proof of his invisibility, they
heard a sarcastic voice speak a sharp "Hello!"

The sound was at their very shoulders, and they wheeled with guns and flashlights, to see a ruffled macaw
that squawked indignantly at receiving the glare of all the flashlights.

Meanwhile, The Shadow was performing the sequel to his remarkable disappearance.

Back in the doorway between living room and hallway, he was rising from beneath the curtain that he had
flung. He'd needed a quick hiding place, so he had provided one. That wide fling of the curtain was more
than a gesture. With it, The Shadow had made a forward fall to the floor in acrobatic style, landing ahead
of the fluttering, spreading curtain.

Under the descending folds, The Shadow had gained absolute concealment. None of the excited police
noticed that the rumples of the curtain were a foot or more in height.

Sounds from the porch told The Shadow that his pursuers were engaged in argument, with the macaw
acting as referee, judging from the squawks that accompanied the disputing voices.

Picking up Bendleton's cane, The Shadow went out through the kitchen and paused to look toward the
porch. The police were coming out with their flashlights, determined to scour the grounds. Slipping them
would be easy enough, but their search would soon bring them to the limousine parked in the rear lane.

Stanley wouldn't be gone; in fact, the commotion that occurred was all the more reason why the
well-trained chauffeur would wait for Cranston's return. Explanations, however, would be embarrassing
for Stanley, should the police find him. Even more so for The Shadow, should he be questioned as
Cranston, regarding the prowler at Bendleton's.

The only way for The Shadow to detach himself from all erroneous connection with the deaths of
Bendleton and others, was to carry the misguided police on a final false trail.

PICKING out the sweep of a flashlight, The Shadow approached it, then made a quick turn as the beam
neared him.