"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 311 - Death Stalks the U.N." - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

that the security council of the United Nations had finally brought itself together. The armed guards who
had stood at the door to no useful purpose were now drawn around her in a human wall. The police,
called instantly, were coming down the aisle towards the body.

Still she stood there as though alone and looked down at the potato next to Brassle's body. She thought
that somehow, the potato was a correct symbol. For all of Brassle's fights had been for food for his
underprivileged little country. But the hole that had been cut through the potato... that was the symbol of
the fury and destruction that had always been waiting for Brassle. The symbol of violent death. For the
elements that Brassle had battled had never hesitated to use force.

While that august assemblage was adjusting to the murder that had occurred in front of their startled eyes,
in another room not far away in the same building, another man was dying...

CHAPTER II
IT WAS a small room. Generally, it was the site of closed room committee meetings. The door was
closed now. But the committee had not been called to order. On the floor lay two men.

Tangled in curly hair, a bloody gavel lay next to S. T. Tarr's prostrate form. His breathing was shallow.

Near him, dying, Yerkes Sarri, a Don Quixote figure of fun to most people, for his fanaticism had
repelled, not attracted people, stretched his thin lips in an agonized shape. His claw-like hand moved,
slowly, like a nightmare towards the bare floor that was at the edge of the carpet. His fingers were red.
Red from when, a few moments ago he had placed his hand to his chest.

The red came off his fingers on the bare wooden floor. It made a pattern. His teeth almost met through
his thin bottom lip as he forced his hand to his will.

He never finished the design. His head fell forward as he tried to make a triangle on the floor... Don
Quixote had tilted at his last windmill.

At the side of the desk that was near the dead man's feet a revolver glinted in the fading sun. The shallow
quick breathing of the living man was the only sound in the room of death.

At the door that led to the street, a cop stood. His face was tight with determination. A man faced him, a
man whose face was white and haggard. He said, "How much?"

"You ask that once more, and I don't care who you are or what tin-pot country you represent, I'm going
to mark my initials on your head with my billy. Now get back inside where you belong!"

Captain Derry replaced his fat wallet in his pocket. Occasionally these American barbarians baffled him.
Everyone in Europe knew that all any American cared for was money. It was a well known fact that
they'd sell their mothers if the price was right.

They had no culture, all they were interested in was money grubbing. He sighed. Perhaps his approach
hadn't been the correct one. He turned to go back into the building. Of all times for a bribe to fail!

The radio screamed the news. This was spot news with a vengeance. They had their broadcasting
apparatus always on tap at the conference room. Never, when the installation was made, did anyone
guess that one day an excited announcer would say, in a voice that shook with emotion, "Dom Brassle,
Ruravian representative to the United Nations, has just been shot! Murder most foul! As yet there is no