"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 112 - Death By Proxy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

“Hold it, Blimp. Let some of the mugs get there first.”

The eager truckman subsided and gave a short nod.

“O.K., Slug,” he responded. “You're runnin' it.”

The pair stood motionless, while motorists leaped from their stalled cars and dashed toward Owen's
coupe. Suddenly, “Slug” gave “Blimp” a nudge. Slug had seen a tall, bald-headed man come from the
front door of the house. The fellow was standing on the porch, looking toward the scene of the crash.

“There's the horse doctor,” growled Slug. “In his office, like we'd figured he'd be. Come on, Blimp.
Here's where we do our stuff.”
The truckman hurried to the wrecked car. Arrived there, they found men bent above a motionless figure
on the ground. The face of Owen Lengood was turned upward, with eyes fixed in a glassy stare.

“Give him air,” growled Slug, shouldering his way through the circle of onlookers. “Say—this guy looks
like he's croaked!”

The bald-headed man had arrived from the porch; he, too, was pushing his way through the throng.
Blimp made a motion to stop him; then questioned:

“You a doctor?”

“I'm a veterinarian,” replied the baldheaded man, briskly. “Perhaps I can serve in this emergency. Carry
the man into my office.”

Slug and Blimp followed the order. They lifted the body with effort. Slug made comment to the
veterinarian:

“Feels like a dead weight, doc—”

Other witnesses followed the truckmen into the house, passing a door where a weather-beaten sign
announced the veterinarian's name as “J. R. Kolbel.” At Kolbel's order, Slug and Blimp placed their
burden upon a rickety surgical table in the center of a room that was surrounded by cages.

Penned dogs began to growl and whimper, sensing that something had gone wrong. Doctor Kolbel
began a prompt examination of the crash victim. A timid-faced witness shouldered through the doorway,
passing Slug and Blimp, to lay a wallet upon one of the dog pens.

“I found it on the ground,” explained the witness in a whisper. “His license cards are in it. His name is
Owen Lengood; he's from Philadelphia.”

Doctor Kolbel was staring in puzzlement at the face of Owen Lengood. The vet shook his head; then
placed his fingers above the victim's ears. As he moved his hands down toward the man's neck, Kolbel
stopped suddenly. His nod was solemn.

“A chance blow at the base of the skull,” he announced, seriously. “Always a bad spot. He must have
struck his head heavily at the time the door broke open.”

“Say, doc,” gulped Slug, “you don't mean that the guy's dead?”