Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 185 - Ships of Doom

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SHIPS OF DOOM
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. CRIME FORESEEN
? CHAPTER II. TRAGEDY AT NIGHT
? CHAPTER III. PARTED TRAILS
? CHAPTER IV. FACTS FOR THE LAW
? CHAPTER V. FEDS ON THE JOB
? CHAPTER VI. THE HEAT OF BATTLE
? CHAPTER VII. THANKS TO THE SHADOW
? CHAPTER VIII. TRAILS TO COME
? CHAPTER IX. THE SHOWDOWN
? CHAPTER X. FALSYTHE'S ALIBI
? CHAPTER XI. THE WRONG MAN
? CHAPTER XII. THE FORCED TRAIL
? CHAPTER XIII. FOES IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XIV. FRIENDS IN THE LIGHT
? CHAPTER XV. THE SHADOW'S GOAL
? CHAPTER XVI. PLIGHTS REVERSED
? CHAPTER XVII. CRIME TURNS THE TIDE
? CHAPTER XVIII. THE WRONG SHADOW
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME'S ANSWER
? CHAPTER XX. BLASTED CRIME
? CHAPTER XXI. SUNKEN EVIDENCE
CHAPTER I. CRIME FORESEEN
SHINY, white, and sleek, the liner Salvador was moving slowly from her North River pier. Under the
control of straining tugs, the great motorship looked like a huge beast held in leash.
Even when she reached midstream, the M.S. Salvador seemed impatient. Her prow turned toward the
sea, the ship began a slow, though majestic, pace. Not until she passed the confines of New York harbor
would the Salvador demonstrate the greyhound speed of which she was deemed capable.
In a sense, this was the liner's maiden voyage. True, the Salvador had crossed the Atlantic, to reach New
York; but on that journey she had carried neither passengers nor freight. Though built in a foreign land,
the Salvador was the property of American owners. Designed for trade between the United States and
South America, she was the first of a good-will fleet that would serve to link two continents.
Like the white luxury liner, the flag that the ship flew was new. Her American owners were operating her
under a foreign flag.
The flag bore five stripes of yellow and blue; it stood for a newcomer in the nations of Europe, the
Protectorate of Balthania. Behind that banner loomed the sinister operations of a land-hungry Power that
had wrested provinces from a weaker country. Formed into a single unit, those provinces were named
Balthania; behind the five-striped flag lay the grim, but hidden, emblem of the Great Power which
controlled the puppet state.
Soon, it was predicted, Balthania would be the absolute possession of the ruling power. Such plight,
however, did not await the Salvador. Counteracting the blue-and-yellow flag above the stern was a
pennant that fluttered from the liner's masthead: a strip of white bearing the letters I.M.L.
Those initials stood for the International Merchant Lines, real owners of the M.S. Salvador.
High in a tower office of a downtown Manhattan skyscraper, the directors of the International Merchant
Lines were watching the Salvador begin her voyage. Dominant in that group was Frederick Falsythe,
chairman of the board.
Though in his sixties, Falsythe was a man of energy, matching his rangy physique. His steely eyes and
square-set iron jaw belied the age that his gray-white hair betrayed. His shoulders, broad and erect,
supported long arms that tapered into powerful hands. When clenched in nervous, grasping motion, those
hands bulged with muscles.
Despite his interest in the progress of the Salvador, Falsythe did not ignore the men about him. Looking
from face to face, the steel-eyed man let his strong lips form a contemptuous downtwist. He saw withery
faces, scrawny bodies.
Big-money men, these fellows called themselves; to Falsythe, they were dried peanuts rattling around in
shells. They were smart, only because they had invested fortunes in an enterprise controlled by Frederick
Falsythe.
As he looked toward the last member of the group, Falsythe stiffened. His lips went straight as his eyes
met a pair as steady as his own. Eyes that peered from a hawkish, masklike face that seemed to spell
impenetrable calm.
