Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 171 - Death Ship

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DEATH SHIP
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. THE DOUBLE SNARE
? CHAPTER II. BENEATH THE BAY
? CHAPTER III. CROSSED BATTLE
? CHAPTER IV. HIGH TIDE
? CHAPTER V. THE NEXT QUEST
? CHAPTER VI. A JAPANESE WELCOME
? CHAPTER VII. SOYOTO'S MESSAGE
? CHAPTER VIII. DEATH'S TRAIL
? CHAPTER IX. THE OUTSIDE CALL
? CHAPTER X. ALONG THE WATER FRONT
? CHAPTER XI. THE CAPTURE BELOW
? CHAPTER XII. PREW MAKES PLANS
? CHAPTER XIII. PAST GOLDEN GATE
? CHAPTER XIV. THE SHADOW FORESEES
? CHAPTER XV. THE MIDNIGHT STROKE
? CHAPTER XVI. SERGON'S TRIUMPH
? CHAPTER XVII. ABOARD AND BELOW
? CHAPTER XVIII. MARACOON REEF
? CHAPTER XIX. CRIME'S LAST STROKE
CHAPTER I. THE DOUBLE SNARE
THE last rays of sunset dyed the Golden Gate, adding a touch of crimson to the yellowed
sky above the blue Pacific. Looking off from the high structure of the Golden Gate Bridge, a
long, sleek steamship could be seen heading out to sea, her decks crowded with
Alaska-bound passengers.
Soon, that sight was lost to the driver who had viewed it. He was across the bridge, north of
San Francisco, dipping his coupe along a descending road that led away from the ocean.
Headed somewhere beyond Sausalito, he was away from the sunset's glow, entering a
gathering twilight that already gripped San Francisco Bay.
Headlights glimmered from the coupe; within the car there was the sound of a whispered
laugh. The dusk that presaged darkness was to that driver's liking.
He was The Shadow, whose chosen paths were those that lay beneath the shroud of night.
Out of heavy traffic, the car was moving slowly, as if lingering until darkness deepened. Its
lights were dim and therefore inconspicuous, but even that did not fully suit the mysterious
driver. When he had reached a road at the bay side, he extinguished the lights altogether.
From then on, the car's course resembled a creep, while keen eyes guided it solely by the
ribbon of grayish white that signified the narrow, winding roadway.
There came a place where a side road plowed off into the hillside, marked only by a thick
blackness. Most drivers would have hesitated at turning into that byway, even though familiar
with it, for darkness gave it the semblance of a bottomless hole. But The Shadow swung his
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
formed the land end of the pier, he looked back to detect another telltale sparkle from a
flashlight. His penetration had not been discovered.
The pier was a wide, high platform, and the building at the land end of it served as a
boathouse. The building was set low, and it was necessary to pass through it to reach the
space beneath the pier, where The Shadow knew that a small vessel was kept. For tonight's
venture was no aimless quest on the part of the mysterious being in black. The Shadow was
delving into an enterprise as mysterious as these of his own creation.
He had come here to investigate the newly invented Z-boat designed by Commander
Rodney Prew, formerly an officer in the United States Navy.
Off to the northeast were distant lights that marked Mare Island, where naval officers
expectantly awaited tomorrow's announcement regarding the purpose of Prew's new craft.
To the south, The Shadow could see the glow of San Francisco, a city that had sheltered the
secret meetings of plotters whose purposes were as hidden as their methods.
Through stray clues, The Shadow had divined that the future of the Z-boat was at stake,
although there had been no surface indication of such circumstance. It was more than a
hunch that had brought The Shadow here tonight; he had the definite fact that if any stroke
should be intended, it would have to be made before tomorrow.
From the time when the navy department had learned of Commander Prew's private
construction of a new type of war craft, he had been given a limit in which to complete his
preliminary work. Tomorrow, when that period expired, polite officers in navy uniforms would
sail down from Mare Island and take over the ship beneath the pier.
Whether Prew, or others, wished to prolong the secrecy surrounding the Z-boat, was still a
mystery in itself. So, for that matter, was the presence of the men on shore. On previous
excursions here, The Shadow had found no guarding cordon. The only watchers had been a
few men stationed on the Z-boat itself.
Previously, The Shadow had gained access to the little boathouse only to find it deserted,
with farther passage blocked. At the door where he stood now, black against the darkened
weather-beaten wood, he soon made sure that the interior of the boathouse was as dark
and silent as it had been before. That made it expressly suited to his requirements.
While outside lurkers were closing in upon the pier, becoming more confident as they
progressed, The Shadow could be awaiting them in an even better lurking spot. Whatever
their purpose, he would be well equipped to learn it when they arrived, as well as having the
element of surprise in his own favor.
THE SHADOW took one last survey. Off on the bay, he saw dwindling lights, merely those of
a plying ferry. Gazing toward San Francisco, he observed a more ominous sign; sudden
swaths of brightness that came from big searchlights playing a huge circle upon the bay.
Their sweep formed an absolute barrier between this spot and San Francisco, but they
never altered in their circuit.
Those were the lights of Alcatraz, constantly on the watch for any creeping craft that might try
to reach The Rock, where hundreds of criminals held almost impossible dreams of rescue.
The Shadow remembered one time when Alcatraz had been invaded, but he himself had
nullified that enterprise. (Note: See "Shadow Over Alcatraz," Vol. XXVIII, No. 1.)
Thanks to The Shadow, Alcatraz was again impregnable; and watchers on the fortress
island were unwittingly returning the favor. Their searchlights, it seemed, were sufficient to
prevent any trouble makers from using the water route to or from this pier where Prew's
Z-boat was veiled from public view.
That speculation ended, The Shadow began operations upon the boathouse door. It was
locked, but none too strongly, for it was intended to be inconspicuous, since the inner barrier
between house and pier was the one that actually counted. The Shadow had worked on this
lock before, and he picked it this time with very little trouble.
Easing inside, he closed the door behind him, letting the spring lock latch by degrees. Then,
with his flashlight close to the floor, he crossed the single room until he reached the inner
door. It offered a different problem; it was not only locked, but bolted from the other side.
Skillfully, The Shadow tapped the woodwork with silent, gloved finger. He was checking on a
previous finding: the exact location of the bolt. From beneath his cloak he produced a tiny
drill, set it at the exact spot required.
Pressure on that drill's spring handle would drive a hole through the woodwork, enabling him
to get at the bolt. The Shadow's thumb was poised, when something stopped him.
It was a creak, that sounded first as if it came from the outer door that he had locked behind
him. A whisper of breeze stirred through the darkness, then faded. Next a footfall, as evasive
as the trifling breeze.
It couldn't have come from the outer door; The Shadow was sure that he would have heard a
key at work. But, so far as he remembered, there was no other entrance to this boathouse
other than the two doors, and he could account for both of them!
Then he recalled the gasoline cans. They had stood in an inner corner, grimy and covered
with cobwebs, big containers that The Shadow had not moved from their place. Nor had he
looked for them tonight. Assuming that they had been removed, the sound could have come
from that corner.
THE drill slid beneath The Shadow's cloak. His deft fingers were on the butt of an automatic.
He was faced toward the corner that he suspected; at the same time, he was drawing away
from the inner door, knowing that it might prove to be a danger spot.
Calculating upon stealthy moves in darkness, The Shadow was showing no haste. He was
waiting for another footfall to reveal the location of an adversary. But the sound he wanted
did not come. Instead, there was a click from the wall, away from the corner where the cans
had been.
With that sound came light, the brilliance of a hundred-watt bulb, hanging from the ceiling to
a level just above The Shadow's eyes. He wheeled in the glare; only to halt at sight of a
revolver aimed by the person who had pressed the switch.
Luck had gone against The Shadow. His gun undrawn, he was covered by a marksman
whose eyes showed determination that matched the menace of the revolver muzzle. From
The Shadow's lips came a whispered tone: not his accustomed mockery at sight of an
unexpected foe, but one of actual surprise.
The Shadow was trapped by a girl—a dark-eyed, slight-built brunette whose beauty was
matched by her eagerness to hold him helpless. But her gun, though it was steady enough to
command complete attention, was not the only weapon that held The Shadow covered.
Through loopholes in the wall beside the inner door were a pair of rifle muzzles that The
Shadow spotted from the corner of his eye.
