"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 166 - Crime Rides The Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

disturbing the hotel operator. A sleepy voice seemed to wonder who would be
calling at this hour. In Cranston's tone, The Shadow gave the number of the
Atlantic City airport.
That call was answered promptly. No surprise was evidenced when Lamont
Cranston stated that he wanted to hire a plane, to begin a flight at dawn.
Many
wealthy visitors to Atlantic City had pilot's licenses; and early morning was
the finest time to view the ocean from the air. The Shadow was assured that
the
ship would be ready when he arrived.
It was. When The Shadow's taxi reached the airport, a light biplane with
an open cockpit was standing outside the hangar. After identifying himself as
Cranston, The Shadow tossed a small bag aboard and climbed into the plane. The
propeller whirled; the plane made its take-off, its wings glinting as they
caught the rays of the rising sun.
The plane was fast enough, although she wasn't new. Another summer of
heavy use, and she would be just another crate, ready for the junk heap. Not
the sort of ship that The Shadow would have ordinarily preferred; but for this
occasion, a knockabout craft was exactly right. When The Shadow did what he
intended to do, no one who witnessed the deed would be surprised.
Whisking southward, the plane passed over the many resorts south of
Atlantic City. The last was Cape May; there, the Jersey coast dwindled as the
plane struck out to sea. Those chaps back at the airport hadn't supposed that
Cranston was intending such a long trip. For an ocean flight, they would have
recommended a seaplane.
But that didn't disturb The Shadow. Looking back from the cockpit, he saw
the coast line fade to obscurity. A curious laugh issued from his lips.
A patch of yellow against the clear blue sky, the plane looked like a
stray bird that had lost its way. The sea breeze was heavy, the going bumpy;
and below, the sea showed choppiness. Whitecaps were waving, as though warning
the plane back to land. Instead, The Shadow persisted in his ocean course,
following nearly directly south
Two hours were nearly gone. Miles out above the open sea, The Shadow
spied
smoke along the horizon. He strained his gaze, hoping for a second token. At
last he saw it, a fainter wisp than the first. Coming closer, he calculated a
space of about three miles between the two smoky pillars.
He saw the City of Birmingham, bulking up below her own smoke; which
issued steadily from her funnel. He could make out the boats along her
superstructure; on the deck, he saw moving dots that he knew were people.
Heading straight for the coastal liner, The Shadow gave another glance,
obliquely to the right.
That view showed him the yacht Marmora, smaller than the New
York-Savannah
liner, but more graceful. She was a delicate thing of white, taking easy,
graceful dips through the choppy sea over which the larger vessel plowed. Not
only could both ships see the yellow plane; they were within each other's
sight.