"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 210 - The Devil's Paymaster" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"That's my business, commissioner."
"How did you plant your damned telephone in my closet?"
There was more laughter on the wire.
"I fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Good night!"
The connection was suddenly broken. Commissioner Weston dialed furiously.
But it did no good. The wire itself, as well as the connection, was broken.


AS Weston stood staring at the instrument, his valet raced back into the
bedroom. The servant looked as flabbergasted as his employer.
"Something very queer going on tonight, sir. I put through a tracer call
from downstairs. I couldn't trace the call, because there wasn't any!"
"What! You heard me, didn't you? You saw me! Do you think I was putting
on
a ventriloquist act just to amuse myself in the middle of the night?"
"I can't help it, sir. I spoke to the exchange manager. He said that no
call came to this house."
Weston frowned. He began to realize the full extent of the cleverness of
this invisible Mr. Remorse. The mystery man had evidently tapped in on
Weston's
phone at some point between the exchange and the commissioner's home. The tap
had given him a private wire from some spot in the rainy darkness outside.
"Do you have any idea how this extra phone got into my bedroom closet?"
Weston demanded. "Or where the wire leads?"
"No, sir."
"Then get busy and find out!"
Weston dressed hurriedly, while his valet investigated. The valet soon
found where the wire left the closet. A hole had been bored through the
baseboard at the rear.
 The wire ran along the baseboard of the sitting room beyond, concealed
beneath a narrow strip of ornamental wood beading. It must have been a slow,
careful job, one that had taken plenty of time. More than one secret intrusion
of Weston's home must have taken place. Careful timing and an exact knowledge
of the daily movements of Weston and his valet were indicated.
The contraband wire led out a rear window.
Weston and his valet traced it to a spot at the rear of the back yard.
Rain lashed at them. Neither of them were fully dressed. Their hastily-donned
clothes were soaked. Water from their dripping hair ran into their eyes.
But they discovered where the wire ended.
It ended in a dangling strand that led nowhere. The strand had been
freshly cut with a pair of sharp clippers.
A small white card was hanging to the loose end of the wire. A hole had
been punched in a corner of the card. Through the hole was a bit of white
string. The string tied the card to the soaked wire.
Weston stared at the message with helpless rage. Rain had made the ink
run, but the mockery of the single word was clear enough:

Sorry!
MR. REMORSE.