"Doc Savage Adventure 1935-12 The Fantastic Island" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doc Savage Collection)

"Blazes!" Monk gulped. "Blazes! Look!"


RISING sheer, washed by ocean spray on one side and bathed in the blood-red glare of volcanic light on the other, a palace of medieval Slavic type flung its black rock turrets high above the jungle growth.

Through a drawbridge in the bastioned wall of twentyfoot thick volcanic rock, they entered the bleak palace courtyard. The drawbridge swung ponderously closed behind them.

Pat shivered. She felt as though she was locked out of the world.

"An army couldn't get through these walls," Ham reflected uneasily.

"Some joint," Monk mumbled.

Past the high buttressed towers the "guests" were carried and deposited in front of a low-arched doorway. The count dismounted from his black horse and waved them inside.

"Some joint is right!" Monk said emphatically, as he stopped inside the stone threshold and stared around.

The room was huge, high-vaulted -- an oppressive cavern of black volcanic rock and wooden beams. Demoniacal blue flames leaped within a fireplace large enough to have engulfed a whole ox for roasting. The fire shadows swooped on long curtains of somber ruby red which hung on brass hoops. Silver samovars glowed dully from shadowed recesses. Ancient icons looked down from the walls. The only modern touch in the whole vast room was a grand piano draped with costly sea otter furs and brightly illuminated by crystal spangled candelabras which shed a yellow light from high overhead.

Count Ramadanoff indicated ornately gilded, ruby-plush chairs. "Sit there before the fire," he invited, "while your chambers are being prepared."

In the light, the count was revealed as a magnificently proportioned man, broad-shouldered, muscled, well over six feet in height. He was dressed in black-black riding boots, black breeches, black coat, black satin string tie. His Czar-of-Russia beard was black too, and his black eyes smoldered with a sinister light which it was impossible for him to conceal.

Pat sat on the edge of her high-backed chair and mentally chewed her finger nails because there had been no opportunity for her to divulge to Monk or Ham the information she had learned regarding the New York address of the count's brother.

Monk pawed at his bargelike jaw. "Where's all the other guests you mentioned?"

"Where's Johnny?" Ham rapped.

Pat also spilled questions. "What is the location of this island? How did you know us? Why did you wreck us? What are those horrible pits for?"

The count stood with his back to the fireplace, his fingers writhing before the blue flames, which, strangely, gave off little light and almost no heat.

"Answering your questions in order," he said in his suave, precise voice, "you would not enjoy seeing the guests."

"Why?" Monk demanded.

"Because, my dear Colonel Mayfair, most of them are in various stages of decomposition."

"Huh?" Monk grunted.

"The mortality rate among my guests has been regrettably high."


MONK went directly to the point. "You mean you kill 'em?"

"Nothing so crude as that," the count denied. There was a quality about the count's voice which gave a menacing, blood-crawling emphasis to his most casual words.

"What, then?" Ham demanded.