"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 137 - Death Turrets" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

over the wire. It come down from Five Towers this morning."
"Did you see Olive?" inquired Talroy, eagerly. "Miss Huxton, the lady
who sent it?"
"I didn't see no one," admitted the agent. "I was busy here, with some
freight. It was just setting there by the ticket window, the wire was, with
the money for it. It wasn't handwritten neither. It was done on a typewriter,
like all the telegrams that come from Five Towers."
"Where is Five Towers?"
The station agent pointed through the drizzle. His finger indicated a
wooded hill a few miles distant, so dark that even the trees were
indistinguishable in shape. But above, visible despite their grayish
resemblance to the rain, were turrets that poked above the trees.
"There's Five Towers," said the station agent. "The hill road goes right
up to it. I can tell you this, too. There's a girl's been staying there. So I
guess you'll be finding Miss Olive Huxton."
"Thanks." Talroy turned, then remembered: "By the way, I want to send a
telegram of my own."
"I'll be right with you, Mr. Talroy."

BACK in the gloomy station, Talroy found telegraph blanks in a box
beside the ticket window. With a pencil, he scrawled a telegram, using lighted
matches to see the blank. Talroy left the telegram on the counter, weighted
with a half dollar. The agent could keep the change.
As he reached the platform, Talroy saw the agent approach. He told him
about the telegram. The man nodded, but his head began to shake when he saw
Talroy climb into the big roadster.
"A mighty heavy car you got there, Mr. Talroy. Maybe she won't make that
gully bridge up by the entrance to Five Towers."
"Very dangerous, is it?"
"Well, the gully ain't deep. But the bridge ain't strong. There can't
much happen to you, but you might get ditched deep."
The big roadster pulled away. Its headlights gleamed; they swung away as
the car headed for the road. A flicker of light showed the doorway of the
station, which overhanging eaves had held in thick darkness. The ticket agent
blinked. In that momentary glimpse, he thought he saw the station door close.
Entering, the agent questioned sharply:
"Hello! Who's here?"
The only response was the crackle of wood from the stove. The agent
shrugged his shoulders; crossed through the gloom of the waiting room. He saw
Talroy's telegram lying on the counter, but did not pick it up. Instead, he
unlocked the door to the ticket office. Once through, he closed the door
behind him.
Some one moved from the darkened corner of the waiting room. With
stealthy steps, a hunched man reached the ticket window. The light from the
cracks showed hands that wore leather gloves. One lifted the half dollar; the
other pulled away Talroy's telegram and crumpled it.
Fire crackles drowned the crunching of the paper, but the ticket agent
could hear neither, beyond his closed wicket. The only evidence of an intruder
was the fact that Talroy's telegram was gone. That clue, however, was quickly
abolished.