"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 290 - Death has Grey Eyes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

heels of the thunder's mumble, brush crackled nearby and voices, too guttural
to
be whispered, reached Cranston's ears from directly behind him.
Those lurkers from the brush thought that Cranston could neither hear
them
nor understand their language if he did, but he was doing both. From what he
caught, he was making calculations while he watched the hovering plane. Then,
from the climbing ship came a puff that looked like grey smoke against the
darkening sky. It billowed outward; filled itself into the shape of a
parachute
and floated downward toward the lighted patch of slope land that formed a
perfect target.
Lamont Cranston didn't watch it long. Two heavy-set men sprang suddenly
upon him, showing surprising speed in their attack, thanks to the steepness of
the path on which Cranston stood. Wheeling too late to even reach for a gun,
Cranston was sprawled by the overwhelming drive.
A few moments later, the two attackers were lifting a figure that lay
silent and inert. If Dick Whitlock still depended upon Lamont Cranston as a
friend in need, his hopes had faded faster than the dying sunlight!


CHAPTER XII

THE old lodge looked the same and the approach of a heavy thunderstorm
wasn't unusual in these parts. To Dick Whitlock, the only thing that looked
different was Foxcroft, and he still couldn't understand it.
In fact, to prove his sobriety, Foxcroft hurried into Dick's own room,
just off the center hall, and came out with an untouched bottle. With a smile,
Dick laid the bottle aside and questioned:
"What's come over you, Foxcroft? It can't be the storm. You've weathered
dozens of them."
"I've just been worried, Mr. Dick," explained Foxcroft. "So many things
to
be managed, so few people to help."
"I've seen more people around than ever before -"
"I know," put in Foxcroft hastily, "but they're all busy. When the old
dam
needed repair" - Foxcroft pointed from the window to the blue bowl of Lake
Sheen
- "I was afraid it would burst before I could get helpers. At that, it was
only
a patchwork job at best."
A heavy pound of thunder interrupted Dick's reply. The lightning was
flashing now, in vivid competition with that last strong show of sunlight. To
Dick, the glowing patch that fronted the lodge was something like a bombing
target, and as he smiled at the whimsical comparison, he heard an odd echo of
the thunder's rumble, from beneath the floor of the main hall.
"What's that, Foxcroft?"
"I don't know, sir." Foxcroft's eyes shifted. "Maybe some boxes that the
thunder jarred loose from the pile."