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

A police messenger ran into the room. He was animated, breathless.

"Gugillello Bellondi was just murdered by a guy in silver!" he yelled.


DOC Savage demanded, "Who is Gugillello Bellondi?"

"A fisherman who was in a boat in the river at the time of the explosion," said the police lieutenant. "We thought he might have seen the plane flying overhead drop a bomb, and we sent a man over to talk to him."

"And our man found him dead," said the messenger. "A woman saw a fellow in a silver suit run out of Guglilello Bellondi's room just before the cop got there."

"The killer got away?" the lieutenant wailed.

"So far, he has," the messenger admitted ruefully.

Doc Savage put in, "Any line on the plane?"

"Yes. I forgot to tell you." The lieutenant pulled out his notebook. "The flier was Gilbert Stiles, who lives on Eighty-fifth Street in Jackson Heights."

"What house number?" Doc asked.

The policeman furnished that information, started to ask a question, but did not - Doc Savage was already whipping for the door.

The bronze man reached his roadster. Once again traffic police opened a lane, and the trip north to Queensboro Bridge, thence along Northern Boulevard to Jackson Heights was made in astounding time.

Jackson Heights was an apartment residential suburb near the north shore of Long Island, not far out. There were grass plots around some of the apartments, a few trees in the parkways down the center of a street or two.

Doc did not stop directly in front of Gilbert Stiles's home, but parked in an adjacent side street, under the lazy droop of a weeping willow. He swung along the sidewalk, reached the corner, made a move at turning. but instead of doing so, continued on with long steps - and stopped when he was sheltered behind a parked car.

Doc's move was urged by discovery of a man standing beside a shiny blue sedan down the street, near where Gilbert Stiles lived. The man was scrawny, with traces of grease stain on his bands and face. His face was a sickly gray hue, resembling a white ball which had been mauled in unclean hands.

During the past, Doc Savage had visited Monk's skyscraper chemical laboratory frequently, and in doing so had occasionally seen members of the janitorial force. The bronze man never forgot a face. The man down the street was one of the janitors of Monk's skyscraper.

Doc bad no way of knowing the individual was Bugs, murderer of Clarence Sparks.

After watching Bugs for a moment, unobserved, Doc concluded something was not resting easily on the fellow's mind.

Bugs squirmed. He smoked innumerable cigarettes. He walked about, and be glanced frequently at a tall brick apartment building before which the blue sedan stood. He even got into the sedan, but remained only a moment and climbed out again.

Bugs stood scowling at the apartment house. Then his pasty face took on an expression of resolve, and he went inside.

Doc Savage whipped back to his roadster. The rumble seat jumped open at his touch upon a button, and he dipped in a hand, withdrew a small box to which stout spring clamps were secured; then he ran to the blue car.

Employing the spring clamps on the box, Doc clipped the Container to the chassis of the car in a spot where it was not likely to be noticed. Then be followed Bugs into the apartment house.


THERE was a Spanish-type lobby, with ornate columns, fake iron balconies, and a rather threadbare carpet. Bugs was nowhere in sight. Nor was there a directory of the tenants to be seen.

The elevator was automatic. You got in and pushed a button marked with the floor to which you wished to be lifted. Doc listened. The lift was running.