"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 291 - Teardrops of Buddha" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

Wheeling, Ted saw a rustle of window curtains in the far corner of the
room. Though the light wasn't too strong there, he could have sworn he caught
the glint of a revolver muzzle pulling instantly from sight.
Ted circled the room, following a wall that the muzzle couldn't cover. He
picked up a light chair that the ransackers had carelessly left undisturbed
and
flipped it so the legs extended in front of him. It was an old animal tamer's
stunt, but it could be used for repelling boarders as Ted proved when he
stabbed the chair-legs through the curtain.
Any hapless gunner would have found his hands full keeping himself from
going out the open window; but there wasn't any gunner. A warm, drizzly breeze
swept Ted's face as he lurched half through the window, chair first.
Ted hauled back and looked along the outside ledge. It was very dark at
the corner, enough to have hidden anyone who might be rounding it. Only a
floor
below was a roof to which an intruder could have dropped and with a chimney
and
some ventilators forming dim but huddled objects in the gloom, Ted realized it
would be impossible to pick out a human figure.
And from the way the wind flipped the drapes as Ted drew back, he began
to
think the whole thing might have been imagination. The wind blew draftily. Ted
heard a door slam behind him and turned quickly.
The blonde, who had started Ted after an imaginary intruder, was gone. So
neat and prompt was her departure that Ted was sure she'd completely hoaxed
him.
But it was the wind, not the girl who had slammed the door, for when Ted
Trent reached the corridor, he heard the distant clang of a closing elevator.
 CHAPTER II

IF Ted Trent had wanted to take up an adventurous trail, he should have
followed Cecil Grenshaw, who was unquestionably the focal factor in the whole
situation.
How far Ted could have carried such a trail was another question. Others
were already having trouble with it.
Two muffled men, dressed in turned-up raincoats and dark hats, were hard
on Grenshaw's heels as soon as he left the Hotel Argonne. All the while that
things were happening up in room 408, Grenshaw and those unwanted hangers-on
were skirting the adjacent blocks.
Grenshaw was looking for a cab, but on a night like this, they were
almost
as scarce as hotel rooms.
A cab would have been a boon to Grenshaw, for with quick work and a clean
take-off, he could have shaken his trailers.
Bundling his coat, the hunted man tightened his grip on a walking stick
and took to an alleyway. With surprising agility, he made a sharp turn to the
left and ducked into the shelter of some old-fashioned steps where he waited
with lifted cane.
The two men arrived on the quick, took a look toward the nearby corner
and