"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 036 - The Isle of Doubt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

тАЬInstructions received.тАЭ

Switching back, Burbank put in a call to Vincent. He gave this agent the instructions that he had received
from The Shadow.

тАЬStay on duty until departure of Quill and Hotz,тАЭ announced Burbank. тАЬReport if they stay later than
eleven thirty. No report until that time unless they discuss a change of plan.тАЭ

Burbank rested in his chair. Long minutes ticked by in this gloomy room, where The Shadow's agent sat
in motionless vigilance. Crime was brewing. Deeds of violence would occur to-night. To Burbank, these
activities were outside his accustomed sphere. Only in cases of special emergency did Burbank travel
abroad to serve his master, The Shadow. In contrast to the monotonous minutes that went by in
Burbank's abode, fleeting time showed weird activity in another room of mystery not far from where The
Shadow's agent was stationed.

INSTEAD of the mere quiet which pervaded Burbank's room, The Shadow's sanctum seemed under the
spell of a mystic hush. In the corner of a creepy realm where blackness lived, two long white hands were
at work beneath the glare of a shaded lamp which cast rays of ghostly blue upon the polished surface of a
table.

The Shadow, shrouded in blackness beyond the sphere of blue light, was a hidden entity. His hands,
moving like detached creatures, were sorting sheets of paper and piles of clippings, which lay upon the
table.

One mark alone distinguished one hand from the other. That sign was a gleaming gem that shone from the
third finger of the left hand. The Shadow's girasolтАФa fire opal of priceless valueтАФthis was the stone that
reflected the lamplight. The strange jewel was ever changing in its hues. From rich magenta, its depths
became a deep ultramarine; then varied to an azure shade. All the while, the girasol flashed sparks that
might well have come from a living coal amid a heap of dying embers.

There was ease in the motion of The Shadow's hands, yet their speed was incredible when measured. A
strange clock rested upon the table top. Instead of hands, it had marked circles which showed the
passing of seconds, minutes, and hours. Each second seemed to pause as though waiting The Shadow's
order to depart. Here, in this mystic sanctum, ordinary intervals of time were stretched to amazing
lengths.

The hands spread a large map of Manhattan upon the table. Deft fingers inserted pins at certain spots. A
low laugh came from the gloom as The Shadow's hidden eyes studied the chart. The hands applied a tiny
rule to the map. This measuring steel was marked with minutes instead of distances.

To The Shadow, time was more important than space. His keen brain was formulating a schedule of the
events that were due to come.

The first pin upon which The Shadow's finger paused marked the place from which Punch Baxton and his
mob were leaving at eleven.

The second point showed the location of the uptown residence of Caleb Wilcox. The Shadow gauged
the time required for the marauders to reach that destination. It would take a half hour.