"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 302 - Crime Over Casco" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

The Shadow's finger rested upon an island. It was a sizable chunk of land, nearly two miles
long and almost half as wide. It was marked with tiny black squares indicating houses, a
larger one that represented a hotel. Its name was printed on the map:


BROTHERS ISLAND
The mere touch of The Shadow's finger unraveled the cryptic telegram. The signature was
not a man's name; it was part of the message. Something was to happen on Brothers Island
in Casco Bay, tonight.

Whoever had sent this telegram to Lamont Cranston unquestionably knew him as a friend.
Furthermore, Cranston's status at this moment was that of a friend in need. It was not
surprising that a telegram sent to Cranston should have reached The Shadow. It happened
that the identity of Lamont Cranston was one that The Shadow used quite regularly while
investigation crime.

The Shadow's sanctum was in New York, Casco Bay was in Maine. There were few hours
yet before nightfall. Seemingly all that remained was for Cranston to take a plane to
Portland, Maine, check in the Lafayette Hotel, become The Shadow, and head for Brothers
Island.
There The Shadow could seek his unnamed friend or accomplish whatever task might be
expected of Cranston.

Very simple, on any day but this.
The Shadow's laugh came grimly as he folded the map and put it in a pocket beneath his
cloak, along with a well-stuffed envelope that was marked "Casco Bay."

Of all days, this was one when a swift flight from New York to Maine was anything but
possible.
Impossible, most certainly, for a man who called himself Lamont Cranston. The Shadow's
laugh told that as he placed a mirror in the light, removed his slouch hat and dropped the
folds of his cloak, to stare at Cranston's face.
An impressive face, Cranston's. Calm, well-molded, in a sense mask-like, as though it
veiled all that lay behind it, which indeed it did. For as The Shadow's hands spread across
that face and drew themselves downward, they literally removed the fullness of those
features.

The face was gone from the light before the hands had finished their peeling sweep.
Rubbing together, the hands disposed of the peculiar putty substance that formed the base
upon which Cranston make-up was overlaid. Then the hands placed the mirror in a flat box
which contained the required substances for the replacement of Cranston's features,
something which The Shadow could accomplish in a few minutes.
No need for The Shadow to look at the face which was actually his own, although he rarely
used it. He intended to use that face now, as a passport on an assignment so extraordinary
that no one else would ask for it, let alone hope that it would be granted.

The bluish light clicked off. Silence followed the departure of The Shadow. It was the only
silence, perhaps, in all Manhattan, for the walls of the sanctum were thick.
Outside, a torrential fury received this man who called himself The Shadow, but who was
now wearing cap and raincoat, carrying a small satchel containing the cloak and hat with