"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 037 - The Grove of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The fog that had imperiled navigation upon Long Island Sound was evidently playing hob with
well-calculated plans. No ray of light could reach this shore. Even sounds were muffled by the shroud of
never-ceasing mist.

The waiting man did not end his watchfulness. His slow, incessant paces dug deep into the dampness of
the sand. He scruffed the granular material with his toes, as though to obliterate the marks that he had
made. Suddenly, he came to a standstill, listening once more.

Through the fog came a strange, awesome sound. It was a low, penetrating whistle that carried a peculiar
note. In this environment, that floating noise was frightening as it came from the seemingly solid sand
bank. But fear was not the emotion that possessed the man who heard the whistle. That was the signal he
had expected. With fingers to his mouth, the waiting man emitted a similar sound.

A LONG pause followed. A chance drifting of the fog opened a momentary space out beyond the shore.
Glimmering lights, high up, cast a dull glare that showed the forms of bare square-rigged masts.

Lower lights flickered, displaying a glimpse of a phantom ship. Then the fog rolled downward like a final
curtain, and blotted out the grotesque vision.

The man on the shore entertained no doubts as to the reality of the ghostly ship. A superstitious sailor
might have classed it as an appearance of the Flying Dutchman, reputed haunter of the high seas. But to
the landsman, this passing glimpse was the very sight that he had hoped to see.

His guarded whistle was repeated. An electric torch clicked in his hand. He turned the brilliant spot of
light toward the unseen boat, and swung his arm in a repeated signal.

Creaking sounds came across the water. A boat was being lowered from the sailing ship. The diminishing
of the noise indicated that the square-rigger was drifting away from the danger of shoal water.

The waiting man turned out his light and made another short whistle. He repeated this at intervals, to
guide those who might be approaching.

The clicking of oarlocks was his reward. With oars muffled, the small boat was heading toward the
beach. The light was on again now, whirling in wide sweeps, as the anxious man sought to give his exact
position. The sullen fog threw back the shaft of light, but rays were filtering through the gloom sufficiently
to guide those who were arriving.

A small boat landed with surprising suddenness, its prow grinding in the sand. Less than twenty feet away
from the man on the shore, the occupants of the little boat were clearly outlined by the light.

Four men leaped over the side. Knee-deep in the water, they lifted a heavy, cubical object from the
center of the boat, and came staggering to the shore. Dark-skinned, bare-legged Malays, these men
were silent as they placed the box directly in front of the glaring light.

With apparent unconcern, they waded back to the boat, and brought out a second box - the replica of
the first. A few minutes later, the two boxes were side by side upon the beach.

During all this operation, the Malays had not glimpsed the man who stood behind the light. They were
working in accord with some prescribed arrangement. Their task now finished, they splashed back to the