"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 314 - Model Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

were boats three feet long, exquisitely built with steam plants capable of driving them along at the rate of
forty and fifty miles an hour. Airplane models with gas engines that whipped the planes through the air
were just like their larger brethren of which they were the prototypes. The trains were in a variety of
gauges from HO which is minuscule, to standard gauge, each perfect in its own right, each a scaled down
replica of real trains.

The man with Cranston, who was named Harry Owen, said, "Like it?"

"Love it." Cranston looked all around him. Right ahead was a layout that paraphrased in miniature the
controls of a railroad line. Knobs, dials, rheostats, all controlled a block system that allowed the model
railroad to fulfill the functions of a regular railroad. The man at the controls, a good-looking youngster
looked up at Owen and spoke. His name was Bruce Bedrick.

"Everything's going along too good. I expect a train to derail or something to happen at any second."

"Relax," Owen said, his broad pleasant face splitting in a smile, "everything's under control."

From the youth of Bruce to the middle years of Owen, Cranston thought, they are one and all bound
together by the common thread of their interest in models. It was nice to see such community of interest
at work.

About twenty feet away from them, the tiny railroad curved up a scaled replica of a mountain and then
the wall was cut open by a tunnel which fed the tracks out of this big room and off into another one. This
aroused Cranston's interest.

He asked, "Mr. Owen, where does the Bump and Wiggle R.R. go after it enters that tunnel?"

"Haven't you seen that yet? That's the most impressive part of the set up in my opinion. The next room is
completely untenanted by human beings. The train works out all by itself. We've tried to give a complete
illusion there that the trains are full size. Come, I think you'll like it."

Following the broad, middle-aged back of Owen, Cranston looked back over his shoulder. In the center
of the big exhibit room they were leaving there was a wired enclosure about fifty feet in diameter.

In this wired arena was a post set up in the center. From this post a long wire went down to a model
plane that a member was tuning up. Around the floor they had set up a circular ramp from which the tiny
models took off. Fastened to the piano wire, the planes took off under their own power, flew madly
around the circle to which the wire held them and then when the few drops of gas were exhausted, came
down to a perfect three point landing.

Every hour on the hour, a flight was put in progress. The time was due for one now. The plane skimmed
around the runway and took off, the motor making almost as much noise in the circumscribed area as
though it had been a man-carrying one.

Chattering away, the plane flew around and around making an obligatio to the surface noise of people
moving around, talking and making all the other sounds that a mob does. In the smaller room which cut
off from the main exhibit room, it was suddenly quiet. Cranston looked around appreciatively. Painted on
the walls proper, the panorama of scenery was done in exaggerated perspective that was completely eye
deceptive. In front of the painted scenery the model scenery picked up so that you could barely tell
where the three dimensions took over from the flatness of the two.