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

CHAPTER VII

THE FINGER MOVES
 THEY were inquisitive aboard the Marmora. They wanted to know who The
Shadow was, and what he was doing in a land plane off the Virginia Capes. They
put those questions bluntly, and The Shadow answered them.
His name, he said, was Lamont Cranston, and he liked adventure. When he
flew a plane, he recognized but one limitation: the capacity of the gasoline
tank. There had been times, in fact, when even that had not deterred him, so
long as he knew that a landing spot would be handy when he ran out of fuel.
This hadn't been one of those occasions. His intent had been to return to
his starting point, the Atlantic City airport, after meeting the City of
Birmingham. He had friends aboard that ship, and he had promised to fly out
and
greet them. His one mistake had been that of hiring the wrong plane.
The talk impressed the listeners, particularly the reference to the
imaginary friends on the New York-Savannah liner. One of the yacht's officers
promised to send an immediate radio dispatch, informing the world - with the
City of Birmingham included - that Lamont Cranston was safe aboard the
Marmora.
Listeners didn't know that Lamont Cranston was learning more than they
were.
The Shadow recognized the Marmora, from his visit of a few years back,
but
he didn't remember a solitary face that he had seen before. Possibly, some of
the former crew members were below, but this crowd weren't of the caliber that
Jerome Trebble usually hired. Something was distinctly wrong aboard the
Marmora.
No expression on Cranston's masklike face betrayed suspicion. The dapper
officer who had done the questioning became more courteous. He was glad, he
said, that they had been able to help Mr. Cranston. They had a cabin that he
could use, but they could not promise how soon he would be taken ashore. This
yacht, the man declared truthfully, didn't put into port often.
Before going to his cabin, The Shadow picked up his bag. That was when
the
first gleam of doubt showed in the dapper officer's eyes. It left, when he saw
Cranston open the bag, to put away his aviator's helmet. The bag contained
nothing but a lunch box, that fell open to show some wrapped sandwiches.
The striped interior of the bag made its depth deceptive. The sharpest
eye
could not have detected that the hag had a false bottom.
A few minutes after he had closed the cabin door, The Shadow heard a rap.
He answered it; the dapper officer was back again. Twisting the tiny points of
his short-clipped mustache, the fellow asked:
"Do you know whose yacht this is?"
The Shadow shook his head.
"It belongs to Jerome Trebble," said the officer. "You've heard of him,
haven't you, Mr. Cranston?"