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

THE SHADOW maneuvered the plane's controls. He was banking, apparently
beginning a half circle that would head him back to land, when the plane's
motor sputtered. From then on, every action of the yellow plane indicated that
it was in distress.
Under the pilot's deliberate mishandling, the motor choked worse than
before. Leaning from the cockpit, The Shadow gesticulated wildly toward the
liner that was just below him, to the left.
He made a well-faked effort to keep the plane in the air, as his quarter
turn took him away from the City of Birmingham. He was heading directly for
the
Marmora, covering those few miles in jerky, precarious fashion, only a few
hundred feet above the ocean.
Then, with a last spasm, the motor died. The fragile plane started a dive
toward the sea.
Leveling off before he struck, The Shadow piloted the plane across a wave
top. The jounce nearly threw him from the cockpit. He hit another wave, that
gripped a ruined wing, half plucking it from the plane's fuselage.
Nose dipped deep, the yellow plane was a helpless wreck upon the foam,
its
lone occupant climbing from the cockpit to along the higher wing, while he
waved
excitedly toward the yacht, no more than a hundred yards away.
Men were peering from the yacht's rail, undecided what to do. The Shadow
could see their faces; he felt sure that those aboard the Marmora would gladly
have kept the yacht along its course, leaving the foolhardy aviator to his
fate. But they couldn't overlook the fact that the City of Birmingham was on
the scene.
Her engines had stopped; the smoke from her funnel was thinning. Her
whistle sent inquiring blasts that the Marmora was forced to answer.
The yacht dropped a tender with men aboard it. Clearing deftly, the small
boat headed for the waterlogged plane. The little gig was motored; it cut the
water like a driving arrow. Watching its approach, The Shadow saw signals
going
up from the Marmora. The yacht was doing the full duty that the law of the sea
required.
Stooping to the cockpit, The Shadow brought out his bag and carried it
with him when he was lifted into the tender. The motor roared again, sweeping
them away from the wreckage of the plane. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston
stood aboard the Marmora, smiling very weakly as he thanked his rescuers.
The City of Birmingham had resumed her northward route; when she reached
New York, she would report the rescue that she had witnessed. By that time, if
the skipper of the Marmora proved as wise as The Shadow believed him to be,
the
news would already be radioed from the yacht.
Though his presence was distinctly unwelcome, Lamont Cranston would
certainly be accorded excellent treatment aboard the Marmora, under the
circumstances which had brought him here.
The Shadow had found the one way to reach the Trebble yacht without an
invitation, and he intended to ferret out new facts while he remained as an
unwanted passenger.