"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 195 - The Spy Ring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

box. Darr's actions were under the surveillance of an unsuspected spy, who had chosen that convenient
hiding place as the best possible watching post.

The crackle of the fire might have been an insidious chuckle from the lips of the secret watcher, as Darr
finished the transcribing of the plans. The lid of the wood box, lifting higher, showed an ugly, darkish face
quite as evil as the snakish, spying eyes.

His task finished in a few minutes, Darr tucked the plan-sheet back in the envelope with the others. In
turn, the envelope went into his pocket, ready for its return trip to the factory desk where it belonged.
Swinging the pantograph aside, Darr pulled the thumb tacks from the three-inch square.

Next came an ingenious move. Darr picked up a ginger-ale bottle, the only one that had no label. Tilting
the bottle, he spilled the small amount of remaining liquid on his fingers and moistened the outside of the
bottle. Taking the tiny tracing, Darr applied it, penciled side downward, to the bottle.

Slightly gummed, the paper square stuck in place because of the moisture. Darr held the bottle to the
light. The reverse side of his tracing bore the printing of a bottle label. Even against the light, it was
impossible to seethe traced underside of the label, for the glass of the bottle was a darkish-green that
concealed the pencil marks.

Darr tossed the bottle into a chair beside the desk. A satisfied gleam showed on the brown face that
peered from the wood box. The lowering lid narrowed to a crack as Darr turned toward the fireplace.
Darr had the pantograph in his hand; eagerly he tossed the wooden instrument into the heart of the blaze.
The fire gulped it instantly.

Needing the pantograph no longer, Darr was pleased. The fireplace had served him well enough to make
up for its shortcomings. It had worried him, keeping the instrument in his room, for he was a secretary,
not a draftsman. But there had been no other way. Darr had to be geared to work quickly when the time
came. But that was all over.

Rid of the pantograph, he could ride back to the plant with Kelly. Replacing the plans would be simple;
the ginger-ale bottle would be gone from the room when Darr returned. If there should be trouble, it
would strike someone else, not Darr. All he had to do was sit tight and collect.

The flickery firelight gave Darr's expression a touch of devilish cunning. They'd have to pay him, the
people who received the copy of the plans, because if they didn't he could find a way to spoil the fruits
that they gained. That was the best part of it, thought Darr, as he turned from the fireplace.

Then, half about, he stood frozen, despite the heat of the crackling logs. The sound that chilled him was a
mammoth wail from the emergency siren at the plant. The squatly factory had come to life like an
avenging banshee, to howl the fact that someone had betrayed it.

Did the shriek mean Darr? Had his theft been discovered? Darr did not know - but another did.

The lid of the wood box shot upward. Its darkish occupant bobbed into sight like a human
jack-in-the-box. The firelight illumined his face as it had Darr's, but with far stronger effect. Compared to
the satanic gleam of the dark man's countenance, Darr's expression was no more than impish.

Darr recognized his lurking guest, knew him as a man sent here as part of the transaction. Shrinking back,
Darr gulped the name: