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

found the method. His bag was near the foot of the berth, which was toward the
door. Extending one foot, The Shadow supplied a short kick.
The bag tipped over; the lunch box clattered tinnily, as it fell out to
the floor. The sound was fairly close to the door; The Shadow sensed that the
other man was crouching still, not ready to move until he heard some further
noise.
Timing his action to the yacht's roll, The Shadow circled away from the
berth and came in toward the door from the opposite direction!
A pitch floundered The Shadow toward the wall beside the door. His elbow
thumped hard, but he disregarded its sudden numbness. Knowing that the man had
heard his clatter, and would instinctively spin about, The Shadow launched
forward. He came to an immediate grapple with a wiry foe.
One fist upon the fellow's throat, The Shadow prevented an outcry. His
numbed hand was clutching at the gun which the fellow shoved against him.
Managing to push the weapon aside, The Shadow put one finger underneath the
trigger to prevent its pull.
Squirms lessened. The Shadow's throttling tactics were paying dividends.
Rolling away from the door, he carried his foe with him. They reeled against
the berth. Plucking the revolver from the limp hand that held it, The Shadow
flung the man on the mattress.
A tiny flashlight twinkled. It showed a grayish, haggard face looking
upward with frightened eyes, while dryish lips gulped voicelessly for air.
The man on the berth was Hartley, the old steward.


PROMPTLY, The Shadow flung aside his cloak and hat. He turned on a light
above the berth. Hartley's expression changed at sight of Cranston. The
steward's fear was ended.
"I... I didn't think it was you, sir!" he whispered. "I came in... to
talk
to you -"
Hartley's pause showed traces of uncertainty. It was Cranston's quiet nod
that gave him courage to go on.
 "But you were gone," added the steward. "I was afraid that they had
captured you. So when you came back, I didn't recognize you. I'm sorry, Mr.
Cranston!"
Seated by the berth, The Shadow picked up the tin box that had fallen
from
the bag. That box also had a double bottom, that contained a make-up kit. He
replaced it carefully in the bag, the interval allowing Hartley to regain his
breath.
"Tell me the whole story," then suggested The Shadow, calmly. "Everything
about Jerome Trebble."
The account wasn't as bad as The Shadow had anticipated. Though Trebble
was dead, he hadn't been murdered. It had all started in Havana, where some of
the crew had gone ashore and gotten themselves into trouble.
They had been jailed, and Trebble, testy because of ill health, had
refused to help them. He had followed the advice of a very friendly gentleman
named Mr. Trame, who had obligingly found new seamen for the Marmora.
By the time the yacht left Havana, others of the old crew had quit,