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

CHAPTER VIII

MEN IN THE DARK

IT was midnight. In his cabin aboard the Marmora, The Shadow lay upon his
berth thinking over events of the afternoon and evening. Though far at sea, he
had not lost contact with the world on shore.
Before dinner, he had taken a most fortunate stroll along the yacht's
upper deck. It had brought him within hearing range of the Marmora's wireless
room. The operator, one of Trame's tools, had picked up an important news
flash
that The Shadow had overheard.
It told about salvage operations off Atlantic City. The wreck of the
Ozark
had been located. Within a few days, divers would be ready to seek the strong
box in the sunken freighter's hold:
That news had certainly angered Pointer Trame.
The big-shot had shown signs of it at dinner, although he had tried to
cover his ire. Whatever Trame's game, he had intended that the strong box be
lost forever, like those other cargoes shipped by Hugh Barvale.
If those salvage operations went too far, Trame would have to take a
hand.
That didn't quite fit with other schemes that he evidently had in mind.
Later, after dark, The Shadow had made a brief foray to the wireless
room,
where he had again heard incoming messages. They came in a special code, but
The
Shadow had deciphered them upon returning to his cabin.
The messages were from Trame's workers in New York. They were fitting out
a ship, and would be ready when needed. Included was the fact that crooks had
taken on new hands to replace those lost aboard the Ozark.
The Shadow knew that his own agents would be among that crew. Cliff
Marsland had played the game well, while on the Ozark. Though he hadn't been a
member of Trame's mob, he had hobnobbed with them; and they had been on the
point of enlisting him, when the trouble broke out.
In all that chaos, Cliff hadn't been identified with The Shadow. To all
appearances, the black-cloaked fighter had played a lone game, merely rallying
loyal men about him. If Cliff, back in New York, looked up his crooked
shipmates, they would give him a full-fledged welcome. The fact that he had
left the Ozark with the others wouldn't matter. It had been his only way to
escape from the sinking ship.
Those reflections ended as The Shadow heard footsteps pad past his cabin
door, which opened onto the outside deck.
They had come regularly, those sneaky shuffles, every thirty minutes. The
outside prowler who was keeping watch on Cranston's cabin thought that he
could
not be heard. Instead, he was simply giving himself away. He was practically
stating that during the next thirty minutes. Cranston's cabin, would be
unwatched.
Twisting from the berth, The Shadow, opened his bag. Prying into the