"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 095 - Death Rides the Skyway" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

CHAPTER III. DEATH TRAVELS EAST
FLOODLIGHTS bathed the airport at the little town of Falko. Located near the foothills of a towering
mountain range, this spot was of prime importance to transcontinental planes. Meeting place of air routes
and railway, Falko served also as a transfer point for passengers.

Hours had passed since The Shadow had left San Francisco. Miles Crofton, steady at the controls, had
headed the ship for Falko, hoping to reach the tiny town before the swift streamlined train that was
traveling east on the tracks of the Mountain Pacific.

Crofton had almost reached his goal; already eyes from the ground were viewing the lights that twinkled
high above the flooded gleam of the landing field.

The plane made a rapid landing. Rolling along the ground, it came almost to a stop, then wheeled and
taxied toward a hangar. From the cockpit dropped a tall passenger who held a light suitcase in one hand.
With the other, he waved instructions to the pilot; then strode rapidly from the edge of the landing field,
heading across a blackened area toward the lighted station, a few hundred yards away.
The arrival was just in time to make connection. Already, a gleaming headlight was whizzing into view
from beyond a curve. Then, into the lights of the railway station glided the Typhoon, a slithering,
snakelike shape of silvery metal. The streamlined limited had arrived.

Sliding doors opened. Passengers alighted from low steps and tramped the station platform. All of them
were planning to take planes that were due later; most of them looked about to find the direction to the
airport. There was one, however, a thick-set man in gray overcoat, who needed no instructions. Coat
collar turned up; chin wrapped in a muffler, this individual strode past the others from the train and paced
straight toward the road that led to the landing field.

THE SHADOW was just in time to spy that muffled passenger. A moment later the fellow was gone, too
quickly for The Shadow to observe his muffled features.

Pausing on the platform, The Shadow glanced through darkness toward the airport. A small plane was
visible, moving forward, in preparation for a take-off. It was obviously no commercial ship. Instinctively,
The Shadow linked this private plane with the muffled man who had departed from the station.

"All aboard!"

The conductor of the Typhoon was giving the final call. Forced to immediate choice, The Shadow
delivered a soft, whispered laugh; then boarded the train. Doors slid shut; the Typhoon glided from the
station.

The Shadow gave no new evidence of curbed mirth as he walked into the club cafe that formed the
observation section of the Typhoon. He had recognized that the departing passenger might be a man who
needed watching; but he had gained no evidence that the muffled man was Seton Hylap. The Shadow's
best course was to take the limited, particularly since he had left a trump card at Falko.

The trump was Miles Crofton. A skilled agent in The Shadow's service, Crofton would allow nothing to
slip his notice. Still at the airport, Crofton would observe any passenger who took off in a private ship;
hence The Shadow would receive a later report on the man whom he had seen.

The chances were still large in The Shadow's favor. Odds were that Seton Hylap had chosen to ride
farther east than Falko. The Typhoon was not due for another stop until it reached Ridgley, a station one