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

Going off into his most affable chuckle, Grenshaw finally rallied and
became serious.
"I'm finding a bit of trouble, you know," Grenshaw confided. "A silly
notion, perhaps, but I fancy I'm being followed... What's that? No, no... I've
gotten all over those jitters I had at the time of the Calcutta riots...
"Been through worse things since... Burma... Singapore... What's that?"
In
the peculiar light of the phone booth, Grenshaw's face became a distinct
purple.
Then, forced through his teeth, came that indulgent chuckle of his: "Did you
say
Bildapore? No, I've been staying quite away from those troublesome native
states...
"Yes, quite a mess, the death of the ex-rajah... If he could be called
the
rajah at all... No, I was down in Ceylon when it happened... Gem-trading?"
Again
that chuckle, but less forced. "Impossible in these times, old chap..."
With that dismissal, Grenshaw again lowered his voice in confidential
style, reverting to his original theme:
"About this bit of trouble... I'm in a little pub called The Cave... Hate
to leave here alone, you know" - Grenshaw gave a tap with his heavy-headed
walking stick - "even though I'm carrying my Penang Lawyer... The police?
Well,
yes, I might inform them, only -"
Halting with a trace of reticence over what might merely be a false
alarm,
Grenshaw immediately registered pleasure. His old acquaintance Cranston was
announcing in calm style, that he would drop by at The Cave within the next
quarter hour. Ebullient with thanks, Grenshaw finished the call and hung up.
Scarcely out of the phone booth, Grenshaw became a changed man. Swelling
with fresh bombast, he gazed contemptuously at the few seedy customers, rapped
the bar with his big-headed cane, and called for another double brandy.
Immediately after swallowing the drink, Grenshaw's expression became shrewd,
and he revealed his full mood with an artful glance toward the phone booth.
Grenshaw was wondering now why be had told so much to Cranston; or
rather,
why he had let Cranston put those leading questions to which answers would be
expected in return for coming favors.
Grenshaw was cunning at playing a game two ways. He'd demonstrated it
with
Ted Trent; he could do the same with Lamont Cranston, more conservatively of
course. Things looked safe here at The Cave, with no followers in sight. Since
he expected Cranston shortly, why couldn't he use this obliging friend as a
sort of rear guard against possible trouble?
Such was the question obviously in Grenshaw's mind when he scrawled
something on a slip of paper, summoned the sad looking waiter and gave him the
message along with a dollar bill.
"If somebody asks for Mr. Grenshaw, give him this," ordered Grenshaw.
"Only first make sure his name is Mr. Cranston. Keep an eye for him."