"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 318 - The Television Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CHAPTER II

IT was no cinch, getting a cab in the slushy, ice covered street.
Cranston
looked up and down the deserted street. Two blocks away there was a subway
station. That might be better, after all. Cabs with no chains on had a habit
of
getting into trouble. Too bad Shrevvie was home.
He plodded doggedly through the two inch deep crust on the sidewalk. No
one was out. The only people who were dressed and out were huddled in bars and
restaurants. Cranston looked at his wrist watch. Ten thirty-two. The
television
show had gone on at 10:15. It had been a fifteen minute show.
No cab passed until he was right at the subway station. He looked at his
watch and then at the slick black tires on the cab. Then he looked at the
street with its ice glare. The street lights hit down like stage spotlights.
Spilled light made arcs in the night.
He shrugged and went into the subway. Probably be faster this way. He
went
down the stairs holding on to the hand railing. Endless snow-covered feet had
stamped snow all over the stairs. The pressure of feet had turned the ice and
snow to water. Then the cold had frozen it.
Step by step, carefully, he made his way down. The subway station proper
was deserted. He dropped his nickel into the slot and waited. Ten minutes went
by. He glanced from his watch to the station clock. His watch was right.
He leaned forward and looked down the tunnel. No train in sight. He
walked
back and forth impatiently. Finally, with a roaring sound, the train drew into
sight. It was almost as empty as the streets. Red-nosed people huddled
together
on the seats. A pretty girl away from the huddle of people was dabbing powder
ineffectually at her nose.
Seating himself, Cranston glanced at his watch again. He had four
stations
to go. Say three minutes a station. He should be at the television studio
inside
of fifteen minutes. His stomach relaxed a bit.
He leaned back in his seat and stared off into space. He was conscious of
eyes upon him. He slitted his eyes and looked out of the corners of them. It
was the girl. She held a book up in front of her, but wasn't reading. She was
looking straight at him.
Puzzled, he returned her gaze. She dropped her eyes. This time, she made
more of a pretense of reading, but when he got up at his station, she hadn't
turned a page.
He rose and left the train. He looked behind him. The girl had tucked her
hook under her arm and was getting out of the train at the back door. He
walked
up the stairs.
 He heard high heels clacking on the steps.