"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 268 - Murder Lake" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

our employees run the risk. No one can tell what may happen in Dalebury. Poor Morgan's case
convinced me of that."

The secretary took the cash box out to the detective. Seated in the outer office was another man, a quiet,
unobtrusive chap. He was the friend with whom Cranston was driving, and his name was Harry Vincent.
Looking into Endorf's office, Harry caught the slightest of gestures from Cranston, but it was enough.

As soon as the inner door had closed, Harry Vincent arose and strolled from the anteroom. He saw the
so-called detective going down the steps from the mezzanine. Taking advantage of the late shoppers who
were leaving the department store, Harry kept close to the man's trail.

The fellow wasn't difficult to follow, even though he did slide the cash box beneath his overcoat. The
overcoat itself was a beacon. It was a check job, too fancy to be stylish in a conservative town like
Dalebury. Besides the garish coat, the man was wearing a hat with a small feather, a unique adornment in
these parts. His face was thin and pointed, its nose the sort that poked into sight at every slight turn of his
head.

After a few blocks, the fellow went into a drugstore and found a telephone booth. From the cigarette
counter, Harry watched him fumbling with something under the level of the phone-booth window and
was quite sure that the prying nose was poking itself into Endorf's cash box.

Easing around by the booths, Harry arrived there just as the man began a phone call. "This is Bert
Bevry," he began. "Now listen..."

Whatever else was said Harry didn't hear it, for Bevry slammed the door abruptly before continuing his
theme. When Bevry came out from the phone booth the cash box was still beneath his coat, but its bulge
was matched by another on the opposite side. That was enough to prove that Endorf's cash had been
transferred to Bevry's personal possession.

Seeing Bevry crossing the street to reach a parked car, Harry checked the license number and hurried
back toward the department store to pick up his own coupe. On the way he saw Cranston, but there
was no chance to contact him. Cranston was accompanied by Endorf and the two were going toward the
city hall to await the arrival of the notorious Shep Kroot.

IT was just half past five when the local public enemy came into the police chief's office, handcuffed
between two officers who had received him at the bus terminal. He was booked and promptly
transferred to the district attorney, who motioned all visitors to be seated.

As the center of the throng, Shep Kroot seemed much abashed. He was a little man with a pasty face
and eyes that could match a rat's in quickness.

The D.A. opened ceremonies by asking Shep what he knew about Morgan's disappearance. Shep
resorted to the one word: "Nothin'." That, and "I can't remember," constituted his entire vocabulary for
the next half-hour.

Meanwhile, dusk was settling, and lights were put on to illuminate the gloomy office. The police chief
obligingly set a lamp so that it shone on Shep's sweaty face. The heat not only added to Shep's glisten; it
brought nervous looks from his darting eyes.

The scene was taking on the setting of a third degree, a fact that didn't escape Shep's attention. The