"017 (B002) - The Thousand-Headed Man (1934-07) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Just now, Doc's nostrils were filled with the aroma of roses - and something else. The other was flower scent, but it was of no bloom native to England.

Perfume!

A swish came out of the murk to one side. It warned Doc. His great thews convulsed, propelling him sidewise.

Some kind of long club smacked down in the spot he had quitted. Then feet pounded madly, running through the darkness toward No. 90 Wallabout Street. The club wielder was in night

Doc lunged in pursuit. Crossing the spot where the club had been flung, he stooped and explored with his hands to ascertain if the weapon had been dropped. It had. A round, hardwood pole, possibly a support for a clothes line, lay in the fog-moistened grass. The implement was not heavy; had it landed, it would have done hardly more than knock him senseless.

Doc slid a flashlight out of a pocket. It threw a threadlike white glitter, and this alighted upon the runner.

It was a tall, long-legged girl. She ran with the lithe agility of a man, instead of the slight stride usual to the feminine sex. Her hair was dark and wavy, tousled by her rapid movements. She wore gray tweed.

She turned, an arm held in front of her to keep the flashlight glare from her face. Her other hand brought up a nickeled revolver. Its muzzle filled with flame, and sound of the shot slammed like something solid against adjacent houses.


THE BULLET, striking bushes to one side of Doc Savage, made a noise not unlike a violent kiss. The bronze man doused his light, swinging it to the left an instant before he did so to give the impression that he had jumped in that direction. Instead, he sprang to the right.

There was another shot, flame from the girl's gun, spraying pale red through the fog. That bullet went into the ground somewhere; then the girl ran for the house.

Doc Savage, pursuing, had to circle shrubbery. That delayed him slightly.

All over the neighborhood lights were showing in windows. Householders yelled faintly, and windows came up. The shot had aroused the vicinity.

Doc Savage reached the rear door of No. 90, tried the knob, and found the panel unlocked. In opening it, he stood far to one side to be out of the line of lead. Hinges complained, mouselike, as he propelled the door open.

The interior of the house was dark; faint cooking odors permeated the air. Doc detected no trace of the perfume the girl was using. That scent had been oriental in nature probably sandalwood. He listened intently. From somewhere in the front of the house came the shuffle of footsteps.

Doc entered the house; a kitchen linoleum came underfoot. The pilot light in a gas stove cast a fitful aura. His drifting hands located another door, and a rug muffled his steps. The odor of soap, and a faucet which leaked slow drops, indicated a bathroom on the left.

The front door opened and closed and feet rattled.

The bronze man put on speed, battered a living-room chair out of his path - and stumbled over something on the floor. The stark nature of the object jerked him to a halt light jumped from his flash.

He had stumbled over a dead man. The fellow had slant eyes, high cheeks, and his skin was somewhat the color of an egg yolk. He had been stabbed three times in the chest and once in the throat.

The ragged nature of the wounds indicated use of a creese. Doc went on to the front door and through it into the fog.

Down the street, a starter gear gnashed flywheel teeth and a motor car exhaust muttered then moaned. Car doors slammed with a noise remindful of two tin cans dashed together. Headlights came on, hurling a blinding sheen under big trees which lined the thoroughfare.

The machine chanced to be headed in slightly at the curb so that its headlights bathed the front of the house. For a brief instant, Doc Savage was disclosed plainly. He flattened behind the ornamental wall which encircled the roofless stoop.

Gears clanked, whined, and the automobile moved. It hurled past the front of the house, jarring into second gear, gathering speed.

Doc Savage lunged down the walk, saw he would never reach the machine because of its speed, halted, and yanked a diminutive gas grenade from a pocket. A tiny knob on the side of this regulated the interval before it exploded.

Doc twisted the knob, flung the grenade, throwing it violently so that it would land in front of the car. The trees made the throw difficult, and he barely got it under the branches.

But the grenade failed in its purpose. It opened a little tardily. And as the car windows were up - it was a sedan - the gas, a vapor producing unconsciousness, failed to penetrate the interior.