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

leaving only a few of the original personnel, Hartley being one.
"Trame hoped to swindle Mr. Trebble," declared Hartley, "but he never got
to it. Two weeks after we left Havana, Mr. Trebble had a heart attack, and
died. At least" - the steward spoke chokily - "he had his last wish. He was
buried at sea.
"That was done secretly, by Trame. Instead of continuing to be a guest,
he
took Mr. Trebble's place. I was the only one of the old crew allowed to see
him.
My eyes are weak, and I must confess that I was deceived, at first. Only -"
"There was something that puzzled you," interposed The Shadow. "You
wondered what had become of Trame."
"Yes, sir," rejoined Hartley. "I talked with the others who had been with
Mr. Trebble. We figured it all out, found the truth but we have kept very
quiet
since. I always pretend that I think Trame is Mr. Trebble. But we're ready,
sir,
the four of us. We've hidden guns that Trame doesn't know about. Let one man
start it, we'll fight!"
Cranston's hand clapped encouragement upon Hartley's shoulder. Reaching
above the berth, Cranston turned off the light. Hartley understood the reason
a
few second later, when shuffly footsteps went past the cabin door.
By that time, there was a swish in the darkness. The Shadow was putting
on
his cloak and hat. A tiny flashlight came on, focused toward the floor. It
flicked red, changed to green, then went white again.
"Stay here," came Cranston's low voice, "and watch for the light. Move
back if you see it red; come out when it turns green. Then go to your
quarters,
and say nothing. Your visit here must not be known."
Drawing Hartley toward the door, The Shadow left him there and glided out
to the deck. Clutching the rail, he took a look in both directions. Suddenly,
from the folds of his cloak, The Shadow flashed a red light. Hartley saw it,
closed the cabin door.
The Shadow had spotted someone coming along the deck. The fellow hadn't
seen the guarded gleam, but he was brandishing a flashlight of his own. A
twist
of his hand turned it slightly upward. The Shadow saw the sinuous lips and
ugly
eyes of Raydorf.
 THERE was a gloat upon the forger's face, as though he anticipated
something pleasant, which, in Raydorf's case, would mean evil work. He stopped
at Cranston's door and listened. His flashlight, tilted under his arm, gave a
view of his displeased scowl.
Raydorf wasn't wearing his spectacles. Like Trame, he used glasses only
for show. His eyes were sharp, as keen as his ears, and he was disappointed
because his suspicions were not proven. Raydorf had evidently stopped at
Hartley's bunk room. Not finding the steward, he had guessed that he might be
with Cranston. Raydorf, however, could hear no voices.