Falsythe had almost forgotten Lamont Cranston, the new member of the board. Until today, he had
known Cranston only by name. Falsythe had heard that Cranston was a millionaire globetrotter, who
seldom attended board meetings. A perfect qualification for a director in a company controlled by
Falsythe.
That, at least, had been Falsythe's opinion until he had met Cranston. At present, Falsythe was not at all
sure.
STEPPING from the window, where he had been watching the Salvador's leave-taking, Falsythe sat
down at a huge mahogany desk and rapped the woodwork with his powerful knuckles. Withery
directors forgot the passing Salvador, to give attention to their chairman.
"Gentlemen," boomed Falsythe, "our enterprise is fully launched. Below, you see the good ship Salvador,
bound on the first of many profitable voyages. At another pier a sister ship, the Nicaragua, is being
outfitted for service. A third vessel, the Guatemala, is crossing the Atlantic to become an added member
of our fleet."
There were pleased nods, delighted mutters from the directors, with one exception. Lamont Cranston
simply gazed at Frederick Falsythe, waiting for the chairman to say more. Meeting Cranston's stare,
Falsythe obliged.
"Some persons have wondered," continued the steel-eyed financier, "why we purchased ships built in
Balthania, a country which is the subject of so much controversy. My answer is as simple as it is sound.
Balthanians build good ships, and are anxious to sell them. Our money went further in Balthania than it
could have gone elsewhere."
Reaching to a boxlike switchboard beside his desk, Falsythe pressed one of many keys that showed
there. Promptly, a voice came from a loudspeaker:
"Yes, Mr. Falsythe?"
"Come in here, Klagg," ordered Falsythe. "There are some gentlemen who wish to meet you."
Clicking off the switch, Falsythe turned to the group. In slow, emphatic tone, he stated:
"Some persons have questioned the possibilities of South American trade. I answer that such possibilities
are limitless. New, swift ships will produce results—and we are supplying the need. We have named our
ships after Spanish American republics, as an expression of good will and full faith in our undertaking."
A door opened as Falsythe finished. A tall, cadaverous man entered, carrying a well-packed brief case.
He approached the desk, placed the burden there and stood silent and expressionless, awaiting
Falsythe's next order.
"Gentlemen," said Falsythe, "this is Klagg. He is leaving for South America by plane, to arrive there
ahead of the Salvador. The papers that he carries"—Falsythe thwacked the bulging brief case—"are lists
of shipments already arranged. Not one vessel, but three, will be required to carry back goods from
South America. Klagg will be on hand to arrange the loading of those cargoes in South American ports."
Falsythe waved his hand as a gesture of dismissal. The silent Klagg left with his brief case, amid the
pleased murmurs of the directors. Pressing another switchboard key, Falsythe gave a summons:
"We are ready, Kenley."
VERY soon, a dapper young man arrived bringing a trayload of glasses. Falsythe lifted a glass; the
directors copied his example. Stepping to the window, Falsythe indicated the Salvador. The white ship
had passed the lower tip of Manhattan and was nearing the Statue of Liberty.
"A toast," proposed Falsythe. "To the Salvador!"
Glasses were emptied. As fast as they were replaced upon the tray, Falsythe shook hands with the
directors, including Cranston. While shaking hands, he worked the visitors to a doorway, bowed them
out through an anteroom.
Falsythe stood there, watching, until quite sure that all, particularly Cranston, had gone past an outer
door, through which none could return. Closing his own door, Falsythe turned and smiled broadly at
Kenley.
"A great day," declared Falsythe, "for both of us: Frederick Falsythe and Arthur Kenley!"
A glow lighted Kenley's pale but handsome features, as he heard himself put on equal terms with his
employer. Seating himself behind the desk, Falsythe pointed Kenley to a chair.
"I told them"—by his gesture, Falsythe meant the departed directors— "that I bought ships from
Balthania because we got more for our money. A true statement, Kenley."
Arthur Kenley responded with an honest nod.
"What I did not tell them," added Falsythe, with one of his down-turned smiles, "was that my own
concern, Falsythe Co., has funds to the extent of thirty million dollars, tied up in Balthania. Money that
cannot possibly be brought from the country, since another Power has taken control there."
Rising from the desk, Falsythe strolled over to Kenley's chair, laid his strong hand on the young man's
shoulder with a commending thwack that almost jarred Kenley to the floor.
"Buying ships was your idea, Kenley," approved Falsythe. "By organizing the International Merchant
Lines, I can pretend that I am pouring money into Balthania, when, actually, I am spending money that is
already there."
"Meanwhile, I am transferring the funds of the International Merchant Lines into the coffers of Falsythe
Co. A perfectly legitimate transaction, Kenley, since the ships are being delivered here. Besides"—he
eyed Kenley steadily—"I am by far the largest investor in International Merchant Lines. It's money from
one pocket to another, Kenley."
Nodding, Kenley seemed to agree that it was. His face, though, took on a doubtful look, when he asked:
"Are you sure, sir, that the South American trade can stand three ships the size of the Salvador? If it
does, you'll have half of your money back from Balthania; but if not -"
"I've never known failure, Kenley," interrupted Falsythe, abruptly. "Never, at any time in my career! But
let me remind you that this transaction, though legitimate, is unusual. It is something that should not be
mentioned."
"I understand, sir."
"Even Klagg knows nothing about it," reminded Falsythe, watching Kenley closely. "It was just by chance
that I took you into my confidence, some months ago, and you provided the solution, Kenley. We must
continue to keep our secret."
KENSLEY'S agreement was the signal for his departure. After waving the young man from the office,
Falsythe went to the window.
The sun had set; off through the deepening dusk he could see the white hull of the Salvador, reduced to
the proportions of a tiny toy, as the ship approached the Narrows.
Falsythe gazed toward Newark Airport, where lights sliced into the glooming sky. Some persons might
consider it an expensive step— sending Klagg to South America merely to check on loading cargoes.
But not the directors of the International Merchant Lines.
Most of the money backing that huge enterprise was Falsythe's own. None of them had questioned
Falsythe's wisdom, nor his statements— not even Lamont Cranston.
So Falsythe thought; but had he been at Newark Airport, his opinion would have changed. There, a great
plane was taking off for the first stage of the trip to South America.
Among the witnesses of that takeoff was the calm-faced Cranston. He had been watching for a
passenger, who, for some reason, did not appear to take the plane. The missing man was Klagg.
Moving through the dusk, Lamont Cranston delivered a low, whispered laugh that was meant, in part, for
Frederick Falsythe. That mirth denoted crime foreseen; evil in which a certain man named Klagg would
be concerned.
It was the laugh of The Shadow!
CHAPTER II. TRAGEDY AT NIGHT
BENEATH the gloss of Klagg's smug countenance, The Shadow had perceived the traits that marked a
tool in crime. The fellow's pose had been a cunning sham, when Falsythe had introduced him to the
directors of the international Merchant Lines.
The headman in a criminal enterprise might cover his crooked part effectively, but seldom could a tool
pass muster with The Shadow. Klagg's manner, that of a perfect human machine, gave him away. The
Shadow pictured him as a factor long trained for services much more important than merely supervising
shipments which would take care of themselves.
In the role of Cranston, The Shadow frequently invested in business propositions that smacked of the
unusual, to gain an inside knowledge of what was going on. The promotion of a big-time shipping line had
attracted him for that very reason.
The real Cranston, enormously wealthy, spent most of his time abroad exploring and hunting. At such
times, The Shadow adopted his identity.
In studying Falsythe, The Shadow had gotten the definite impression that the financier was furthering
some hidden personal interest through the new enterprise.
Whatever it was, there had been no hint of underhanded tactics, until Klagg stepped into the picture.
From then on, The Shadow's intuition told him that things of crime lay somewhere beneath the placid
surface.
With Klagg marked as the twisted link in the unseen chain, The Shadow had decided to check the tool's
moves at the earliest opportunity. Since Klagg had not arrived there, the next step was to cross the
fellow's trail, wherever it might lead. The Shadow already had a logical step in mind; and he was well
placed to begin his coming venture.
Where Klagg might be at that precise moment was not a matter of great importance. The Shadow was
confident that their paths soon would meet.
It happened that Klagg was still in Manhattan. In the seclusion of a small, basement room, the
cadaverous man had dropped the solemn air that he had used while in Falsythe's office. His face, relaxed
into an ugly smile, was one that gleamed with villainy.
His brief case opened, Klagg was dumping batches of blank papers that stuffed it. The sneery chuckle
that he gave came from his recollection of the delight that the stupid directors had displayed when
Falsythe thwacked the brief case and proclaimed its contents as important.
Klagg's room was fitted as a workshop. Among a multitude of tools and boxes were objects such as
table lamps, tobacco humidors, desk telephones and alarm clocks. On a workbench stood a
loud-speaker of the type that was used for communication between Falsythe's offices.
As if from force of habit, Klagg glanced at the loud-speaker, then turned to other tasks. He expected no
call over that device, which was hooked to an outside telephone connection. No further orders were
needed; Klagg knew exactly what he was to do.
From a cabinet, he brought out a flattish radio set of the short-wave variety. He slid the device into his
emptied brief case, added some coils of wire, a pair of earphones, and a small cardboard box that rattled
with loose contents when he shook it.
Tightening the zipper of the brief case, he extinguished the ceiling lights and stole from his underground
lair.
AS he stalked eastward through a maze of narrow, downtown streets, Klagg glanced upward over his
shoulder, toward one of the tallest buildings in the financial district. He could see lights in Falsythe's lofty
offices, and the glow pleased him. Klagg's hidden workshop was conveniently close to his employer's
headquarters.
Reaching a pier near the narrow foot of Manhattan Island, Klagg crept toward the lights of a waiting
tugboat. A gruff voice accosted him in the darkness; Klagg spoke a low reply.
A few minutes later, he was in the tug's tiny cabin, setting up his radio controls. With a wheeze of its
ancient engine, the tug steamed from the pier.
The men who manned the tug were no ordinary crew. They kept reporting to a man who stood in the
darkness of the deck, and they addressed him as "Matt." The skipper's smooth-toned replies identified
him as Matt Scarnley, one of New York's former racketeers.
Matt had begun his career as a rumrunner, schooling himself to the sea, as well as to crime. Later, he had
used his talent at navigation by managing getaways for bank robbers who preferred flight by water. He
had worked along with kidnap gangs, and had been a strong power among water-front racketeers. But
Matt was a canny hand at dropping any game when it began to look too hot.
Always with a picked mob under his command, and more recruits available, Matt had come to consider
himself a specialist in illegal enterprises. Of all in which he had ever figured, he considered the present one
the best; a fitting reward for long years of dishonest effort.
Matt's tiny tug was really built for speed. She didn't look it, but she showed it. Heading out into the bay,
the craft cleaved the swells, throwing great swashes of water along the low rails. Viewed from a distance,
the tugboat gave the impression of a floating furnace with a smoke-gushing funnel tacked on top. She
seemed to stay afloat simply because she was plowing along too fast to sink.
Away in the distance were tiny lights that Matt indicated to his crew.
"There's the Salvador," purred Matt. "That's where we're heading. But we won't put this guy Klagg
aboard her until we're paid off." The promise pleased Matt's thuggish crew. Word went to the engine
room. The tub quivered along its squatty length, under increased draft. Matt felt the surge of added
speed.
"Cut that!" he snapped. "We've got plenty of time to catch up to the Salvador. I've told you guys the Juno
ain't a race horse, even if she can run circles around any other tug in the harbor.
"Besides"—Matt's tone lowered, while new word was going to the engine room—"we ain't sure that
Klagg wants to go on board the Salvador. We won't know, until he gets through fiddling with that radio
and finds out what's what."
PROMPTED by his own remarks, Matt went down into the boxlike compartment that he called a cabin.
He found Klagg seated in a rickety chair, the short-wave radio apparatus on a table in front of him.
Klagg had hooked wires all over the cabin, and was fingering special gadgets attached to the set.
