"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 314 - Model Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

From the mountain top the railroad made its way down over a pastoral scene. Then Cranston saw Owen
turn color.

The man said, "Cranston... the tunnel... it's clogged..."

Glancing at the mouth of the tunnel, Cranston had to adjust his mind to the size of the hand that blocked
all ingress or egress.

Instead of the railroad looking small, the hand seemed gigantic. It was as though a magician had caused
an illusion that was slow in being dissipated.

"Cranston, that's blood... that stain on the fingers... isn't it?"

Nodding, Cranston went closer. The fingers were relaxed in that utter flaccidity of death that was
completely unmistakable.

On the ring finger of the hand there was a cartouche. Cranston asked, "Is that ring familiar?"

The fat middle aged man nodded. His face looked shrunken. "Yes. It's... it's Dolly Dimples." His mouth
curved in nausea. "I mean... oh, I can't think straight. That was what we called Don Darry."

"Is there any way to get under the mountain and get closer?"

"Sure." Owen bent over and released a latch. He pulled up a whole section of the scenery.

Under the mountain, the body was still seated on a soap box. The man's dead body held by the confining
quarters sat as though in life. His arm extended down along the tracks so that his hand seemed to be busy
with some life of its own.

Protruding out of the center of his back was a chisel.

CHAPTER II
LOOKING closer, Cranston saw a set of initials burnt into the handle of the chisel. They read R.B.
Cranston didn't touch anything. Instead he said, "Will you call the Homicide Bureau, Owen?"

Glad to get out of the room, away from the body, Owen almost ran from sight.

Cranston sighed. People were milling all aroundтАФperhaps fifty members of the model club, plus untold
numbers of the general public like him, come to see the annual show. It was going to be tough going.

The blood had barely dried on the extended, scrabbling fingers which might help in setting the time. Silent
death. Stabbing would give no clue as to the minute of expiration.

But come to think of it, even if the killer had fired a gun, the model airplanes zooming along would have
masked the sound. Where to start? That was of the essence.

Here he'd been all set to relax and get some of the kinks out of his nerve endings in the soothing
atmosphere of the hobby club. That relaxation which other men got out of making models, out of pitting
their office soft muscles against steel and brass, that easing of the mind from the stresses and strains of