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

The waiter nodded as he watched Grenshaw stride pompously from the little
cafe. He kept watching in case the man came hurrying back. But Grenshaw
evidently found the drizzle to his liking, for he didn't return and when a few
minutes had passed, the waiter sidled into the phone booth, as he had when
Grenshaw first arrived.
From his pocket the waiter drew two slips of paper; one bore the phone
number that he had called before; he was using the slip for reference again.
By
the time a gruff voice answered, the waiter had Grenshaw's slip open and
ready.
"It's Johnny," the waiter informed, "Over at The Cave. The guy just went
out."
"Yeah?" The gruff voice became sharp. "Where?"
"To the Black Star Pier," informed Johnny, reading from Grenshaw's slip.
"Entrance D."
"He told you?"
"Gave me a note for a friend who's coming here -"
"How soon?"
"In about ten minutes."
A laugh as confident as it was ugly, was the only response to Johnny's
words. It terminated the conversation for there was a sharp click of the other
receiver. Johnny's sad eyes went blank; then turned troubled. He resolved to
say nothing further, as his tight lips indicated.
Johnny the waiter hadn't yet seen the man who was going to make him talk.
At ten minutes to the dot, a tall stranger sauntered into The Cave and
glanced casually about. Johnny guessed that this was Mr. Cranston and
immediately busied himself at clearing off a corner table, hoping the arrival
would sit down elsewhere or patronize the bar.
It happened that Grenshaw's absence was something demanding immediate
explanation where Cranston was concerned. Though placid in their gaze,
Cranston's eyes were the sort that looked for clues automatically and Johnny's
turn-away was therefore comparable to the hiding tactics of an ostrich.
Before the waiter could sidle toward the kitchen, a hand tapped his
shoulder; turning, Johnny was face to face with the impassive features of
Cranston.
Those masklike features accentuated the steady eyes that covered the
waiter with a hypnotic punch. As calm as Cranston's face was the even tone
that
came from his straight lips:
"You have a message for me -"
Gulping, Johnny fished for it, found the wrong pocket, and made a quick
shift to give Cranston Grenshaw's paper. Unfolding the sheet with one hand,
lifting it to eye level, Cranston read it without apparently taking his eyes
from Johnny. Then:
"The other paper."
Johnny gave. He'd betrayed himself by that fumble. An odd burn came to
Cranston's eyes as he read the phone number. He spoke again, his words
accusing, even though they showed no change of tone.
"You called this number -"
"Yeah." Johnny gave a nervous nod. "They said the guy owed money, that