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

Though physicians refused to make definite statements, the newspapers played up the possibility of an
epidemic. Plenty of New Yorkers failed to enjoy their breakfasts; took cabs to their offices to avoid the
subways, where germs might lurk.

The news wasn't the sort to please the average reader, but there was one man upon whom it had a
remarkable effect.
He was a portly, heavy-jowled individual, who was riding in a cab only because he detested subway
crowds and the exertion of climbing stairs. He was in a taxi when he saw Thurnig's name in the
newspaper.

Instant interest registered on the portly man's flabby face. His eyes, ordinarily small, opened so wide that
they became large. When the cab stopped at an office building, he slapped a bill into the driver's hand
without waiting for change. Showing a surprising burst of speed, the portly man reached the elevator and
wedged through just as the operator was closing the door.

The building was a small one; the elevator slow. The portly man chafed until he reached the fifth floor.
Once off the car, he bounded for the door that bore his own name and business:

MARTIN BRELLICK

Homecraft Correspondence Courses

Brellick's suite of offices was not so elaborate as its title implied. The rooms were tiny, and consisted
merely of an outer office and an inner one marked "PRIVATE". Stacked on shelves in the outer office
were sheaves of flimsy pamphlets, each group labeled as a different type of homecraft.

There was one stenographer in the outer office; she was staring, unconcerned, from the window when
Brellick entered. She looked about blankly, for sight of Brellick in a hurry was something unusual.

Brellick didn't stop to say good morning. He pounded into the private office, snatched up a telephone
and clicked at the receiver. When he finally slammed down the instrument in disgust, he saw the
stenographer standing in the doorway, fluffing her peroxide-dyed hair, while her jaw worked at chewing
gum.

"What's the matter with this telephone?" demanded Brellick.

"Out of order," replied the stenographer, in a weary tone. "I've sent for the repair men."

"Take a letter," snapped Brellick. "No - make it a telegram."

The girl shrugged her shoulders, went back to her desk to obtain a telegraph blank. The correspondence
course man followed.

"To the Apex Loan Company," began Brellick. "Will need ten thousand dollars -"

Brellick paused, suddenly opened the telephone book, to look up other names. The stenographer looked
at him as though she thought him crazy.

"You got that loan, Mr. Brellick," she began. "Don't you remember? The bank said you could have it, last
week."