"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 312 - Murder in White" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

MURDER IN WHITE
by Maxwell Grant
As originally published in
The Shadow Magazine #312
February-March 1947

THE MAN in the tightly-belted trench coat, hat turned down all around in
a futile effort to prevent the pounding rain from slashing at his eyes, made
his slow way through New York's maddening traffic.
He was in the middle of the street when the light changed. He stayed
where he was in the center of the trolley tracks and let the speeding cars
swirl past him. There was nothing to do till the light changed back to his
favor. His pants were dripping from the muddy water thrown up on them by the
scudding cars.
He looked from side to side. So far so good. No one in sight who could
possibly know him. In the blinding rain people were contented to make their
own way along. They weren't interested in anyone else in the world.
That is, they weren't till a speeding cab, trying to jump the light, cut
around the corner and clipped the man in the trench coat. The cab sped on as
the man twirled like a ballet dancer and then fell heavily forward on his
face. The mud splashed up around him. He lay there perfectly still, while the
traffic cop on the corner made apoplectic noises on his whistle. The cab
hurried on unheedingly.
The same people, who a second before had hurried so on their anonymous
errands, now paused and eyed the fallen body. They stood, all with a certain
"there but for the grace of God" look in their eyes.
The policeman, huge and burly in his black shining raincoat, made his
slow way to the call box on the telephone pole at the corner. He called for an
ambulance and then, sighing, walked to the fallen man's side. He bent over,
but his rain coat got in the way. He had to get down on his knees before he
could feel for the man's pulse. It was steady and strong.


He didn't dare do anything else. He knew that in the case of a broken neck or
a badly injured back it might well be fatal to attempt to move the man from
where he lay. He went back to his post and did his best to route traffic
around the area. All the while he waved his arms and blew his whistle, he was
vaguely conscious of the clammy wet feeling in the knees of his trousers. It
made a counter-irritant to the annoyance of the rain and the accident.
The ambulance halted next to the prone body and the attendant dropped to
his knees in the rain. The cop grinned. His wouldn't be the only soggy wet
pants.
At one time, internes rode the ambulances in New York, but during the
war, because of the scarcity of doctors, they had to adopt the plan that other
big cities had. They sent orderlies, trained only in first aid, out on call.
It had worked well and they had continued it.
The attendants knew enough not to try any snap diagnosis. All they had to
do was determine whether or not to take a person to the hospital, and for this
they were well qualified.
Slipping a stretcher under the man, the attendant and the driver got him