"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 310 - Death on Ice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

"Who? Take it easy and let's start from scratch. What's happened?"
"Patty has a job up in Lake Violent. You know the winter resort... It's
in
the Adirondacks."
"Umm... yes, I've been there."
"Well, there's been a murder there and Patty's afraid that justice in
this
little town is not only blindfolded, but her ears are plugged up too."
"I see. What would you like me to do?"
"If you could meander up there and see what's in the wind... Patty is no
spring chicken to get all tied up in knots about nothing at all. If she says
it's bad, I believe her."
Cranston tried to tell himself that he had been needing some vacation at
that, but looking around the comfort of his room he could not lie to himself.
He could not kid himself. He was tired and that was unusual for the
inexhaustible man who was known as Lamont Cranston. He picked himself up and
not even wondering what was behind this hurried call for help from Lake
Violent, he made his way into the bedroom and threw some odds and ends into
his
suitcases.
Packed, he looked around the comfortable rooms that were his refuge from
the world of crime and picked up his inevitable briefcase. In it, as always,
were the cape and hat of that sombre color that so well symbolized the other
side of Cranston's nature. For these were the accoutrements of The Shadow.
He tucked it under his arm and picked up his suitcases. He cast a last,
almost wistful look around the warmth and comfort of his rooms and locked the
door behind him.
The elevator boy was surprised to see him. "Going away again, Mr.
Cranston?"
"Mmm. Going up to Lake Violent for some winter sports. Figure it'll tone
up my system."
Pretty soft, thought the boy, pretty soft, to be rich enough to wander
off
to the swankiest winter resort in the country just to "tone up his system."
The
boy watched Cranston's long, lean, fit looking, broad shouldered body make its
way out through the door to the grey, grim muck that is New York after a snow
fall.
Cranston lingered under the canopy for a moment hoping against hope that
a
cab would come along. But he wasn't too surprised to find his hope blasted.
The
doorman was not in sight. Neither was a free cab.
Picking up his burden, he walked across the slushy street. The slush was
almost black already.
Ice somehow insinuated itself up over Cranston's shoe tops as he made his
way across the dirty black muck that was all that New York had left of a snow
storm. Almost coal black in spots it was no blacker than the devious scheme
which was coming to slow and evil fruition up in the mountains.
Cranston sighed as he shook his feet and stepped up on the curb. Shrevvie