"Doc Savage Adventure 1934-11 Death in Silver" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doc Savage Collection)

The officer nodded, fumbled in a uniform pocket and produced a notebook. He thumbed through the leaves.

"Gilbert Stiles is the owner of the plane, according to the check we made on the numbers," he said. "Stiles keeps the plane for his personal pleasure. The man in the boat was a fisherman named" - he stumbled over the pronunciation" - named Gugillello Bellondi, or something like that. The flier lives on Eighty-fifth Street in Jackson Heights, and the fisherman on Sand Street in Brooklyn."

Bugs, who had overheard all of this, turned surreptitiously, fumbled out a sheet of paper and a pencil stub and put down the name of Gilbert Stiles and Gugillello Bellondi. He added data on their residences. Bugs did not put much trust in his memory.


MONK and Ham, accompanied by the police lieutenant, mounted the stairs into the topmost basement.

"We had better ring Doc in on this," Monk suggested, eying Ham.

Ham said, "I had the same idea before you did."

In the skyscraper lobby were a number of telephone booths. Monk entered one of these, found the outside connections undisturbed by the blast, and called the number of Doc Savage's headquarters.

The headquarters was a strange aerie on the eighty-sixth floor of the most impressive skyscraper in uptown New York, and the bronze man spent much of his leisure there. Actually, Doc Savage allowed himself no leisure in the accepted sense, all of his time being spent in research, in experiments, in study. There was a fabulously equipped library and laboratory in the headquarters.

"Doc?" asked Monk.

The question was unnecessary - Doc Savage had a remarkable voice, one which was powerful, yet controlled, modulated, giving the impression of almost eerie strength. Unmistakable, that voice.

"I just saw an extra edition of the newspaper," said Doc Savage. "Was your laboratory damaged by the explosion?"

"Some," Monk admitted. "But that isn't what I called about, Doc. There is something underhanded going on down here."

"We do not involve ourselves in anything the police can handle," Doc reminded.

"I figured you'd be interested," Monk explained. "You see, it's a queer business all along. First, there's nothing to show what caused the explosion - or if there is, they haven't found it yet. Then a guy in silver murdered Clarence Sparks, a Winthrop employee."

"What is this?" Doc asked sharply.

"A bird dressed up in a sort of silver coverall suit and a silver mask, shot Sparks with a bow and arrow just as we were about to question the fellow. Sparks seemed to know something."

"Did the killer resemble the strange silver-clothed figures who have recently committed a series of big robberies and who also sunk the Transatlantic Company's liner, Avallancia?" Doc questioned.

"Sure," said Monk. "I think he was one of the gang."

Doc Savage was silent a moment, as if engaged in thought, then a weird, a most unusual sound came from the telephone receiver. It was a sound defying description. It was a most unmusical trilling, a whistle and yet not a whistle. Possessing a throaty, exotic quality, it ran up and down the musical scale, but without adhering to a definite time.

It might have been a wind whistling with ghostly quality through a ship's rigging, or it might have been the song of some strange jungle bird.

Monk stiffened as be heard the sound; he had heard the eerie note many times before. It was the sound of Doc Savage the small unconscious thing which the bronze man did in moments of mental excitement. It usually came before some startling development; often it marked Doc's discovery of some obscure fact which was later to possess great significance.

"Monk," Doc said, "have you noticed anything queer about the robberies these so-called Silver Death's-Heads have been committing?"

Monk began, "Well, their silver disguises - "

"Not that," Doc told him. "There is one strange point about the robberies themselves. Have you noticed?"