In the midst of that dilemma, The Shadow's thoughts flashed back to the events surrounding
his stealthy arrival. He remembered the closing cordon, the progress that it had been
making during recent minutes. Those men outside would soon be at their destination: the
door by which The Shadow had entered the boathouse.
Caught in full light, a trespasser upon forbidden ground, The Shadow stood in the very
center of a double trap that carried every promise of coming death!
CHAPTER II. BENEATH THE BAY
NORMALLY, danger was The Shadow's call to action. Experience had shown him that the
greater the odds against him, the more he could win through speedy tactics. He possessed
that rare instinct which enabled him to take chances, confident that his own boldness would
produce the needed breaks in his favor.
Yet that faculty was not The Shadow's greatest boon. More valuable than his daring was his
ability to recognize situations wherein the opposite tack was necessary.
This was one such case. Caught as he was, The Shadow saw instantly that this trap, as it
stood at present, was unescapable. However swift his action, he could bring nothing but his
own doom as a consequence, unless he managed first to shape a coming course.
The girl was determined in her manner. Her grip on the revolver showed that she knew how
to use it, and there was a steadiness of her slender forefinger that indicated a hair trigger in
back of it. Those guns that jutted from the inner wall were waiting only for the girl's decision,
ready to take over any effort in which she might fail.
It was policy, therefore, to let the brunette believe that she had gained full control. When her
tension lessened, a similar slackness would result among the invisible gunners who covered
The Shadow through the loopholes.
The very tone of The Shadow's whispered laugh was a proof of his instinctive decision. The
girl did not realize the thought behind it; she took the tone for what The Shadow intended it
to convey: an expression of bitter resignation. His hands, as they came upward, shoulder
high, were reluctant enough to complete the pretense.
The girl's finger eased. Though he ignored the wall guns, The Shadow was sure that they
had also lessened in their menace. His calculations concerned those outside watchers,
moving in to block the land exit from the boathouse. There would be a few minutes before
they could be grouped outside the door. The Shadow intended to make the most of that
interim.
His head tilted slightly upward. His eyes caught the glow of the hundred-watt lamp, six feet
away at an angle to his left. The girl was farther away, at the side wall, facing across the
boathouse, but she saw the glitter of The Shadow's eyes. Her gaze became intense; she
was trying to make out other features beneath the hat brim. Failing in that, she moved a step
forward, then halted.
"Stand where you are!" announced the girl, in a low, steady contralto. "And let me remind
you that it is customary for strangers here to declare themselves!"
There was a pause; then The Shadow's whisper, sibilant, with a trace of mockery.
"Perhaps both of us are strangers to these premises," he countered. "Since you have thrust
yourself into this situation, your own introduction should come first."
The girl's lips became scornful.
"My name is Claudette Marchand," she told The Shadow. "That is something you already
know. Anyone who has meddled in Commander Prew's business knows that I am his
confidential secretary. You are not the first person who has sought to bribe me into betraying
the secret of his invention."
WHILE she talked, Claudette was crouching slightly forward, endeavoring to gain a real
glimpse of The Shadow's face. Whether she believed that she would recognize him, or was
merely putting on a bluff, The Shadow could not discover.
One reason for his laxity in the matters was The Shadow's interest elsewhere. His gaze had
lowered, as if to escape the girl's stare. His real purpose was to pick the place from which
Claudette had bobbed into the boathouse.
The answer lay in the corner. There, near the inner wall, The Shadow saw a trapdoor with an
iron ring. Unquestionably it led to steps below. That trapdoor had been covered by the big
gasoline cans on The Shadow's previous visits.
"Perhaps"—Claudette had moved another step forward—"you have heard of Felix
Sergon?"
She paused, having pronounced the name emphatically, with a hardness to the "g," and her
eyes were looking sharply for some response from The Shadow. Observing none, she
repeated the name disdainfully:
"Felix Sergon, who calls himself an adventurer and soldier of fortune, but who is actually an
international spy. I have his picture here"—her free hand brought a small photograph from
the sash of her dark dress—"and if you would care to see it more closely -"
She ended with a gesture, as though she sought to compare the photo with The Shadow's
face, once she could manage to see beneath the hat brim. The Shadow's eyes went toward
the picture; he saw the portrait of a flattish square-jawed face topped by short-clipped hair.
