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

maneuvering Dick put Cranston and Foxcroft on the flanks of a target that was
three men wide.
Two elements helped: the lightning, because it lessened; the rain,
because
it increased.
There weren't enough chances for Greug's sharp-shooters to spot their
broad target; when they did, the visibility was ruined by the downpour. Under
the shed, Cranston had Foxcroft help him dump Dick's groggy figure into the
roadster; then Cranston was shoving Foxcroft down into the rumble seat,
telling
him to keep low.
Sweeping gestures in the darkness put Cranston into the guise he now
needed: The Shadow's.
Out from the shed roared the roadster, looking like a self-driven vehicle
in the occasional flicker of the dimming lightning. The Shadow was practically
invisible; Dick was slumped in the bottom of the car, while Foxcroft was deep
in the rumble.
 All that really bothered The Shadow was the surprising shortage of
opposition.
By rights, the roadster should have run the gamut of Lugers and shotguns,
but only a few weapons barked. Foxcroft, too, must have recognized the
discrepancy, for he kept poking his head up from the rumble seat as The Shadow
whizzed the car down the zigzag turns that he'd committed practically to
memory.
Foxcroft didn't see The Shadow at all; but then, the old caretaker wasn't
looking toward the front seat. Foxcroft was thinking of the lower end of Lake
Sheen and a chance lightning glare gave the view that horrified him. A few
moments later, Foxcroft was shrieking above the storm:
"They've pulled the old dam! The water will reach the bridge before we
get
there! It will take the bridge out sure!"
That Foxcroft was right was proved by the mighty roar hitting the straight
route down the gorge, while the speeding car was making its roundabout turns.
But to stop would mean that Greug and his whole tribe of massacre artists
would
overtake the car before The Shadow could get Dick and Foxcroft to any sort of
shelter.
Swinging above the gorge, The Shadow saw a white wave sweeping almost to
its brink. Foxcroft spied it too and turned his face away. Catastrophe was
certain, as Foxcroft realized when he looked to the other side. They had
reached the last turn, the spot where the log flume slanted away from the bend
of the gorge.
The flume, a great triangular trough on struts, was the landmark just
before the bridge. Head raised, Foxcroft listened for the thing he didn't want
to hear, and heard it. A mighty crackle past the bend, and as they reached
that
turn, Foxcroft saw the flay of flying timbers that were proof too graphic that
the bridge had gone.
It was too late now, even to stop the car. The mad driver had tried to
beat the flood and had failed. Foxcroft closed his eyes and waited for the