"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 237 - Alibi Trail" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CHAPTER II. MURDER DISCOVERED
IT was eleven o'clock, a very late hour in the fashionable Philadelphia suburb where Donald Kerring
lived. Mist, rising from the Wissahickon Valley, was creeping out from the fringe of expansive Fairmount
Park, to encroach upon the lawned preserves where Kerring's graystone home bulked somber in the
night.

The house was dark, and hedges atop the surrounding wall had the look of absolute barriers. Only from
the gateway straight in front could one obtain a complete view of the house, itself. At that spot, under a
parade of sheltering maples, two men sat in a large sedan that was parked with its lights off. They were
looking through the gate, toward the white block that marked the front door of Kerring's house.
A flashlight swept back and forth along the sidewalk, roving from maples to wall. It was swinging jerkily,
indicating that its owner was bulky and walked with waddling stride. The beam splashed the sedan once,
and swung away; then, coming back, it stopped. The man flicked off his flashlight and reached for a
handy nightstick, as he gruffed:

"Hey, you -"

"Hello, Wilkins," spoke a smooth voice from the car. "We were expecting you along. We thought maybe
you would know why Mr. Kerring hasn't come home."

The bulky watchman shoved himself toward the car, raising the flashlight instead of the club. A man in the
car obliged him by pressing the switch to the dome light. Wilkins promptly recognized the sallow, smiling
man who leaned half across the steering wheel to look at him.

"Oh, hello. Mr. Lambron!"

Wilkins also recognized Lambron's companion, a thin-faced man who wore large-rimmed glasses. He
was Lambron's secretary, Mordan. The two had visited Kerring rather frequently, usually in the evening,
which was why Wilkins had met them. It was his business to look over all strangers in this neighborhood.

Beefy-faced and brawny, Wilkins was a survival of an old Philadelphia custom, the private watchman.
He was hired by some forty residents of the section, at a few dollars a month apiece, to make regular
rounds at night and see that doors and windows were securely locked. He even checked on such small
matters as cellar lights that residents forgot to turn out. He was helpful, too, when it came to starting
stalled cars.

He looked like a London bobby, and had something of the same temperament. His slow round, by many
devious bypaths, took him close to an hour and a half, and when he had finished it, he went over the
same terrain again. All night, Wilkins made those plodding rounds, and residents felt secure.

Not that the neighborhood lacked police protection. At various intervals, a police car coursed through
the curving, mazelike streets of this suburban area. But it didn't cover the ground the way that Wilkins
did.

It was easy for prowlers to dodge out of sight behind walls or shrubbery when the police car came along;
but with Wilkins on the Job, they might dodge right into his lap. Such, at least, was the theory held by
those who hired Wilkins.

Right now, Wilkins was scratching his head over the matter of Kerring's absence. He knew that Kerring's
servants had gone off today and wouldn't be back until midnight, which could mean that Kerring had