Felix Sergon—both the name and the picture were recognized by The Shadow. But whether
Claudette Marchand actually believed that The Shadow might be Sergon, was another
question. She was clever, this girl, crafty enough to be trying to outsmart the black-cloaked
intruder whom she had so cunningly trapped.
What she did not count upon was The Shadow's own skill at bluff. He hadn't forgotten those
bristling guns at the inner wall, nor the creeping men who by this time had neared the
outside door. He seemed, however, to be interested only in the preservation of his own
identity.
Hands still high, The Shadow drew away, turning so that his back was toward the wall. The
shift was natural, as was his sudden crouch.
Though Claudette saw no danger from the move, she was canny enough to recognize that
the changed position might produce unforeseen complications. She dropped back a few
steps, steadying her gun. Again, her contralto tone was firm:
"Stand where you are!"
The shift had brought The Shadow closer to the hanging bulb. It was just above the level of
his hat brim. For the first time in gazing toward The Shadow, Claudette could look past him
to the inner wall.
Not only could the girl see the ready guns; she should have heard the creeping past the
outer door that betokened the arrival of the outside prowlers, for The Shadow caught that
sound. But there was a change in Claudette's expression, a curious bewilderment that made
her waver. Something made her momentarily forget The Shadow, and that was the only urge
he needed.
Claudette Marchand, alone, could have frustrated The Shadow's next move; for the gunners
at the loopholes were looking at his back and did not realize what was happening until the
stroke was under way.
ALL the while that he had kept his hands half raised, The Shadow had been pressing his
right elbow against his ribs. His purpose had been to keep a half-drawn automatic from
tumbling to the floor. It was the gun for which he had started a reach when Claudette sprang
the surprise with the big light.
The Shadow wanted that automatic in a hurry, to serve him in the present situation, and he
acquired it in a unique style.
With a sudden upward fling of his right arm, he hooked the gun muzzle in the crook of his
elbow, jerking it out from beneath his cloak. It popped into sight like a jack-in-the-box,
flipping over to the left. The fingers of his left hand were ready for it; they took the gun butt in
midair.
The Shadow did not wait to find the trigger. As he dived rightward, toward the floor, his left
hand made a backhand slash, using the .45 as a bludgeon. Cold metal smashed the hot
glass of the dangling electric-light bulb.
The light was gone with a sharp explosion that sounded like a gunshot. Hitting the floor in a
long roll, The Shadow lashed one foot toward Claudette. He tripped the girl just as she
tugged away at the revolver trigger. Her gun was popping uselessly as she rolled beside
The Shadow.
A moment later, other guns were splitting the blackness with their flaying tongues. The men
at the loopholes were shooting for The Shadow; but to no avail. He was below the line of
their fire; he had found Claudette in the darkness and was sprawling her, gunless, against
that inner wall.
Guns stopped their chatter. There were gruff shouts from behind the partition, the yank of
bolts. Simultaneously came the ripping of the outer door that The Shadow had latched when
he entered. Flashlights flickered there.
Into that glow came an avalanche of blackness. The Shadow was on his feet, flinging
forward, sledging with his automatic to hew a path through the opposition. He ran into a
cluster of men, who met him with bare hands.
By all the laws of previous experience, The Shadow should have left that crew sprawled
about the doorway. Instead, he met a startling setback. The effect was exactly as if The
Shadow had been a rubber ball thrown against a wall. His lunge ended the moment that
hands encountered him. He was bounced back, half across the boathouse, in a reverse
somersault that carried him a dozen feet.
There were more lights, coming from the inner doorway, now wide open. The Shadow saw
ugly faces in the glow, gun muzzles turned in his direction. The whole scene was
kaleidoscopic, whirling, blinking, before his dazed eyes. All that The Shadow could actually
sense was a round ring of metal that his fingers had encountered on the floor, near the
corner.
He realized what it was and gave a hard tug, felt the trapdoor yield. With a twist of his
flattened body, The Shadow went through the space that fortune had provided him just as
the roar of guns blasted above his head.
There was a ladder that Claudette had used when she had hidden beneath the trapdoor, but
The Shadow did not find it. Instead, he took a dozen-foot plunge that ended in a splash. The
feel of that cold water was grateful, for it offered a refuge and ended The Shadow's daze.
Ten feet below the surface, he groped for a space beneath the pilings that might offer him
another exit.
He found a way through; holding his breath, he squirmed under water; then, with lungs that
seemed about to burst, he made for the surface. Coming up into light, The Shadow grabbed
for the slimy rung of a ladder, shook the water from his face and stared at the sight before
him.
HE had gone beneath the inner wall of the boathouse. Under the old pier, he had found the
long space where the Z-boat was moored. Lights from the side walls showed a craft that
was some sixty feet in length, shaped like a speedboat but with a streamlined oval deck.
On the blunt, narrow stern of the odd craft The Shadow saw the name, Barracuda. Hauling
himself half up the ladder, he spied an odd-shaped cockpit in the middle of the vessel. The
space looked deep, and it was fronted by what appeared to be a half-domed windshield.
But The Shadow was interested in persons, rather than the boat.
He caught a glimpse of Claudette Marchand, as her head disappeared inside the boat. Men
were with her—the same murderous gunners who had fired at The Shadow only a few
minutes before. Then all were gone except one, whose back was turned. Shoulders looming
from the cockpit, that fellow rasped an order.
There was a swift churn of propellers. Hooked tight to the pier ladder, The Shadow avoided
their slash. The Barracuda started forward with a roar, just as the last man turned about. He
saw The Shadow, yanked a revolver and aimed for the black-clad shape against the ladder.
As the gun barked, The Shadow recognized the man's face.
That vicious marksman was Felix Sergon, the very man whose name Claudette had so
shrewdly mentioned to The Shadow!
Sergon's hasty shots went wide. He hadn't a chance to guide them as the Barracuda lurched
out into the bay. The speedy boat left a wake of foamy white beneath the pier, and The
Shadow saw Sergon thrust away his gun, to manipulate the half-domed top of the cockpit.
Then the strange craft was in the open, thrumming away at a racing pace.
Holding to the ladder, The Shadow watched. The pier pointed almost southward, in the
exact direction that the Barracuda had taken. The boat was out of sight against the
darkened waters, but it was leaving a line of whiteness that The Shadow could follow.
Though he had not prevented Sergon's getaway, The Shadow saw only a short-lived flight
for the new master of the Barracuda. A ship like that could not travel San Francisco Bay
without challenge, once it had been spotted. If seen immediately, the Barracuda would be
blocked off before she could reach the Golden Gate, the only outlet to the open ocean.
It seemed a certainty that the Barracuda would be spied. For the speedy Z-boat was driving
straight for the most guarded zone in all the bay—the stretch of open water that was swept
by the great searchlights from Alcatraz!
There was no way for the ship to go around that barrier. As the white wake faded, The
Shadow watched, confident that he would see the Barracuda bathed in floodlights that
awaited it. He could trace the line that it had cut, almost to the near edge of a sweeping
searchlight. The glow was coming to receive the Barracuda!
Then The Shadow was staring at something that amazed him. The searchlight had swung
about; it was flinging its beam back along the Z-boat's route, showing even the widening
wake the craft had produced.
But that was all that The Shadow saw!
Open water, nothing more. The thrum of the Z-boat's motors had ended utterly. For once,
The Shadow gazed in awe—he, the amazing being whose own career had been studded
with exploits that to others seemed incredible!
The Barracuda, the mystery ship invented by Commander Rodney Prew, had vanished
completely, almost instantly, beneath the waters of San Francisco Bay!
CHAPTER III. CROSSED BATTLE
SCARCELY recuperated from the struggle in the boathouse, The Shadow found it difficult to
analyze the chain of recent experience. From the start, events had built up in rapid
succession to that amazing climax, the total disappearance of the Barracuda.
Tonight, The Shadow had expected to find Commander Rodney Prew in personal command
of the Z-boat, for tomorrow the ship was scheduled to be delivered to the government.
Instead, The Shadow had encountered Claudette Marchand; her sudden entrance, her
naming of Felix Sergon, the very man who had already taken charge of the Barracuda, were
in themselves suspicious incidents.
Yet, from those events and certain recollections of minor happenings, The Shadow was
piecing an explanation. More facts were needed to fit the whole into place, but those could
be gathered later. Tracing backward, The Shadow was considering the importance of
learning why the Barracuda had vanished, rather than where the ship had gone.
That brought his thoughts to the real beginning of his adventure— when he had managed a
stealthy passage through the lurkers on the land side of the pier. He remembered the
surprise that those watchers had given him when he tried to cleave his way through them,
and the recollection brought him a mental jolt that equaled his physical experience.
Whoever those fighters were, they had not gone aboard the Barracuda with Felix Sergon
and Claudette Marchand. There was a chance that they were still about these premises,
perhaps unsatisfied that they had completely disposed of The Shadow!
There was grim satisfaction in the thought. If those chaps constituted Sergon's land crew,
they might supply a lot of information if properly questioned. Moreover, The Shadow had a
personal score to settle with those battlers who had treated him like a rubber ball.
Coming up the last rungs of the slippery ladder, The Shadow stepped onto the ledge that
adjoined the boathouse. He took a curious look at the hidden space where in the Barracuda
had been moored.
It was like a dock, beneath the old pier, with runways on both sides and this end platform
where The Shadow stood. Farther out, at the bay end of the pier, he could see a pair of
metal doors, swung inward. They had evidently been opened at Sergon's order, shortly
before the departure of the Barracuda.
More important was the door that led into the boathouse. It was bolted, as it had been when
The Shadow first arrived. Perhaps Sergon had recognized The Shadow before the cloaked
fighter had taken his dive through the trapdoor. Maybe he had expected that The Shadow
would emerge from the trapdoor chamber and engage the land crew, possibly with better
results on the second attempt.
There could be other reasons, but they did not matter at this moment. The crux of it was that
The Shadow had reversed the situation. He was beneath the pier, the land crew still in the
boathouse, and it was unlikely that they had guessed where he had gone.
Best of all, The Shadow had a way of finding out what the others were about. All he had to
do was peer through one of the loopholes that Sergon and his men had used for their guns.
Each of the loopholes was equipped with a little metal shutter that could be opened only
from The Shadow's side. The things worked on swivels, and in turning one The Shadow was
careful to cover it with a gloved hand, to hide any light from the illuminated space beneath
the pier.
Eye to the loophole, he saw the glow of a flashlight. It was in a corner of the boathouse, the
very corner where The Shadow had wriggled through the trapdoor. As he watched, The
Shadow saw the light turn downward.
They were looking for him!
Or was it only one person who handled the search? The light was steady, its bearer beyond
it, for nothing came between The Shadow and the light. Somehow, it didn't seem to indicate
that a group was present. A lone man would make the situation all the better. One could talk
as well as half a dozen.
SINCE surprises were in order, this looked like The Shadow's turn to spring one. He
relished the idea of suddenly snagging that lone prowler without the man's pals learning it. If
they came around to investigate, they would probably search beneath the trapdoor.
But that was not where The Shadow would be, once he had made the capture. His plan was
to take a prisoner and bring him back to this ledge beneath the pier.
Closing the swivel shutter in noiseless fashion, The Shadow moved to the connecting door.
He drew back the bolts without the slightest scrape. The next move was one that required
consummate skill.
Pressing against the edge of the door, The Shadow was prepared to block completely the
space when he eased it open. Moving from light into darkness was a difficult performance,
but one that The Shadow had often managed.
Hand on the doorknob, The Shadow paused. There were sounds that caught his attention,
not from the boathouse but from the open pier above.
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DEATHSHIPMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.THEDOUBLESNARE?CHAPTERII.BENEATHTHEBAY?CHAPTERIII.CROSSEDBATTLE?CHAPTERIV.HIGHTIDE?CHAPTERV.THENEXTQUEST?CHAPTERVI.AJAPANESEWELCOME?CHAPTERVII.SOYOTO'SMESSAGE?CHAPTERVIII.DEATH'STRAIL?CHAPTERIX.THEOUTSIDECAL...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：76 页 大小：467.87KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

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