"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 290 - Death has Grey Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

police whistles and patrol car sirens far in the background.
Somewhere in the course of things, Dick must have given his address for
he
arrived back at his own apartment. Shakily he stumbled to the hallway
telephone
when he heard it ringing, expecting that the call was from Eric Henwood.
It turned out to be Jerry Trimm, offering an apology in behalf of Claire
Austley. So Dick accepted it very nicely and laid the phone on its stand,
grateful for this trivial interlude that assured him of his sanity.
A moot point, that sanity.
In front of the telephone was a small round mirror that gave a reflection
of the dimness between two curtains leading into the darkened living room.
Looking into the mirror just to make sure he was actually Dick Whitlock,
the man who answered to that name stared in amazement.
Over his shoulder, Dick saw a face, a crisp-featured face of a color that
looked ashen compared to the cold, brilliant glitter of steel-grey eyes that
crystallized all of Dick's forgotten memories into one glowing focal point.
A name sprang mechanically from Dick's lips:
"Doctor Greug!"
Odd that Dick Whitlock should speak that name, both strange and
forgotten.
As he voiced it, he found himself staring at a mirror that was vacant except
for
his own disturbed countenance. Wheeling, Dick saw only darkness between the
wavering curtains. Flinging them apart he found the light switch.
On came the lights and Dick swept a look around his own living room, only
to find himself alone!


CHAPTER V

BEING very proud of the famous sidewalks of New York, Police Commissioner
Weston didn't like to have them nicked by bullets, especially when a search of
the area produced knives instead of guns. Such matters were the sort that
Weston liked to discuss privately with his friend Lamont Cranston, who
sometimes came up with valuable suggestions.
So two knives which had either been flung or lost in haste were lying on
a
table in the grill room of the Cobalt Club where Weston usually dined. They
were
getting attention from Cranston and a waiter, who supposed that they were
merely
a subtle protest on Weston's part over the toughness of the steaks that the
chef
had been preparing lately.
After the waiter had left, Cranston defined the exhibits:
"Apache knives, commissioner."
"So I've been told," returned Weston, testily. "They're the kind commonly
used by the denizens of the underworld in Paris. So what are they doing in New
York?"