"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 241 - Vengeance Bay" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

drink was just another index to Bron's adventurous past.

This man who could look handsome only when he smiled, had faced death more often than he cared to
tell, and could prove it, should he wish, by exhibiting his wounds. For Bron was a man who had fought
often, and hard; always on the losing side.

The vagaries of brutal warfare had hounded Vedo Bron from one European battle front to another.
When small, ill-equipped armies collapsed under the crushing blows of a larger, more powerful force,
Bron had been among the last to retreat, encouraging his comrades to fight to the very last.

In each country from which he was driven, Bron's name was listed among those to whom death would be
delivered summarily, should the conquerors ever capture them.

Some had met such death, but not Vedo Bron. He had kept on fighting the oppressors until there were
no countries left in which to fight, and had finally used the neutral nation of Portugal as a stepping-stone
for a long flight to the United States.

Altogether, Bron was a refugee from so many lands that he could truly define himself a European, rather
than localize himself. As for his personal exploits, he was willing to recount them in a brief, matter-of-fact
style; but whenever anyone began to acclaim him as a hero, Bron shook off the praise with a shrug of his
one good shoulder and turned to some other subject.

At present, Bron was displaying his habitual sang-froid, as he read a newspaper clipping which a friend
had handed him. It told of a refugee, much like himself, who had been found shot through the heart in a
Midwestern hotel.

There was much doubt that the case was suicide. Rather, it seemed, the agents of tyrannical powers had
caught up with the refugee and done away with him. Bron's nod indicated that he agreed with the latter
theory.

"It was murder," spoke Bron simply, without losing any of his smile. "Thank you for this clipping. I shall
file it with the rest of my collection."

From his pocket, Bron produced a wallet that teemed with clippings. Thumbing through them, he added
the new one.

"It is always well," said Vedo Bron, "to study the ways in which one's enemies dispose of persons whom
they do not like. I have been forewarned regarding a dozen methods; needless to say, I have taken
precautions against those. All items like these are gratefully welcomed by myself."

Bron put the clippings away, and bowed as a friend proposed another round of drinks. People noticed,
however, that Bron watched the barkeeper from the corner of his eye, and when the waiter brought the
drinks, the refugee casually chose one that was on the far side of the tray.

After others had raised their glasses, Bron poised his at his lips, then lowered it after the mere semblance
of a sip. He became convivial, forgetting his glass as he chatted, until he saw that none of his friends had
slumped to the table.

Then, with a smile that was most charming, Bron raised his drink and finished it with a flourish.
AMONG the persons much intrigued by the ways of Vedo Bron was a girl named Margo Lane. This