Earphones clamped to his head, Klagg didn't know that Matt had entered, until the mob leader nudged
him in the ribs. Turning about, Klagg gave an impatient glare.
"Don't disturb me!" Klagg's tone was a snarl, that he invariably veiled in more respectable company. "I'm
getting important news!"
Matt sat down in another chair. Watching Klagg, he saw a twisty smile spread on the fellow's lips. Matt
could hear nothing from the earphones, but apparently Klagg did. Lifting them, Klagg said:
"All the men have reported ashore. There are none of our group remaining on the Salvador."
A puzzled look appeared on Matt's long-jawed, darkish face. Shifting his broad shoulders to offset the
lurches of the tugboat, Matt put a question.
"Does that mean," he asked, "that you won't need to go on board?"
"Exactly!" replied Klagg, readjusting the earphones. Then, lifting a finger, he added: "Final orders coming
through. We're to heave to. Make a show at picking up survivors, but go no closer than we are now."
Matt cocked his head and, as Klagg removed his earphones, asked:
"Say! Are you telling me that the big-shot has got his eye on us?"
"Of course!" replied Klagg. "How else could he know our position?"
Matt grabbed a pair of binoculars and stepped to the cabin door. It faced toward the stern, beyond
which, in the distance, lay the light-studded sky line of Manhattan. Topping that sparkling wall, Matt saw
glimmers from a lofty tower. He grinned, as he remembered the location of offices belonging to the
International Merchant Lines.
"Falsythe," spoke Matt. Then, rubbing his chin, he asked reflectively: "But what's the guy's dodge?"
Klagg did not notice Matt's half-muttered comments. Earphones in one hand, he was unscrewing gadgets
from the short-wave apparatus with the other.
"Give the order to stop," Klagg told Matt. "Then watch the Salvador. Our men set the timers before they
left her. It's due"—he consulted his watch— "in exactly three minutes."
Stepping to the deck, Matt ordered the engine halted. Taking the wheel, he veered the Juno about. His
crew crowding about him, Matt stared off to starboard, where the white hull of the Salvador loomed
ghostlike, with twinkling lights above.
Several other craft were about. Matt saw an incoming pilot boat; a few tugs, one hauling in an emptied
garbage barge; a blackish freighter, steering into port. He caught the drone of seaplanes overhead. But
Matt's eyes were set on the Salvador.
THE climax came in startling style.
Like the salvos from a battery of guns, the portholes of the sleek, white ship emitted stabs of flame. As
the puffy roar from those combined blasts reached the watchers on the Juno, there was a greater flash
from the liner. Sheets of flame burst upward and outward, like a spread of distant lightning.
The roar that came was thunderous. The great hull of the Salvador rocked. The tiny Juno seemed to
shudder to the tune of that reverberation. Plodding craft kept on their way; then gave a jolting halt, as if
alarmed by the catastrophe. Even the droning of the seaplanes ended.
Then Matt heard Klagg shouting from the doorway of the tiny cabin. The cadaverous man was
gesticulating wildly, as he howled for Matt to remember orders.
With a nod, Matt clanged the bell for the engine; nonchalantly, he began to steer a wide, circling course
that would keep him well clear of the stricken Salvador.
Crime had struck and crooks were pleased, until a yell from a crew member made Matt look upward.
Against a sky already reddened by flames from the racked Salvador, the mob leader saw a thing
approaching through the air.
It looked like a plane, except that it was wingless. Above the aircraft, Matt saw the spin of broad blades
resembling a windmill. By the time Matt recognized the ship as an autogiro, its wheels were almost
scraping the funnel of the Juno.
A motor roared; blades gave a rapid spin that blended them into the darkness. The strange craft from the
sky was halting its descent, preparing for a rise. In that awesome moment of its pause, a change took
place between the giro's suspended wheels.
The ruddy glare had showed a space there. No longer did the vacancy exist. Instead, it was occupied by
a dangling figure shaped vaguely like a human form. Swinging with the skill of a trapeze artist, the dangling
form whipped deftly sideward, as one uptilting wheel actually grazed the tugboat's squatty funnel.
