"015 (B069) - The Mystery on the Snow (1934-05) - Lester Dent (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

By now, the whiskered one was certain all the clippings concerned Doc Savage. He
replaced the contents of the envelope; then he hobbled toward the door, leaning
heavily on his black cane.
At the door, he met Mahal.
Mahal had missed his property, and he was in a sweat. He saw the envelope in the
elderly-looking manТs hand.
"Old Goat!" he yelled, this time in English. "Where did you get that?"
"It came out of your pocket in the elevator," was the reply, delivered in a
quavering voice.
And that was no lie.
Mahal snatched the envelope. Without a word of thanks, he stamped outside.
A taxi swung to the curb. Mahal got in, and gave the address of his sщance room
uptown.
Now the driver of the cab had some remarkable characteristics. His hands were of
an almost unearthly hugeness. Each was composed of only a little less than a
gallon of bone and gristle. The driverТs face was a long one, and it bore an
expression of great gloom, as if he were going to a funeral. The fellow hunched
low in the seat, possibly to hide the fact that he was a giant who weighed all
of two hundred and fifty pounds.
Had Mahal been in an observant mood, he might have noted that the taxi seemed to
have an engine of unusual power and smoothness.
Mahal, however, was sulking. He smoked a perfumed cigarette, which he carelessly
dropped, still burning, on the taxi cushions when they reached the address he
had given.
Mahal entered the building which held his sщance room. He did not glance back.
Had he looked around, it was doubtful if he would have observed the big-fisted
taxi driver wheel his machine around a corner, park, extinguish the cigarette
Mahal had dropped, and slide stealthily from behind the wheel.
The fellow with the huge fists was very careful that Mahal did not see his
actions.
In the sidewalk near by was a metal hatch. This was intended for delivering
freight to the basement of the building which held MahalТs establishment.
Opening the hatch, the big man with the enormous fists dropped into the
basement.
Apparently, he had been there often before. He went to a stand which held many
pieces of complicated-looking apparatus, and clamped a telephone headset over
his ears.

MAHALТS sщance rooms were up three gloomy flights of squeaky stairs. One
expected to hear rats scamper about.
The mysticТs establishment consisted of two rooms. OneЧthe reception chamber,
where customers awaited MahalТs pleasureЧhad windows. The inner room, where
Mahal conducted his mystic rites, and extorted a few dollars from gullible
clients, if it was humanly possible, was perpetually dark.
MahalТs trade was not one that flourished in the light.
The sanctum of fakery was hung with impressive tapestries, which would have
looked their true cheapness in full daylight. There were cushions, curtains, a
raised daisЧand the inevitable crystal ball glistened in the rays of a tiny
concealed light.
Mahal got a harsh-voiced reception when he entered.