"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 064 - The Death Sleep" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Very unusual," remarked Cranston. "Barth usually stays in to the end when he is winning."

"Not since he was appointed police commissioner," put in another player. "That job has put a crimp into
his bridge game. He left here in a big hurry about fifteen minutes ago."

"A call from headquarters?" inquired Cranston, in a quiet tone.

"He didn't say," was the reply. "He just mentioned that he had received word of an important case.
Needed his personal attention. So the big boss of the bluecoats beat it. Come on, Cranston. How about
taking Barth's place?"

"Sorry," was the response. "Early appointments tomorrow. I am just leaving for my home in New
Jersey."

Lamont Cranston strolled from the club room. He crossed the quiet lobby and moved toward a
telephone booth.

A SINGULAR phenomenon occurred during Cranston's progress. His tall form cast a blackened
shadow on the tiled floor. A long, fantastic splotch of darkness, that shadow ended in a profiled
silhouette that did not dwindle until Cranston had entered the telephone booth.

A long, thin finger dialed a number. A short pause; then came a quiet voice across the wire:

"Burbank speaking."

"Report."

The order came from the lips of Lamont Cranston; but it was not in the tone that others had heard the
globetrotter use. The voice of Lamont Cranston had become a strange, sinister whisper that Burbank
recognized.

"Report from Burke," acknowledged Burbank. "He is following a tip received at the Classic office.
Cardona is investigating case at Apartment B 5, Vanderpool Apartments. Police commissioner
summoned there. Burke promises further report later."

"Report received."

Lamont Cranston strolled from the telephone booth. He crossed the lobby and passed bowing attendants
as he neared the outer door. The automobile starter saw him coming and signaled with a whistle. A
magnificent foreign limousine drew up in response to the starter's call. A uniformed chauffeur alighted and
opened the door for Lamont Cranston to enter.

As the car started along the street, Cranston raised the speaking tube that connected with the front seat.
He spoke in a quiet, even tone to Stanley, the chauffeur. He instructed the driver to turn uptown and to
park on a certain street just west of Seventh Avenue. That designated spot was within a block of the
Vanderpool Apartments.

The limousine rolled onward. Its single passenger was shrouded in the darkness of the rear seat. The
spark of a cigarette was glowing; at intervals, a soft laugh whispered from the tonneau. As the car neared
its appointed parking place, long hands lifted a thick briefcase from the floor. Folds of dark cloth