Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 334 by Maxwel l Grant

Author:Maxwel,l Grant
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf

sabotage our Project, they would still question me the same way--to know what I knew."

53

"True, Margo, but the way Derian questioned would also fit a man trying to learn what he did not know! If they are stealing the fuel control, they would not have to know any more. If they were only out to steal it, why are they so interested in that ledger with its extra supplies?"

"But Vaslov practically admitted that they are behind the sabotage of the project," Margo pointed out.

Cranston was silent. Then he turned to speak. He stopped. The signal light beneath his desk was silently flashing. The socialite stepped to his desk and touched a secret switch. Instantly a voice filled the room. The voice of Burbank.

"Agent Harry Vincent has reported in from Salt Lake City," the smooth voice of the Communications agent said from deep within the hidden complex of blue-lighted rooms behind the office of Cranston. "I have Agent Vincent on the radio if you wish to have him make his report personally. Otherwise I will tape it in the normal manner."

"Channel the report," Cranston said. "We need any information we can get at once!" Cranston sat at his desk, flipped a switch.

"Closed channel, simultaneous taping," Burbank's efficient voice said.

In the lavish office of Lamont Cranston the three leaned forward in the chairs to listen. The sun was high outside now.

The delivery truck was parked in an alley on the outskirts of Salt Lake City. The magnificent Tabernacle was not far away, and the jagged and massive peaks of the Wasatch Mountains towered high over the city. Rising almost directly from the plain of the Great Salt Lake with its wide salt flats, the Wasatch loomed so high it seemed that they could topple at any instant and engulf the city. In the distance the thin light of the first crack of dawn reflected from the mirror-surface of the vast lake.

In the alley it was still dark and nothing moved near the delivery truck. Inside the truck there was no one in the cab. To anyone who could have been there to see, the truck would have seemed abandoned, parked for the night. It showed no light and no sign of life. Had there been anyone to investigate, they could have opened the rear doors and still seen nothing but a truck filled with boxes for delivery. An innocent truck.

But this truck was far from innocent.

In a secret compartment between the cab in the front, and the boxes in the rear, a man crouched. He was bent over a small but powerful radio sender-receiver of special design that broadcast on a special channel that was scrambled for anyone else and had a range of three thousand miles when received on the proper receiver. The man smoked, and there was an ugly

.45 caliber automatic at his feet. He spoke urgently into the radio.

"Harry Vincent reporting. Come in Chief. Do you read me?"

The calm voice of Lamont Cranston seemed to fill the small compartment of the truck as it spoke softly from the far-off office above Park Avenue in New York.

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