"Doc Savage Adventure 1945-01 The Hate Genius" - читать интересную книгу автора (Doc Savage Collection)

He soon discovered that they were sending for a welcoming committee to be composed of persons of local consequence. He hurried to put a stop to that.

He told them he was leaving immediately, that he couldn't linger in Lisbon to be entertained, that he was most profoundly sorry, and knew they probably didn't believe him. But they were polite about it, and he bowed out of their company, entering the airways terminal manager's office. He got from the office to the street via a window.

He walked rapidly for two blocks, then hailed a taxicab, one of the type which manufactured its own propelling gas in a furnace affair which rode on the rear bumper and which was as likely as not to cough handfuls of sparks at the passengers.

"Drive to the Cidac Baixa," he told the driver, then settled back to watch out for sparks, and to wonder if there was a red-headed young man following him.

There was.

Not wishing to jump at conclusions -- in his state of nerves, he could be imagining things -- he had the puffing, smelling, spark-belching cab take him around several streets in Cidae Baixa, the lower town. He became certain the red-headed man was on his trail, and that the fellow was fairly adept at snooping.

He said, in Portuguese, "Driver, do you know the Hotel Giocare?"

The driver said he did.

He gave the driver an envelope and said, "I want you to take this to the Hotel Giocare. Drive with it to the Hotel Giocare, and wait outside with it. Do not give it to the hotel clerk. Just wait outside. Across the street from the Giocare is the Ciriegia Park, where you can wait. I will pay you."

The driver turned the envelope in his hands and frowned at it. The envelope was sealed. As a matter of fact, it contained Doc Savage's driving license, pilot certificate, a few courtesy cards, a commission in the New York police department, and some other matter. He had emptied his billfold of the litter and put it in the envelope for no other reason than that the billfold was getting stuffed. He had done this on the plane, so the envelope still had been in his pocket.

"What will you pay me?" the driver asked.

Doc Savage named an amount equal to the fare.

"No, it will cost you twice as much," the driver insisted, for evidently he had decided his passenger was one of the mysterious international gentlemen, secretive about their business, who had been plentiful in neutral Lisbon for a couple of years.

"All right," Doc said curtly. To punish the driver for being greedy, he carefully wrote down the man's name and identification and description, letting the fellow see him do it.

They went on. The streets were narrow, the corners sharp. He picked a sharp corner, and after they were around it, stepped hurriedly out of the car and ducked into the handiest doorway. His cab went on. The other machine, the one occupied by the red-headed man, was out of sight when he quit his own cab, but it popped into view a moment later, passing within hand-reach.

Doc got a thorough look at the red-headed man. The fellow was around forty, not large, but with an intense animal expression. He was dapperly dressed, with tan gloves and a cane. He was leaning forward, both gloved hands resting on the cane, staring at the cab he was following.
His hair was about the color of a freshly cut carrot. His lips had an expression that was not exactly a grin, more of an I-like-this-sort-of-thing twist. He was a complete stranger.

Doc Savage began walking toward a hostelry called the Chiaro di Luna. He wondered about the redheaded man as he walked, trying to figure out who the fellow might be, and frightening himself with some of the possibilities.

The red-headed young man had seemed so vital and enthusiastic about doing his following lob. He was so damned hearty about it. Whoever and whatever he was, he liked his job, and a man with enthusiasm for this kind of work was dangerous.

The Hotel Chiaro di Luna was a gaudy, noisy hostelry where you could go without attracting much attention. The name meant, in Italian, moonlight, but something relative to a circus or carnival would have been more appropriate.

"Mr. Carlos Napolena calling to see Mr. Scimmia," Doc Savage told the clerk.

His name was not Carlos Napolena, and neither was Monk Mayfair named Mr. Scimmia. Monk Mayfair was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, a chemist of great ability when he worked at it, which wasn't very often because he liked excitement.

"By golly!" Monk said heartily. "By golly, I'm glad you showed up."

Monk looked and acted as if he were mentally about ten years old, which was deceptive. It would also have been entertaining, but he frequently overdid it He was short, wide, homely, hairy; he had more than a general resemblance to an amiable ape, and Doc Savage sometimes suspected he went out of his way to cultivate the mannerisms of one.

Ham Brooks was with Monk. Ham was a lawyer. Calling Ham a lawyer was somewhat like calling Buckingham Palace a house.