"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 172 - Battle of Greed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

registered itself upon his handsome, youthful face. When he removed the cigarette holder, a
suave smile lifted his lips and raised his trim mustache with it.
The mustache helped his appearance. George had found that it made some people regard
him as important, as well as convivial.

The large tip that George handed the cab driver convinced the man that his fare was actually
a resident of Algrave Square, arriving home at midnight. The cabby didn't wait to see if
George went into the house where they had stopped. The young man had paused to light
another cigarette, and was taking his time about it.

Nor did the cop who patrolled that beat consider it surprising when he saw George stroll in
from the avenue. Residents of Algrave Square frequently left cabs at the avenue, rather than
have them rattle along the one-way street. Neighborly consideration actually existed among
the elite whose houses bordered the square.
Passing the front of a grim but pretentious house, George turned as if to cross the street. He
stopped long enough to take his cigarette from the holder and toss it away. That gave him a
chance to glance back along his route and observe that the patrolman was gone.

George had rehearsed that procedure on this very spot, earlier in the evening, while the cop
had been elsewhere. He had been particularly desirous to have the light just right: enough of
a glow from the nearest street lamp to show his Tuxedo attire but not his face.

There was blackness across the street; gloom that stirred as George noticed it. But those
darkened streaks along the opposite sidewalk were nothing but shadows, cast by the
wavering boughs of trees that were the pride of Algrave Square. Turning casually, George
stepped toward the gloom of the house that he had just passed, looked up to take a survey
of the windows.

Rupert Sandersham was away from home. George Ellerby knew that; otherwise, he would
not have come here tonight. Apparently, most of the family were absent also, or else asleep.
The only lights that George noticed on the second floor were those that probably came from
hallways.
The servant quarters on the third floor were darkened, which added the final touch.
TIPTOEING through a passage that led beside the house, George reached a side door in
the blackness. He had his hat off when he arrived there. Producing the picks and keys, he
replaced the derby on his head, not worrying about its angle. He didn't need the flashlight -
yet.

Either the door was over-difficult, or Ellerby's desire for darkness a handicap. Whichever the
case, it was more than ten minutes before he entered the house. He picked up the door key
from the inside mat, where it had fallen when he had pushed it from the keyhole with a pick.
He replaced the key where it belonged, but did not lock the door, as it was to be his
departing route.
Tools of entry replaced in the derby, the gentleman burglar sneaked through dim halls to a
rear stairway. Ascending, he moved forward along the second floor until he came to the
door he wanted. Huddling away from the hall light, George tested the knob. The door, to his
great satisfaction, was unlocked.

Entering the room, he closed the door behind him. That was when his flashlight came into
play. Its narrow beam pointed him to a fair-sized safe that occupied a niche in the wall