"010 (B010) - The Phantom City (1933-12) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Hence, four brown-skinned men walking down Fifth Avenue attracted no unusual notice. They wore business suits, neat and new, but not gaudy. This helped them to escape attention.



They kept in a tight cluster. Their eyes prowled alertly. They were nervous. But strangers from far places, overawed by first sight of Manhattan's cloud-puncturing skyscrapers and canyon streets, often act thus. Their subdued excitement failed to draw more than casually amused glances from pedestrians.



Slight smiles aimed at the quartet would have faded to glassy, loose-jawed stares, had their real character become known. The four were as vicious a bevy of throat-slitters as ever sauntered along one of New York's cracks of brick and glass. Gotham's machine-gunning gangsters were babes compared to these four nervous brown men.



They were on a mission - a mission which, had slightest hint of it reached the police, would have drawn a howling swarm of squad cars.



The slightly stiff-backed manner in which each man walked was due to a long, flat sword in a sheath strapped tightly against his spine. Thin, spike-snouted automatics were concealed expertly in their clothing.



Within the past hour, the tip of each blade and the lead nose of each bullet had been pressed ceremoniously into a piece of raw meat. The chunk of red meat was one into which a highly venomous serpent had been goaded to sink its fangs repeatedly, loading it with poison.



On other occasions, these men had proved that a scratch from weapons treated thus was sufficient to cause nearly instant death.



It was night. Clouds scraped spongy gray flanks against the sharp tops of the tall buildings. F!Flashing signs on Broadway splashed pale, colored luminance against the wadded vapor. A thin gum of moisture covered streets and sidewalks. It had rained at sundown, an hour before.



The four men turned into a side street, reached a darkened doorway, and stopped before it. The entry was shabby; its frame was scratched and grooved where heavy merchandise had been taken in and out. A large packing box, obviously empty, stood in the gloom.



Out of the big box came a voice.



"Qawam, bilaja!" it growled. "Make haste! Conceal yourselves in this place! Our quarry may soon appear!"



The quartet started for the box, evidently with the idea of wedging themselves into it.



"Not here, sons of dumb camels!" gritted the man in the box. "The doorway will be shelter enough! It is best that I remain hidden here throughout, not appearing at any time. Do not, by your glances or actions, betray my presence. Anta sami? Do you hear?"