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

gone out to dinner, and possibly to a movie afterward.

But Kerring was rather elderly and didn't like late hours. He was always home by ten-thirty, though he
often kept the light burning in his library, where he loved to delve among his books.

Wilkins threw a look toward the car, said: "You've been here long, Mr. Lambron?"

"About half an hour," calculated Lambron. "It was ten o'clock when we left the district attorney's office.
We've been with him since three this afternoon."

Wilkins nodded and gave a sympathetic mutter. He'd read about Lambron's troubles and didn't agree
with the newspapers. Any friend of Mr. Kerring's would have to be all right with Wilkins. Since it was
just about a half-hour trip from the Philadelphia city hall to Kerring's home, it was quite obvious that
Lambron must have had a half-hour to spend. But Wilkins had another question.
"Why didn't you pull up in the driveway?" he queried, with a sweeping gesture of his heavy hand. "Most
people do."

"We did," returned Lambron, "but when we saw the house was dark, we were afraid we'd block
Kerring's way, so we came out here to wait for him."

The car gave a sag as Wilkins planted his bulk on the running board.

"Drive in there again," suggested the watchman, "and we'll take a look at things."

WITH Wilkins on the side of the car, Lambron drove around the corner, swung in through a driveway
that passed the side of the house, and finished in a gravel circle, a survival of the old horse-and-carriage
days. Only by bearing hard on the steering wheel was Lambron able to make the turn; even then, his car
grazed the flowerbeds around the circle.

Dropping off, Wilkins tried a little door that led into the house; it was the side entrance that people usually
used when they came by car. The door was locked, so Wilkins took a look along the wall at windows
above.

He had just come to the corner of the house, when he remembered that Kerring might have gone out of
town. Nevertheless, Wilkins took a cursory glance along the wall past the corner.

In that glance, he thought he saw a ghost.

It loomed out from a window, a whitish phantom that matched the best description of spooks on parade.
As suddenly as it came, the white thing vanished, giving Wilkins the impression that it had sailed upward,
outward, to be swallowed in the night.

Shifting his hand from nightstick to revolver, the watchman dropped back behind the corner. Lambron
saw him from the car, and called in hoarse, worried whisper:

"What's the trouble, Wilkins?"

The watchman gave a beckon.

Lambron and Mordan came from their car to join him. By then, Wilkins had regained his nerve. He