"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 146 - Face of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

slick worker and his band. Only The Shadow could bag ClipperтАФby being inside, waiting for him.

Clyde Burke couldn't guess what the real dope was. That was something which only The Shadow knew.

A few minutes after Clyde had gone, Lamont Cranston was leisurely shaking hands with Alvin Drame,
promising the museum sponsor that he would hear from him shortly regarding a contribution.

In strolling style, Cranston went downstairs in an elevator, through the hotel lobby, to the street. Haste
seemed absent from his thoughts as he stepped into a waiting limousine.

After that, the pretense ended.

Through the speaking tube, Cranston gave a crisp order to the chauffeur. As the big limousine wheeled
toward Tenth Avenue, Cranston pulled out a drawer-like compartment beneath the rear seat. Black
garments unfolded under quick-moving hands.

Within the space of half a minute, the limousine's passenger was cloaked in black. A slouch hat rested on
his head; a brace of automatics were tucked in holsters beneath his inky garb.

The Shadow was speeding to a quick-chosen destination.

There was something phony in the Clipper Threeve set-up. It was like half a dozen other crimes that The
Shadow had recently suppressed. With every triumph, there had been a missed opportunity. This case
offered another link in the sequence.

The Shadow's agents, scouring the underworld, had been learning facts too easily. If The Shadow chose
Clipper Threeve as to-night's target, the field would be open for hidden crime elsewhere. It had been that
way for weeks; but this time, The Shadow was prepared for it.

Ever since the Spanish gems had arrived in New York, The Shadow had expected thieves to seek them.
That was why he had stationed Harry Vincent, one of his keenest agents, at a watch-post near the offices
of the Aldheim Company. So far, Harry had furnished no report on any undue activities there.

Nor had The Shadow learned of a single leak that could favor men of crime. He had waited for proof
that there could be such a leak. It had comeтАФthis bait involving Clipper Threeve. Midnight was the hour.
The Shadow still had time to follow a lone thread that might prove useful; one that he had left for
emergency.

Only one crook, to The Shadow's knowledge, could possibly have gleaned information regarding the
Spanish gems. That fellow was a ratty steward aboard the liner Megantic. His name was Jordy Fergen.

The Shadow hadn't missed the fact that Jordy had dropped his old game of tipping off customs
inspectors regarding smuggled jewels. That meant that Jordy had found a better racket.

THE big liner lay shrouded at its pier. Along the Hudson River, the drizzle was mostly fog. There were
watchmen at the shore end of the pier, but the mist-dewed lights lessened their range of vision. There was
a gangplank running up to the side of the Megantic; but it formed no more than a dull streak in the
darkness.

No eyes spied the gliding shape that boarded the liner. First evidence of The Shadow's presence was to