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

headed that direction. Out from the steps, Grenshaw reversed his course
through
the alley and reached the original street. By then his pursuers were coming
back along their street, searching without success. After a brief conference
held in low, guttural tones, they took a route leading to a building in back
of
the Hotel Argonne.
There, a figure dropped suddenly to meet them. He was a man in a dark
jersey, a cap pulled down over his eyes; a type of character who many years
ago
was the reason why people never went to the Bowery. But from his talk, it was
plain that far from being a throw-back to the bad old days, this individual's
appearance was purely coincidental.
His garb, in a sense, had more of the Alpine touch, considering that he
had just completed a descent from a hotel ledge to a roof and thence downward
by windows. His accent, too, was European, though its exact nationality was
smothered.
"Grenshaw is gone," the man reported. "He has given the room to a friend
named Trent."
"You searched the room?"
"I did not have to. A girl was there - she did not name herself and I
watched her look all."
The other men took it that she hadn't found anything. They muttered some
unkind words about Grenshaw, then separated and went their way, after the man
in the jersey slipped a revolver to one of his less suspicious-looking
friends.
That gun muzzle at the window curtain hadn't been a product of Ted
Trent's
imagination!
A few blocks away, Cecil Grenshaw had luckily found a cab. Riding to
another part of town, he alighted in front of a small restaurant that included
a dozen tables, a bar, and a large back room where Grenshaw didn't go.
This place, called The Cave, was a front for a horse parlor which
occupied
the back room. Nodding to the bartender, he casually ordered a drink and
glanced
around as though he knew the place quite well.
 There were very few customers, so few that the one waiter took time out
to
make a phone call from a booth at the rear. After the booth was vacated,
Grenshaw went there and pondered a few moments; then he let his florid face
relax into a smile.
Grenshaw's own experience with Ted; the chance meeting with a former
acquaintance who had looked him up, gave him the idea that he could do the
same.
Dialing the number of the exclusive Cobalt Club, Grenshaw asked for a
member named Lamont Cranston and soon had him on the phone.
"Hello, Mr. Cranston," drawled Grenshaw. "I don't suppose you'd remember
Cecil Grenshaw, from Calcutta... What's that? You recognize my voice? Well,
well..."