His body less than a dozen feet above the deck, the stranger from the sky released his hold. He landed
only a few yards from where Matt stood, while the autogiro, as though thankful to have lost its burden,
zoomed upward in its spin.
Lost in the darkness of the deck, the weird visitant was out of view, until he rose, a figure cloaked in
black, his head topped with a slouch hat. As he came to sight again, his fists bulged with drawn guns,
whipped from beneath his cloak in one speedy, well-timed action.
From Matt's widened lips came a snarl that was echoed by his gulping crew.
All voiced the same dread name:
"The Shadow!"
CHAPTER III. PARTED TRAILS
THE blasted Salvador was totally aflame, her blazing hulk providing lurid background for the battle on
the tug Juno. Trapped in quarters too cramped for flight, a dozen thugs were striving to down their
archenemy, The Shadow.
They had guns in plenty, those mobbies. Matt's orders were always to "bring along the Roscoes,"
whenever his crew fared out to sea. It was easy to dump old shooting rods overboard, if the harbor
police pulled alongside to ask questions that might produce a search.
It was that prevalence of guns which caused the crooks to accept battle the moment they realized the
futility of flight. Matt Scarnley was fortunate in having a crew that was eager to suppress the
black-cloaked warrior who had landed in their midst.
Too eager.
Weaving across the deck, halting suddenly to make reverse spins, The Shadow was no target for hurried
aim. His motions seemed actuated by the recoil of his heavy automatics, which had begun the fire and
was keeping it up.
Throughout the opening stages of that fray, the gunfire was punctuated by other sounds. One tone was
the mockery of The Shadow's laugh; its accompaniment consisted of howls emitted by Matt's mobbies.
Some wounded crooks were thudding the slippery deck; others took frantic sprawls across the tug's low
rail.
Only two men had real opportunity to bag The Shadow. One was Matt, prone on the deck near the
bow; the other was Klagg, entrenched in the cockpit leading to the cabin. Wild in their first few shots,
those two were steadying for better aim, when Matt's own men spoiled it.
Spouts of flame, gushing from the burning Salvador, gave a brilliance to the tug's deck. In the momentary
glare, frantic crooks made a combined surge for The Shadow. Some of the mobbies had empty guns;
those who still had shots available wanted to save them for closer fire.
The Shadow, apparently, had the same idea. He received the cluster of attackers, swinging his own guns
to beat off their slugging blows. There was a tumble of writhing bodies, The Shadow in the midst of the
human mound. From their positions, Matt and Klagg awaited coming opportunity, while the tugboat
wallowed along its circling course.
Muffled shots came from the living tangle in which The Shadow was the core. Two men rolled from the
clump, testimony that The Shadow's guns still had bite. A few moments more, Matt and Klagg would
have their chance.
Right then, the glare from the Salvador lessened. With hazy blackness settling along the deck of the Juno,
figures took on a shapeless look. Straining, Matt and Klagg could identify dazed members of the mob,
crawling toward the rails; but there was no sign of The Shadow. He had faded, like the glare.
Somewhere in the gloom, The Shadow was lying low, reloading his automatics. A shot in his direction
would be a poke in the dark; the sort that would bring doom to the man who made it. Both Matt and
Klagg figured it good policy to lie low, rather than betray themselves and bring return fire.
His free hand lifted, Matt clutched the wheel to keep the Juno on some sort of course. Klagg, down to
the level of the cockpit, waited in his patient style, his packed brief case at his elbow.
A MILE away, the Salvador had settled down to a steady burning. Already, the ship's racked hull
showed wide, scorched streaks across its whitish sides. The interior had become an inferno, was so hot
that portions of the ship's plates glowed red. No longer were volcanic jets in order; explosive blasts had
done their work.
Literally, the superstructure of the Salvador was melting while her hull settled into the bay!
There had been carnage on the shattered liner; but many persons had survived. Driven to safer spots,
they were jumping overboard into the sizzling water, to escape the unbearable heat that had spread to
every portion of the liner's hull.
