"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 285 - Fountain of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Right now those elk horns were inverted. Johnny had swung them around and up, the way he
remembered Claybourne doing it. Set in the opening revealed by the swivelled mounting was the shiny
door of the wall safe, catching the full glow from the hall light past the transom. If the combination proved
correct, Johnny would be having another look at Claybourne's treasure hoard, this time with the added
pleasure of examining it.

Seven to the left... One to the right... Six to the left...

The safe door opened as noiselessly as its tumblers had fallen. It revealed a strong box stuffed fatter than
the fish and owls. Claybourne was a master of financial taxidermy, judging by the tight-packed contents,
for Johnny recognized the stuff as gilt-edged bonds and negotiable securities. Nor was Johnny modest in
the way he drew those contents forth.

It had been well-packed before, this wall safe. The sight had thrilled Johnny the first time he saw it. He
hadn't forgotten, though, how Claybourne had gone meticulously through the entire stack, searching twice
before he discovered the few pitiful remainders that represented all of Johnny's father's fortune.

It was Johnny's turn tonight. He wasn't looking for remainders; he was taking the bulk, and would send
back what he didn't want, should he decide that Claybourne deserved such consideration. Johnny's
chuckle came low, sharp and defiant, in the semi-gloom below the inverted elk horns.

This was the old Johnny Craver, but with a strength he'd never known before, both mental and physical.
The health he'd gained at Sapphire Springs was fortified by the advice he had received there; but both -
particularly the advice - were warped to suit Johnny's return to his former self.

Justice without violence; Johnny felt he was dealing it. Honest with himself, he was rendering judgment
upon Claybourne. He was finding opportunity because he deserved it; making opportunity in fact. By a
combination of all those, Johnny was finding a short way to wealth.

Faintly, a muffled rumble reached Johnny's ears. Instead of alarming him, it rendered him alert. As though
he had rehearsed it, Johnny was packing Claybourne's securities into tidy bundles, slipping them into
imitation leather folders that he had found stacked with them. Into one pocket, then another, he placed
these trophies of his own expedition, smoothly, but in no great hurry.

The rumble was from the mansion elevator, an expensive but old-fashioned contrivance at the right of the
grand staircase. Having used it personally to get here, Johnny had timed the trip and knew exactly how
long to allow. Even if Claybourne came directly to the trophy room, there would be time for Johnny to
avoid him; at least so Johnny thought.

He was thinking wrong.

Before he could turn to close the door of the wall safe, Johnny heard the elevator stop. He'd overlooked
one factor; that he couldn't detect the elevator's rumble until it neared the third floor. Now a door on this
very floor was clanging open and Johnny's schedule of departure was clipped to the bone. Panicky for
the first time, Johnny sprang across the trophy room and started to yank the door open only to remember
that he'd thrown the bolt.

Footsteps were outside the door by the time Johnny had unbolted it. Sliding close against the wall,
Johnny was under the shelter of a moose head when the door opened to admit Claybourne. Johnny had