"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 250 - Death About Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

His gaze lowering, Orvill saw Laverock's car, parked beside the Galba Building. You couldn't miss
Laverock's car. It was red and shiny, and it looked just as hideous here as it did whenever Laverock
parked it outside the Avenue Club.

Maybe broad-minded men like Delmot could excuse Laverock for owning such a car, but Orvill couldn't.
It simply proved that Laverock had no taste, and shouldn't be a member of the Avenue Club. Nor would
he be, if Orvill could have prevented it. The trouble was that Laverock already belonged to the Avenue
Club when Orvill joined it.

Turning away, Orvill decided to ignore the garish car. He kept pacing a circle under the marquee, from
the curb, past the revolving door, and back again. A box of flowers under one arm, a walking stick
hanging from the other, Orvill was attracting more notice than he supposed from passers-by. In fact, such
pedestrians were too interested in watching Orvill to observe what happened across the street.

A short-built man came briskly from the Galba Building and thrust himself into the garish red coupe. His
manner marked him as the owner of the car, which he was. But James Laverock seemed far too
interested in starting his car to pay any attention to Dana Orvill across the street. He twisted the key in
the ignition lock, pressed the starter, and yanked the coupe in gear, as he turned the wheel to pull out
from the curb.

That was when it happened.

Dana Orvill swung about as he heard the car start. He saw James Laverock staring from the window,
and their eyes met in a mutual glare. Laverock's right hand was swinging up across the steering wheel.

From there on, witnesses were to tell it.

With the roar of the car motor came, sharp reports that echoed loud along the narrow street. Witnesses
might have mistaken those repeated bangs for backfires from the car, if they hadn't seen the immediate
result. Amid the bursts, Dana Orvill wilted.

Recoiling queerly, he struck the sidewalk, losing the box of flowers, which broke open, to strew the
yellow jonquils beside him. As witnesses dashed up beside the stricken man, they saw Orvill clamping his
hands to his side and caught his dying gasp:

"Laverock... he... he shot me!"

The red car was swinging the corner when the pack went after it. One man yelled to a cop across the
avenue. Another shouted to the doorman in front of the Hotel Bayberry.

Others were waving excitedly at passing cars and cabs. In surprisingly swift time, a chase was being
organized. But in that interim came a pursuer who was to outstrip the rest.

A cab was cruising down the avenue. From its window a keen-eyed passenger with hawkish face
observed the commotion and all that lay beyond it. He saw Orvill, prone amid the jonquils; he spotted
Laverock's car, picking up speed, as though the blares of a police whistle were giving it new impetus.

Calmly the hawk-faced passenger told his cabby:

"Overtake the red car."