From where The Shadow lay, half huddled between two motionless thugs that he had felled, the cloaked
avenger could see a multitude of pygmy figures plopping around the Salvador. They were tiny, those
human forms, against the liner's twenty thousand tons of floating hulk. Dots of humanity escaping hell
afloat, as represented by the dull-red background of the Salvador.
Many craft were going to their aid; but the play of searchlights had centered on the Salvador. No glow
picked up the tiny rolling Juno, as she pursued the circling course that Matt had set, at Klagg's order.
Down in the engine room, two men were giving her speed and fuel, unaware that battle had raged on
deck.
Silently, The Shadow waited. He had missed one guess tonight. He had expected that Klagg would go
aboard the Salvador somewhere in the lower harbor. Thinking in terms of plotters, The Shadow had
foreseen catastrophe, but not at so early a stage of the developing game. His trip by autogiro had
originally been intended as a plan whereby he could become another passenger on the Salvador.
Short of his goal, The Shadow had seen the liner rip loose with flame. Above the scene, his attention had
been drawn to the tug Juno, the one craft that had not started to the rescue. Suspecting that the tug was
on observation duty, as part of crime's design, The Shadow had told his pilot to drop him on the craft in
question.
So far, The Shadow had battled only with rash thugs, the sort who laid themselves open by foolhardy
mass attack. Though crimeland's history should have told them that such was futile with The Shadow,
small-fry crooks invariably insisted in their policy. Force of numbers was their idea of a sure route to
victory.
True, there were those who learned. Some on this very tugboat had just received an instructive lesson.
Flat along the rails, they were soaking up the brine that washed across the low-decked Juno, waiting to
see The Shadow before they fired anew.
Matt had waited all along. So had Klagg. Well did The Shadow know that two cool foemen would
manage the next period of the struggle. This was merely time out between the halves; but there was a
way to take advantage of it.
Worming forward, The Shadow worked his way toward Matt's position. Could he arrive there unseen,
he might dispose of the crew leader and gain control of the tugboat. It was a slow task, much fraught with
chance of discovery. Every time the Juno rolled in the direction of the glowing Salvador, The Shadow lay
motionless.
With only a few yards remaining to his goal, The Shadow met ill luck. Again, the trouble came from the
sinking Salvador. Decks and superstructure had caved beneath the heat, letting flames lick loose from
within the liner's hull. Though they lacked the flaring effect of the explosions, those unleashed tongues
flickered high, like ruddy signal beacons.
Reflected on the tug's slippery deck, where blood mingled with brine, the glow showed a long, black
blot—a human shape, with one cloaked arm extended to begin a farther creep.
Matt Scarnley, toward whom The Shadow's gun fist pointed in its crawl, was the first to see the menace.
MATT yelled; made a side leap from the wheel. Crooks lunged forward from the rails. They didn't spy
The Shadow until they were upon him, for he had dropped his plan of reaching Matt. Whirling as he
came to his feet, he met the throng that was driving to Matt's aid.
Slashing with his guns, pressing triggers when muzzles hooked his foemen, The Shadow let the surge
carry him forward. Matt hurled himself against the onrush, trying to thrust his revolver into The Shadow's
ribs.
Before he could complete that shove, Matt was sprawled flat by the weight of human figures. Like the
thugs who served him, Matt was trapped in a melee.
Klagg saw it and yelled to the engine room, to bring the last reserves. But Matt, unlike the men about
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SHIPSOFDOOMMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.CRIMEFORESEEN?CHAPTERII.TRAGEDYATNIGHT?CHAPTERIII.PARTEDTRAILS?CHAPTERIV.FACTSFORTHELAW?CHAPTERV.FEDSONTHEJOB?CHAPTERVI.THEHEATOFBATTLE?CHAPTERVII.THANKSTOTHESHADOW?CHAPTERVIII.TRAILSTOCOME?CHAPTERIX.THESH...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：72 页 大小：456.24KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-22

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