"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 159 - The Dead Who Lived" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The letter that Thurnig had written was limited to brief statements. It mentioned the fact that Thurnig had
been taken ill shortly after his arrival at the New York hotel. Just another case of indigestion, the sort that
frequently troubled him. The house physician had put him on a restricted diet for a few days.

That was ended. Tonight, the doctor had told Thurnig that he could go out, provided that he did not
overeat or over-drink. So Thurnig intended to visit the bright spots, but keep within conservative
bounds.

Sealing the letter, Thurnig addressed it and applied an air-mail stamp. He stepped toward the door and
stopped. He had forgotten something; enough to make him worry for the moment.

Hurrying to an open suitcase, Thurnig pulled a wallet from a deep compartment. The wallet was stuffed
with crisp currency, all in bills of high denominations. Thousand-dollar notes; next five hundreds; finally, a
batch of one-hundred-dollar bills. They totaled twenty thousand dollars, and the full sum was in the
wallet.

Thurnig's smile showed his relief.

The droopy-faced man carried the wallet in his hip pocket when he went out into the corridor to post his
letter. All the way to the mail chute, he kept up quick side-glances with his birdlike eyes. Carrying twenty
thousand dollars in cash was enough to make any man cautious, thought Thurnig.

Even though his better judgment told him that he was safe, Thurnig almost expected to see silent doors
pop open, to find himself covered by dangerous New York mobsters. Nothing of the sort happened.
Apparently, anyone who was after big dough had not been informed that George Thurnig carried it.

THE telephone bell was jangling merrily when Thurnig returned along the corridor. He hurried into his
room, locked the door and bolted it. When he answered the call, Thurnig recognized the voice across the
wire.

"Hello..." Thurnig's eyes showed pleasure, but his lips, close-set, told that he was too canny to mention
names. "I had hoped to hear from you... Yes, I am quite well again. I shall be able to keep the
appointment tomorrow night...

"My illness? Merely indigestion... What? You thought it might be my heart? No, no!" Proudly, Thurnig
thwacked his chest. "Hear that? It's the way the doctor tapped me... Yes, he said my heart was in
excellent condition...

"Yes, fit as a fiddle - that describes me. So I am going out tonight... Yes, sir, as soon as my tuxedo
comes up from the valet... Of course, I shall be careful of myself. Thanks a lot, for giving me a call."

Thurnig hung up the receiver; he paced to the window. Propping his elbows there, he studied the glow of
Times Square, with its flicker of big electric signs. That distant glare meant life, excitement, the sort that
Thurnig wanted. He was fit to enjoy it; to have a real fling in Manhattan.

Thurnig's lips pursed to form a smile of anticipation, that was not to be realized.

He must have been staring from the window for a full ten minutes, when a short rap sounded outside his
door. For an instant, Thurnig was startled; he waited for the knock to be repeated. When silence
persisted, he decided that it was the valet.