"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 269 - The Golden Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

been given this private apartment on one of its top-floor wings. An automatic elevator connected with a
street exit on the avenue side. The short corridor already mentioned was a convenient shortcut into the
hospital itself.

Bartley liked the set-up because it made it easy to have frequent conferences with his young friend, Dr.
Sutton.

Bartley had provided most of the funds to equip Sutton's cancer laboratory. Sutton's research work was
chemical rather than surgical. He didn't have much faith in either X-ray or the knife.

Few cancer specialists believed that a cure could be discovered from chemistry. But Sutton was brilliant,
and he had already made considerable progress. Only a month earlier he had hinted to Bartley that he
believed he was on the right track.

Bartley was the only person besides Dr. Sutton who had a key to the lab. A lot of the chemicals and
reagents used in Sutton's experiments were not the sort of stuff to be left unguarded.

Hanson Bartley mashed out his cigar and rose to his feet. But before he could leave the apartment, his
telephone bell rang. With a murmur of impatience he answered the call.

His momentary annoyance faded, however, when the faint voice on the wire identified itself.

"How are you, old man? This is Dwight Nugent."

Nugent's laugh was cheery.

"Listen, you old highbinder! I haven't forgotten about that donation for Mercy Hospital that you argued
me into promising. I thought, if you could come over to my home tonight, we could discuss it. Are you
busy?"

"I'm never too busy to accept a donation. Are you in town, Dwight? I thought you were permanently in
Washington on the war board."

"I am. I'm just in New York for a brief overnight stay. Can you come over?"

"Right away," Hanson Bartley said.

His uneasiness about Dr. Sutton faded from his mind. He rubbed his hands at the thought of Nugent's gift.
It would be a fat one, because Nugent was independently wealthy. And Mercy Hospital could use a
generous donation. The war had put a crimp in its financial budget.

Bartley descended in his private elevator to the street. He drove across town to Dwight Nugent's home.
It was located on upper Central Park West, one of the few old-fashioned mansions left in a
neighborhood of swank hotels and ritzy apartment buildings.

Bartley went up a broad, brownstone stoop, rang the bell. He was admitted at once by Nugent's butler.
Bishop apologized for the fact that the vestibule was dark. His voice seemed husky. He kept his face
averted.
Bartley was puzzled by the butler's odd behavior. Then, suddenly, his puzzlement changed to alarm. This
fellow wasn't Bishop. He couldn't be Bishop! Bartley remembered, now, that when Dwight Nugent had