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

The pointed question brought a straight-lined furrow to Dick's forehead,
much like a scowl. But it was an expression of bafflement, not of anger.
"I lived a lifetime, Jerry," declared Dick, slowly, "a whole lifetime
following that bail-out. Not just past, but future."
"You mean you don't remember things between then and now?"
"I remember things that were part of that experience because they
couldn't
be anything else. My arm for instance." Dick thwacked his right forearm with
his
left hand and winced. "That's why I went to a hospital. Only I didn't go to a
hospital."
"No? Where, then?"
"I went to Rook's Retreat."
"You mean you thought you were at that lodge of yours up in the
Adirondacks?" Jerry gave an indulgent laugh. "You must have been delirious,
Dick."
"Only it wasn't the lodge," admitted Dick. "It was just some place like
it. I kept telling myself that in the big mirror."
"There's no mirror at Rook's Retreat."
"I guess not." Dick forced a laugh. "You know the place better than I do,
Jerry."
"I tried to hold things together for you, Dick. What else do you
remember?"
"Coney Island, but what it was doing in the mountains, I don't know. It
was a nightmare, Jerry, most of it, with whispers in between."
"People conspiring against you?"
"It seemed that way." Dick rubbed his forehead. "I wish I knew what the
whistle had to do with it."
Dick's maudlin mood brought no alarm to Jerry. Instead, the sharp-faced
chap showed a flicker of satisfaction. Then, in casual mood:
"By the way, Dick, you like the apartment, don't you?"
"It's all right, Jerry."
"I thought it would be tough, getting the one you wanted. You probably
didn't know about the shortage here in New York. Funny, though, the fellow who
had it didn't mind moving out. Of course he's making a profit on the sublet -"
Jerry stopped short, because Dick wasn't listening. Those deep-set eyes
were turned toward the mirror beyond the bar. Maybe Dick was thinking of
something more important. Jerry decided to prompt him.
"The new place will be better," promised Jerry. "The trouble was getting
workmen to install the furnishings you told me to buy."
Dick shook away his stare.
"What furnishings?"
"The auction stuff." Jerry paused, then added significantly. "From the
boat."
Dick's gaze narrowed.
"It was all in the letter," reminded Jerry. "The one that came a few
months ago - from Paris."
"But I wasn't in Paris," argued Dick, "not even before that last bombing
mission."
"Maybe Eric Henwood mailed it for you."