"018 (B035) - The Squeaking Goblin (1934-08) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"You sure it was the same guy who fired the first two shots as let that one go tonight?" asked the Coastal operative.
"The same rifle, at least. There was no sound of a shot in each caseЧonly that loud squeak."
The sleuth rubbed his nose, pulled at an ear, the gestures indicating an upset mind and much puzzlement.
"But why's this Squeakin' Goblin after you, Mr. Raymond?" he questioned.
Raymond spread his hands. "You guess!"
"Meanin' you don't know?"
"I mean that very thing. I haven't the slightest idea why this Squeaking Goblin wishes to kill me."
The detective turned on Tige. "Well, why's the Goblin shootin' guys back in your mountains?"
"Kain't say," said Tige.
"I hope he ain't doin' it without a reason!" snapped the sleuth.
"Fur as folks kin tell, thar ain't no reason fur his shootin' nobody," Tige muttered.
The operative of the Coastal Detective Agency thought it over deeply, his heavy features wearing a profound expression, then ridded himself of an emphatic opinion.
"Damned if it makes sense," he said.
"Have you heard of Doc Savage?" asked Chelton Raymond.
"Who hasn't," grunted the sleuth.
"I have radioed Savage for help," said Raymond. "I hope there will be no professional jealousy on the part of you or your men when he arrives."
"JealousyЧhell!" The private detective grinned widely. "Say, I'd give my good right arm to see that guy Doc Savage work, just once. They say he's a ring-tailed wizard."
"What do you meanЧwizard?" Raymond asked curiously.
"Savage can do anything," asserted the Coastal operative earnestly. "Or so I've heard. And that's no kidding, brother."
SHORTLY after this discussion, the yacht became silent and the lights went out. Chelton Raymond had suggested that the sleuths and the crew retireЧwith the exception of two guards posted on the upper deck, and three alert detectives, who took up positions on shore.
The cove walls were high and precipitous, and the moon had now descended in the night sky so that it was concealed from view, with the result that long, very black shadows had crept across the cove surface and enwrapped the yacht.
The private detectives on shore were extremely alert and kept close to the shelter of boulders. In truth, their hair felt an absurd inclination to stand on end when they thought of the spectral figure in the wilderness garb of the last century.
"Wonder what that egg who looked like Daniel Boone wanted?" pondered one in a whisper. "I meanЧwhy's he tryin' to croak Raymond?"
"Search me," breathed the second. "It's a goofy business."
"Ain't it," added the third watcher.
A few seconds after this conversation, which could be heard farther away than those who took part in it imagined, there occurred a faint commotion in the cove waters. This was very subdued, and the cause of it approached shore cautiously, coming from the direction of the yacht.
On the beach some distance from where the three detectives conversed, the sound ended. It might have been someone swimming ashore from the yacht. Whatever the presence was, it landed with a minimum of disturbance; after which there was an interval of nearly absolute quiet.
The prowler in the night could move with the stealth of a ghost; the next sound it made was nearly a hundred yards distant, that space having been traversed with the utmost quiet. And it was not noise of physical movement of the skulker that became audible even then, but a product of pure accident, for a night bird took sudden, wild fright at the presence and fled with terrified cries.
By rare fortune, it chanced that one of the detectives had moved along the beach and now stood near enough to be greatly startled by the scared bird. The man held a flashlight. He nearly dropped it in his first shock, then recovered and thumbed the scalding white beam among the boulders. His eyes popped.
Before him stood the apparition in deerskins and coonskin cap, carrying the remarkably long rifle. The features of the figure looked more dead than ever, masklike, cadaverously pale. The eyes were cavities of black shadow that might have been the empty sockets of a skull.
The detective had half suspected to see just this; yet so surprised was he that he could only stand, gaping. In this moment of advantage, the form in deerskins whipped behind a boulder.
Wrenching out a revolver, the detective ran forward. He yelled for his two companions, then dashed his flash beam over the rocky protuberance behind which the figure had leaped. He found nothing. Racing to the rear of the upthrust, he still saw no sign of the ghostly vision.
He looked for tracks. There were none, although the sand was soft.
The other two sleuths ran up. They also searched, and found nothing. They swapped blank looks.
"Say, I thought I heard somethin' in the water a while ago," muttered one man. "I wonder if that spook could have been on the yacht."
"Yeah!" rasped the second. "If he was, he might've learned Doc Savage has been called, and is gonna show up at the Aquatania Hotel. He might lay for Savage."
"His leather clothes was dry," insisted the one who had glimpsed the eerie figure.
"He could've pulled 'em off an' left 'em ashore 'thout much trouble," snorted another.
"Aw, the spook was just prowlin' and scared a bird an' I heard it," the other said decisively.
Chapter III. SQUEAKING DEATH
THE Aquatania Hotel, a summer resort establishment, stood high above the Atlantic Ocean, on a cliff, down which a sandy, zigzagging path led to the beach.
Immediately offshore at this point were numerous rocks and reefs, some visible only at low tide, against which the waves shattered themselves with an impressive display of white spray.
Southward along the shore some two hundred yards, the rocks disappeared, and there was open access to the beach. Here fishing craft and canoes and motorboats of summer visitors were beached, while offshore were moored yachts and motor vessels of all description and size.
At this late night hour there was little activity along the beach, although on one large yacht a noisy dance was in progress. The blare of brasses, the jangle of strings and the raucous bawl of the hi-de-ho singer made uproar that somehow illy befitted the natural rugged beauty of the shore.
So slowly as to be at first unnoticeable, a faint whining sound came into being and increased in volume. It emanated from the sky, growing loud enough to be heard plainly above the dance jazz.
A dancer on the yacht ran out from under an awning and looked up, then ducked as a great black shape all but blotted the moon for an instant.
A huge, dark plane had appeared. It flashed out to sea, the whine of air past its wings receding, then banked and came back. Besides being large, the aыrial newcomer was streamlined until its every curve cried out of speed. It was an amphibian, tri-motored. It was painted a solid bronze color.
The ship landed, taxied close inshore and a grapple anchor was lowered by a concealed bow winch, the anchor cable making a faint noise.
It was while this sound was still echoing that movement might have been discerned on the trail leading down the cliff face. Since the moon was low, the path was lighted at only one point. Past this spot a figure wafted, becoming visible for a moment.
It was the eerie form in deerskins and the coonskin cap. The incredibly long rifle was tucked under an arm.