"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 335 - Riddle of the Rangoon Ruby" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

things. One hand drew a pad and pen from the darkness; the other stretched
into
the gloom and pressed an unseen switch that gave an audible click. A tiny
yellow
light glimmered in the dark beyond the bluish ray. A quiet voice came over an
amplifier: "Burbank speaking."
The response was whispered: "Report."
"Final report on Rangoon Ruby. Revised list of probable or potential
purchasers..."
 As Burbank recited the names, the long-fingered hand wrote them deftly,
swiftly on the pad. This black-walled room was the secret sanctum of The
Shadow, master of darkness, who used reports that came through Burbank to plan
campaigns against coming crimes. When Burbank finished, The Shadow again
responded:
"Report received. Await instructions."
This time, the whisper had a sibilant, almost sinister touch. The bluish
light clicked off. A cloaked figure stirred amid the thickened gloom; then all
lay silent within the blacked-out sanctum.
When The Shadow next appeared, it was in the broad daylight of high noon
on an obscure side street in Manhattan. No longer a cloaked figure, he was in
his favorite guise of Lamont Cranston, a casual, well-attired man-about-town
who sauntered up to a parked cab topped by a sign that said "OFF DUTY."
Cranston entered the cab and roused the dozing driver with the order, "Club
Piazza, Shrevvy."
"OK, boss." A dozen minutes later, Shrevvy pulled up beside an East Side
cafe, where Cranston went through the pretense of paying the fare, which
wasn't
really necessary, since he owned the cab and kept Shrevvy on a full-time
salary.
Inside the Club Piazza, an attractive, keen-eyed brunette greeted Cranston
with
a smile, and he joined Margo Lane at her corner table, carefully leaving space
for another guest. That action brought a quizzical look from Margo, and noting
it, Cranston asked smilingly:
"How would you like to meet the unluckiest man in the world?"
"You certainly can't mean yourself, Lamont -"
"Naturally, not. Just run your eye down this column" - Cranston handed
Margo the list from Burbank - "and tell me if you recognize any names."
Near the bottom of the list, Margo looked up suddenly.
"Carter Mycroft!" she exclaimed. "Why, I know his niece Zelda very well.
I've promised to visit her at her uncle's estate, but it's a good three hours'
drive from here, maybe more." With a side glance, Margo added the query, "You
mean Carter Mycroft is joining us here for lunch?"
"No, no. I just left space for Police Commissioner Weston and here he is
now. We'll get back to that list during lunch."
Commissioner Ralph Weston, middle-aged and self-important, even to his
close-clipped military mustache, had just entered the cafe; now, spying
Cranston's table, he came over and sat down, giving Margo an affable nod,
which
he followed with the brisk demand: