"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 066 - Doom on the Hill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

during the past three weeks. You take this route I'm showing you and I guarantee you won't have to drop
under fifty anywhere along the line."

The attendant unfolded a road map on the desk. He spread it flat and used a pencil to mark the location
of this filling station upon the superhighway. The map showed the broad road running in a red line that
crossed the Interstate Trail.

With his pencil, the attendant pointed out a diagonal road that was indicated by two thin lines. It formed a
connecting link, cutting across from one main road to the other. The motorist nodded as he saw the
obvious saving in distance.

"One and two-tenths miles," informed the attendant. "That's all you'll have to go before you strike the
short cut. It's a dirt road; but solid as rock. You won't even kick up dust along it. A great bet, when it's
dry."

Running his pencil along the short road, the attendant marked an X. The motorist leaned forward with
interest. His face showed in the light above the table. A keen-eyed, clean-cut fellow in his early thirties,
this chap displayed vigor and self-confidence. The attendant happened to glance up from the map. He
grinned.

"I was going to tell you that this is a lonely sort of road," he stated. "But I don't think that would worry a
fellow like you. All I'm warning you against is this spot I've put the X on. A grade crossing and a mighty
mean one. You can spot it though, if you're looking for it. The road twists and runs along with the track;
then cuts over it and twists on the other side."

"I'll be on the lookout," said the motorist, quietly. "What railroad line is it?"

"The Union Valley."

"Many trains at night?"

"Yeah. A freight along about nine; a local comes the other way right after that. The Union Limited blows
through along about midnight; then comes the Dairy Express, into New York. More freights after that."

"Nine o'clock," mused the motorist, as he picked up the map and received his change. "I ought to hit that
crossing ahead of the freight train."

"Yeah. But keep your eyes open, bud. That clodhopper comes through in a hurry."

THE motorist returned to his coupe. Half a minute later, his car rolled away from the filling station. Two
minutes after that, the coupe slowed its pace while the driver, checking by his speedometer, began to
watch for the short cut that the map had shown.

Spying the turn-off, the motorist swung away from the superhighway. The coupe rolled smoothly along a
solid, well-packed road. The speedometer arrow moved up to the fifty-mile-an-hour mark.

As his car purred rhythmically forward, the driver focused his gaze straight into the glaring path of the
headlight. Though his eyes were on the road, his thoughts were far away. He had remembered the
filling-station man's admonition regarding the grade crossing; he would watch for the danger point
automatically when he arrived at the twist in the road. For the present, he had time to devote to