"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 139 - The Sealed Box" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

twinkle as the big machine rolled from the driveway.
After that, stillness and gloom were complete. Not even the flickers of
the airway beacon were visible from the side of the house where the girl's
room
was located.


BELOW, Richard Whilton sat, troubled, at his desk. In front of him lay
the
sealed box, its black surface shiny beneath the desk lamp. He pictured two
men.
Whilton saw what this box could mean to each.
James Belver, the reformer, who had accomplished everything except the
capture of the man who had managed evil. Rufus Vosgle, whose law practice had
thrived during those days when graft and corruption were rampant.
To Belver, the opening of the box would be the final triumph of a long,
hard-fought cause. To Vosgle, it might mean disaster; the revelation of some
name that the lawyer already knew, but wanted to keep dark.
Would Vosgle throw over one interest, to protect another? Would he, an
attorney, pry into the affairs of a client like Whilton, if the defense of
some
criminal lay at stake?
Whilton feared that he would. The recollection that Vosgle had been alone
in this room, with access to the sealed box, was a memory that brought beads
of
perspiration to the aged philanthropist's brow. He hoped that The Shadow's
arrival would not be long delayed.
The Shadow would come by air. With that thought, Whilton turned off the
lights, all except the small, shaded lamp on the desk. He went to the window;
raised the shade, to breathe the comfortable air. It had been very hot in the
study, with the shades drawn.
Whilton stood at the window, while the beacon light revolved, lashing its
stream of light through the poplars.
Just as the rays were again streaking toward him, Whilton heard the thrum
of a distant motor. A plane was guiding by the beacon, to make a landing at an
airport a few miles beyond.
The passing light showed Whilton's smile, as he stepped back from the
window. The old philanthropist was turning toward his desk, confident that The
Shadow would soon be with him. There was a stir outside the window, that
Whilton did not hear. A crouching figure arose, just as the light of the
beacon
passed. The sill was low; the lurker cautious, as well as powerful. He came
over
the edge and into the room without Whilton hearing him.
Whilton had senses keener than his ears. Just as he reached his desk, he
gained the impression that he was not alone. He wheeled; in the gloom he saw a
face that he recognized. An instant later, a springing assailant was upon him.
A gunshot sounded; deep beneath Whilton's coat, the report was almost
completely muffled. That one shot was sufficient. The assailant had shoved the
revolver muzzle against Whilton's heart. The old man slumped from the