"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 281 - Town of Hate" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"How hard did you hit him?"

Cranston simply gestured to the embankment and an obliging lightning flash enlarged the feeble scope of
the headlights to clearly show the tire tracks of Cranston's car. No statement was needed; none could
have helped, considering that the thunder was roaring all around as though the lightning had flashed from
almost overhead.

The man nodded until the peal had faded; then introduced himself as he stooped beside the body.

"My name is Herbert Creswold," he introduced. "I just drove up from Lamira. I know this fellow; his
name is Zeke Stoyer." Creswold came erect, rubbed his hands and added: "He's dead."

Margo looked toward the embankment; it seemed to loom tremendously in the steaming rain. She could
picture a broken neck as one of several logical ailments after a tumble from such a height.

"Zeke was probably in the Old Bridge Tavern," continued Creswold, "along with the other bar-flies who
would do anything for a drink. He was probably fool enough to come back to his truck for something,
before he went to collect."

Cranston's eyebrows lifted.

"Collect what?"

"His free drink," explained Creswold. "They hand one out every time the lightning cracks a tree. Judging
from the last flash, the next will be the pay-off if there is one."

There was a splitting smash from somewhere among the trees above the embankment. The concussion
seemed so close that Margo thought she felt its scorch. The air cleared itself and spread the peculiar odor
of ozone, as if nature had provided a bracer as compensation for the nervous shock of its misdeed.

"Whatever tree that hit," began Creswold, "it was certainly the biggest--"

Cranston's gesture interrupted. He was indicating a flare that lifted above the trees. Wild ideas regarding
spontaneous combustion swept through Margo's mind as she saw that the vivid glare was produced by a
rising flame. Creswold knew this locality and it was he who voiced the answer:

"The Old Bridge Tavern!"

It was Creswold who pointed out the driveway into the old stable-yard. There, Cranston halted the car.
Lightning was crackling from the upper reaches of the gorge. Thunder was rolling back its heavy, but no
longer fearful, tone. But the lightning flash was pale compared to the holocaust that greeted the arrivals.

The Old Bridge Tavern was finished. The flames were spreading right and left from a sizeable shed that
was already an inferno. A group of staggering men were rounding the corner of the disappearing inn.
They were giving the massive bonfire a wide berth as they stared at the display in total disbelief.

Behind them came old Clem Jolland, carrying a bottle. He overtook the dazed men as they formed a
crude circle, clutching their glasses in their hands. With a slow, steady nod, Clem counted the faces. His
own brightened as he completed the tally.