"026 (B016) - The Spook Legion (The Ghost Legion) (1935-04) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

HALF an hour later, the telephone rang, and Leo Bell answered it. He heard the most striking voice to which he had ever listened. It was a man's voice, and even over the telephone it had impressive quality and a tone of great flexibility and power under careful restraint. There was something compelling about the voice.
"This is Doc Savage speaking from New York City," the voice said. "A telegram to me was filed from your office tonight, was it not?"
So gripping was the unusual voice that Leo Bell had to swallow twice to loosen his own vocal cords.
"Yes, sir," he said.
"Will you describe the sender, please," Doc Savage requested over the telephone.
"I c-can't," Leo Bell stuttered. It was the first time he had stuttered in years.
"Why not?" queried the unusual voice.
The mysterious circumstances surrounding the appearance of the message then came out. Doc Savage heard it through without comment, then advised, "There is probably no A, N. Onymous listed in your directory."
Leo Bell looked in the directory.
"No," he said. "There is not."
"The name was the result of a trick writing of the word 'anonymous,'" Doc pointed out. "The dictionary defines an anonymous work as one of unknown authorship, which seems to fit this case. Was there an address of sender given on the message?"
"There was."
"What was it?"
"1440 Powder Road," said Leo Bell, after consulting the message.
"There is no such address in Boston," Doc Savage said, and hung up.
Leo blinked dazedly after the connection was broken, wondering how Doc Savage had known the address was a fake - and it was indeed false. Leo ascertained a moment later, upon consulting the street directory. There was no such number on Powder Road.
Leo wondered vaguely if Doc Savage did not know as much about Boston as he did about the different branches of science. Leo would have been surprised.
The two employees in the telegraph office discussed the happening through the remainder of their tour of duty. It seemed as if something smacking of high adventure had touched them briefly, and they rather liked the manner in which it spiced their humdrum lives.
They would have liked more of it. But this was, fortunately, or unfortunately, as near as they were to come to the chain of horror and mystery which followed the sending of the strange message.
The affair really got under way the next day at noon.
THE Excelsior Airways was among the most modern lines serving the east coast of the United States. Their planes were huge tri-motored jobs carrying a pilot, co-pilot and a stewardess in the crew.
The seats were comfortable, and each bore a number, for it was customary for passengers to make seat reservations in advance. The passengers who got aboard were prosperous-looking individuals, business persons obviously - with one exception.
The fat man was not the one exception. There was nothing particularly outstanding about him. He was neither larger nor smaller than the average portly man. His gray suit was neat, well-tailored. The only thing which characterized him at all was the black felt hat which he wore, and his white-gold-rimmed spectacles which he adjusted from time to time as if they were not comfortable.
This fat man presented two tickets. These called for seats located one behind the other. The fat man walked slowly down the aisle and took the rearmost of the two seats which his tickets called for.
If any one noticed there was something just a bit strange in that, they gave no sign.
And if there was nothing exceptional about the appearance of the fat man, there was a great deal out of the ordinary about the last passenger to enter the ship. The size of this man was tremendous. He had to bend over much more than any one else as he came down the plane aisle.
Nor was his great size the least of the man's marked qualities. His face was something with which to frighten infants. It was scarred, in fearsome fashion. The ears were thickened, tufted with welts. One of the eyes drooped almost shut. Over the brows, there were rolls of gristle which might have been put there by much pounding. When the man opened his mouth, he showed numerous gold teeth.
The passengers looked at him curiously. The mark of the man's trade was unmistakable. He was a prize-fighter.
The pugilistic-appearing individual lurched down the aisle, came to the vacant seat ahead of the fat man, looked around, saw the closing of the plane door to indicate no more passengers were expected, and started to take the empty seat.
"No, no!" the fat man squawled.
He leaped to his feet, gave the scarred giant a lusty shove, and looked very belligerent.
The other kept his balance with the ease of a man who might have received many lusty belts in the squared ring.
"Whatsa idea?" he growled.
He had a voice fully as pleasant as the sound of a heavy box being dragged over a concrete floor.
"I reserved this seat and paid for it!" snapped the fat man.
The prizefighter scowled. His scarred face was terrible. He gave the appearance of being but little less dangerous than an angry lion, and he seemed on the point of doing violence to the other. But finally, when the hostess approached and indicated the seat which he had paid for was in the rear, but on the side of the plane which would be in the sun, he shrugged.
"You needn't have been tough about it!" he rasped to the fat man, and padded back to his rear seat.
The plane took off without more incident. To all appearances, there was to be no more excitement during the flight. But appearances are deceptive.
IT was near New York that one of the passengers forward reached up and jerked open the window beside his seat. No doubt he wanted to thrust his head out and stare at the skyscrapers of Manhattan, which were coming into view ahead and below.
As a result of the window being opened, a strong wind whipped into the plane cabin.
Swept by the gale, a square of paper appeared over the back of the empty seat in front of the fat man. It slapped into the face of the fat man. Startled, he grabbed at it, and securing it, naturally glanced at it.
The results of that one look at the paper which had been blown over the back of the empty chair were surprising. The fat man lifted slightly in his seat, as if his leg muscles had tensed. His mouth came open and round; his eyes grew equally round. He was naturally a florid man, and it was distinctly noticeable that he became pale. Suddenly he sagged back in the chair as if some nerve cord had been cut.
He sat there for some time. Then he reached under his coat, thrust a hand beneath the left armpit and brought out a stubby but deadly-looking revolver. Simultaneously, he wrenched at his hip pocket and produced a handkerchief. He wrapped the handkerchief around the muzzle of the gun as he stood up.
He leaned over the back of the empty seat in front of him. There was an expression of wild desperation on his features.
His gun went off three times, as rapidly as he could pull the trigger. The reports were loud.
In the middle of the shooting, a shriek piped out. It was an eerie, hideous shriek, a sound which held the rasp of death.
The fat man sat down and wrapped both arms over his head and face. The way he did this was very strange.
Then the voice sounded. It was a strangled voice, one which was labored, gurgling, and hardly understandable. It said four words - really two pairs of words with a slight pause between the first pair and the second. Just where the words came from, it was impossible to say. The fat man had his mouth covered with his arms. The other passengers were watching the fat man and not each other. But almost every one heard the words, which sounded above the uproar.
"Doc Savage - be careful!"