"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 183 - Castle of Crime" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

He was supposed to be handsome. Maybe he had been once, but he was losing all fights to the claim.
His dark eyes were listless. His lips had a twitch that drew lines down along his face. He realized that he
had been keeping up appearances along with his spirits, until his surface was almost threadbare.

The bad news had ended his mask. He looked haggard, and he felt that way. The only thing that could
pull him out of his present state was some sort of lift—and not the kind that came from a bottle. He had
counted too much upon those "lifts" during the past few months.

Pushing bottle and glass aside, Bob kept staring at the mirror. His fists were tight; he was taking deep
breaths. At intervals, his lips were muttering, but he was simply telling himself to "snap out of it"; and the
formula seemed to work. Bob looked better, felt better, when he finally stepped across the room and
opened the telephone book.

He found the name of Carl Sigmar, jotted down both address and telephone number. Laying the phone
book aside, Bob steeled himself for the next ordeal. He gave Sigmar's number to the hotel operator and
awaited an answer to his call.

There was no response. Learning that the number did not answer, Bob gave a relieved sigh. Moving
about the room, he packed his suitcases, counted the twenty-odd dollars that he had in his pockets, and
phoned for a porter to come up and get the bags.

ABOUT a half-hour later, Bob Osden stepped from a taxicab in front of a building that looked like an
old residence turned into a small restaurant. He entered the place, left his hat and coat with a check-room
girl, who gave him a smile of recognition.

Bob went upstairs to the second-floor dining room, but did not stop there. A head waiter, recognizing
him, gave a nod, indicating that he could continue to the third floor.

On that floor, the young man was admitted to a room where groups were seated at round tables playing
stud poker. One of the dealers recognized Bob and pointed to a chair. Bob shook his head; after a
relieved glance around the tables, he asked:

"Where is Fitz Jarnow?"

"In the office," replied the dealer. "Tell Fitz I told you it would be all right."

Entering the office at the rear of the gaming room, Bob found Fitz Jarnow seated behind a desk. He was
met by sharp eyes that stared from a long, sallow face, but the smile on Fitz's lips was friendly.
Recognizing Bob, Fitz removed a coat and hat from a chair and motioned for him to sit down.

Fitz's hair was sleek, and his voice seemed to carry the same glossy smoothness, as he asked:

"What's the trouble, Osden?"

Bob managed a grin. He had tried to put on a front, but Fitz was one chap who couldn't be bluffed. In a
way, that was all the better. It brought Bob straight to the point.

"I need cash, Fitz."
Fitz took the statement as a matter of course. He put another question: