"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 185 - Ships of Doom" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

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