"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 171 - Death Ship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

car with cool precision, undeterred when it suddenly tilted sideways.
With tires crunching heavily, he leveled the car in the very spot he wanted, a deep ditch
below the road level. When the wheels began to climb, he halted.

Parked in the bed of a dry stream, the coupe was placed where occasional travelers along
the side road would not discover it, thanks to clumps of bushes that flanked the roadside
above. Well tucked from sight, The Shadow listened for sounds close by. Hearing none, he
turned on the car's dome light.

The glow showed a figure attired in Tuxedo; but the face above was obscured by the brim of
a slouch hat. Despite its broad brim, the hat seemed ordinary enough, until long-fingered
hands drew the folds of a cloak up from the car seat.
Once that black garment had settled on its owner's shoulders, the dark hat blended with the
attire. The long hands drew on gloves of the same jet-black hue, to produce the final touch
that made The Shadow a grotesque being quite different from the human driver who had
brought the coupe here.

Paper crinkled as The Shadow spread it. His eyes studied a neat chart that showed not only
the obscure road, but a pathway that led to the bay. The latter was indicated by wavy lines,
with a jutting block that obviously marked a pier.

Moving a forefinger along the line of the path, The Shadow finished by reaching for the light
switch. A click brought darkness to the coupe.
In that gloom, no eyes could have discerned the shape of The Shadow. Nor could ears have
detected the almost soundless exit that he made from the car. The only traces of his
subsequent course were the occasional blinks of a tiny flashlight that moved along the path
to the bay.
Those flashes, however, were muffled by the folds of The Shadow's cloak. After some fifty
feet, they ceased entirely. Sure of his route, The Shadow was proceeding in complete
darkness.
Night had come in sudden fashion, but The Shadow could distinguish between shades of
blackness. There was a smoothness, like that of polished ebony, that marked the waters of
the bay; a bulkiness about the darkness that formed the shore line. The Shadow's goal
formed a pencil streak that marred the bay's smooth sheen. That goal was an old pier that
stretched into deep water.

WITH fifty yards to go, The Shadow halted; he had sensed motion in the darkness near him.
His caution was rewarded when he heard stealthy footsteps prowling near. They passed;
still listening, The Shadow caught other, fainter sounds. Picking the right spot, he saw the
guarded blink of a flashlight.

His suspicions were proven. A small cordon of prowlers were on duty, watching the
neighborhood of the pier. From further sounds and another flashlight's blink, The Shadow
determined that the watchers were drawing closer. Evidently they intended finally to
congregate at the pier itself, and that prospect forced The Shadow to a single decision.
This was his chance to pierce the cordon before it became too tight; to be at the one place
where enemies would not expect to find him: namely, at the pier itself.

There was swiftness to The Shadow's approach as he covered those final fifty yards, but
speed did not mar his ability at keeping silence. When he reached a squatty structure that