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

"They found the sheep that got lost," returned Zeke. "Maybe I hain't worked for Mr. Bigby since, but it's
only because he can't find nothing for me to do."

"He says different, Mr. Bigby does," confided Clem. "He says that if you ever ask him for another job,
he'll horse-whip you over into the sheep pasture that this Brett guy has spoiled worse'n if he turned it over
to cows. By the way"--Clem's eye went angry--"you've been going around to Brett's a lot lately, huh?"

"Only to deliver packages," returned Zeke, tapping an expressman's badge on his cap. "Same as I do to
Bigby's house occasional. Same as I'm doing right now."

Zeke gestured to a square package lying on a chair near the bar. Eyeing it, Clem waited until approaching
thunder had followed a lightning flash. Then, the proprietor asked:

"A package for me?"

"Naw." Zeke shook his head. "Jest something I'm taking into Lamira. Didn't like to leave it laying in the
open truck. Guess I'll ride it on the seat alongside me. S'long, Clem, and I hope two pines get busted."

Clem's jaw dropped as Zeke picked up the package and sauntered out through a rear exit. Never before
had an eligible party walked out on a chance for a free drink at the Old Bridge Inn. Zeke's action amazed
the regulars, too, until one tilted his head, listened between thunder claps, and laughed.

"Don't hear no backfire from Zeke's truck," the fellow said. "Likely he's just parking the package and
coming back through the shed. He'll be waiting until a big tree goes and then coming in for his drink. You
counted him, Clem."

The guess wasn't entirely wrong. Zeke was in the shed that the customer mentioned, but he hadn't made
a return trip from his truck. In fact Zeke hadn't gone to the truck at all. As for the package, he didn't
intend to deliver it. In the shed, Zeke had wedged an old chair under the door knob so that if anyone
tried the door, it would stick. He was opening the package and getting it ready for business.

The contents of the package consisted chiefly of a square black box that Zeke handled very carefully. He
poked it between two upright timbers of the main wall. He then uncoiled a long wire that was around the
box and climbed a ladder until he reached the lean-to roof of the shed.

Right then, a vivid flash of lightning ripped. A few seconds later, the ensuing rumble of thunder sent
reverberations up the gorge. The storm was getting very close, so close that the ladder shook under
Zeke's knees. Though whether the thunder jarred it was a question. More likely the fault was Zeke's, for
he was acting nervously.

Hurriedly, Zeke thrust a short metal rod through the roof of the shed, through a knot-hole that he had
noted earlier. Scrambling down the ladder, he screwed a plug and cord into a hanging lamp socket. Like
the rod and wire, these were attached to the black box. It immediately began to hum.

There was another flash of lightning and by the time the thunder came, Zeke was half way through the
outer door. The storm was slowing. The low clouds met the narrow winding gorge, giving Zeke more
time than he expected. Hopping back into the shed, he grabbed heaps of newspapers that were stacked
in a corner. He skeltered them over the buzzing box. Grabbing a large kerosene can, Zeke poured its
entire contents on the floor. He let the liquid trickle under the chair-barred door.