"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 071 - The Plot Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

TEN minutes later, a black-haired, mustached man strolled unnoticed from the lobby of the
big apartment hotel. He hailed a passing cab and ordered the driver to take him to the
Western Garage. Arrived there, he found a gray coupe standing just within the door.
The mustached man produced his license cards and handed them to the attendant. While
the garage man was reading the name of Logan Collender, Hildrow was lighting a
cork-tipped cigarette. The attendant returned the cards.
"All right, Mr. Collender," he said. "Here's your car. The tank's full. We changed the oil."

A nod. A glimmer of a gold tooth. Then Eric Hildrow, alias Logan Collender, entered the
coupe and drove from the garage. The master plotter was on his way to Lake Marrinack.

CHAPTER II. ON DEATH ISLAND
EARLY evening had arrived. Gloomy darkness had settled upon the waters of Lake
Marrinack. A silent surface, undisturbed by ripples, had replaced the sparkling blue that
distinguished this sheet of water.

Secluded from traveled highway, Lake Marrinack was a seldom-visited spot. Even the
residents of the near-by town of Marrinack shunned the lake, for the place was one of evil
superstitions. Weird rumors persisted regarding Lake Marrinack; and they centered chiefly
on the solitary isle that rested in the midst of the lake.
Death Island it was called. The name had double significance. Not only had doom befallen
upon certain persons who had lived there; the island also gave a foreboding appearance of
death itself. Looming a mile out in the lake, the front cliff of Death Island bore a remarkable
resemblance to a mammoth skull, grinning above the level of the waters.

Viewed in the paling twilight, Death Island was a fearful spot. Approach was impossible by
the front, for the huge cliff offered no landing place. At one side of the island was a secluded
cove. There, a small dock formed a landing spot. Beyond that, there was no visible sign of
human habitation on the island.

Thick woods obscured the lone house that stood behind the cliff. Yet the house itself was
large. It was located in almost the exact center of the small island; and those visitors who
had actually approached it agreed that the house was as spooky-looking as Death Island
itself.
With walls of blackened stone, the house loomed forbidding among the trees. Long and
high, it was flat-roofed, save for a square tower near the rear of the building. That tower, a
white-walled addition to the house itself, looked like a ghostly form that had sprouted from
the level roof.
Dim lights shone from the windows of the house on Death Island. Bars showed on those
same windows. The strange abode was one in which uninvited visitors could expect no
welcome. Curious people stayed away from the house on Death Island.

WITHIN the house was a room that contrasted oddly with the dull exterior. This was the front
room on the ground floor. It was the private study of Professor Arthur Whitburn, the old
inventor who owned the house on Death Island. Professor Whitburn's study was a cheery,
well-lighted room.
This room was in great disorder. A large bookcase ranged along one wall, and fully half of
its volumes had been removed. These missing books had not gone far. They were strewn
about the study. Stacks on the tables, stacks on the chairs, stacks on the floor; besides