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

"Sure," Monk said eagerly. "We'll go."

Doc's other four men nodded agreement and prepared to accompany the uniformed men.

"You've got Doc now?" Renny

"Oh, yes," said Evall. "He surrendered quite peaceably at the scene of the killing."

The party now left Sen Gat's house. The uniformed men distributed themselves, one alongside each of Doc's five aides. It was very much as if they were under a polite form of arrest. The street outside was infested with gloom and Shoreditch smells. A breeze had sprung up. Fog tendrils swept in front of the street lamps like marching phalanxes of transparent ghosts.

The street hawker, with his miserable tray of nuts and sweetmeats, was missing from the corner.


THE FOG had moistened the cobbles of the pavement, soaking the street filth and making a slime.

Johnny, the gaunt geologist, eyed the corner where the street peddler had been. He absently fingered the monocle magnifier which dangled from his lapel.

"Wait," he said, and stopped suddenly.

"Well?" demanded Evall.

"We didn't lock the doors," Johnny stated. "I'm goin' back and do that."

Signs of tension came upon the faces of Doc's other four men. Johnny had made a simple statement - but he had forgotten to use his usual big words. The skeleton-thin geologist never did that unless he was excited.

Johnny started back.

"I'll go along, bloke," muttered a uniformed man. He legged after Johnny.

The geologist entered Sen Gat's house, said, "I'd better secure the rear door and windows," and walked toward the back. A hand drifted inside his coat. Doc's men had not been relieved of their supermachine pistols. Johnny's fingers closed over the grip of his weapon.

Johnny was no mental sluggard. He had abruptly remembered the presence of the street hawker who was now gone. The detail, slight as it was, had made Johnny suspicious. He had been in trouble often enough not to overlook points like this.

Angling sidewise, Johnny picked up a telephone. His thin forefinger jiggled the hook until the operator was aroused.

"Police!" Johnny said.

The uniformed fellow who had accompanied the geologist shied from foot to foot. His fists knotted, unknotted, his expression was that of a man in a dilemma. He began, "Hey, bloke, what

"At what police station are they holding Doc Savage," queried Johnny, keeping a clutch on his machine pistol.

"He's - " the uniformed one floundered.

Johnny knew then that his suspicions were justified. I wrenched the superfirer from under his coat.

Simultaneously, the fake bobby went for a gun. He got his weapon out - not a service revolver, but a big blue automatic of American manufacture. The ugly twist of his lip showed that he intended to shoot.

Johnny's superfirer made a weird, deafening moan. It was if the bass string of a gigantic bull-fiddle had been stroked briefly. Empty cartridges spurted in a brassy procession from the ejector mechanism.

The false officer shuddered violently. Some of the mercy bullets had hit his legs. His arms extended rigidly; his knees buckled. He folded down on the floor, already unconscious.