"031 (B060) - The Majii (1935-09) - Lester Dent.palmdoc.pdbTXT" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Out of the wire he improvised a simple radio loop aыrial. His receiving set was especially sensitive to directional loop reception when certain terminals were used.
He tuned in on Long Tom's transmitter. Then he drove toward it. This was no simple task, since the presence of large buildings at times completely distorted the loop indications.
Long Tom's car stood in a dark side street, askew of the sidewalk, one wheel smashed off, the radiator partially caved in by a telegraph pole. Water still drooled from the radiator.
A few spectators were staring sleepily. Doc's questioning elicited word that no one knew what had caused the wreck or what had happened to the occupant of the car. The machine had simply been found.
Doc circled the machine. His identity became known and several persons began to whisper excitedly and point him out. He carefully paid no attention to this. He had never become so blasщ that public attention did not embarrass him. It was for this reason that he avoided the public eye whenever possible.

Finding nothing in or on the machine, he withdrew and circled the spot, still continuing his scrutiny. The crowd followed him wonderingly, still whispering.
Fifty feet down the street, Doc found a smear of dampness on the pavement which, when he turned a light upon it closely, had a distinct reddish cast. Seepage from a wound! And it had been wiped up. It was very fresh.
Whether the stain had been made by fluid from Long Tom's body, or not, there was no way of telling. But something had certainly happened to Long Tom Roberts, the electrical wizard.
Doc Savage went to his roadster and consulted the dash clock. It was ten minutes past midnight. He knew his own driving ability.
His best effort would not get him to the airport in time to meet the midnight plane from San Francisco in which Rama Tura had been interestedЧthe plane bearing Kadir Lingh, potentate of Jondore.
But there was always the chance the plane might be late.
Chapter VI. MURDER ON THE LOOSE
POSSIBLY because land is somewhat appallingly expensive in the vicinity of New York City, and because aviation in its infancy had not the funds of a Midas to expend, rather cheap sites were frequently selected for airports.
Cheap land meant land away from other habitation, frequently in or near a marsh. The airport used by the transcontinental line in which Doc Savage was interested was in such a location, and it was surrounded by brushland.
Doc Savage was half a mile away from the airport when he heard the shooting. There were four measured shots that might have come from a revolver. Then something that sounded like a shotgun went off. A man shrieked. All of these noises were sufficient to carry over the idling of a plane engine.
Doc Savage bore down heavily on the accelerator. The heavy roadster began to cover ground in a slightly eerie manner. Doc kept a close watch, half expecting to meet a machine or machines, but nothing appeared and he swerved into the airport.
There was much excitement. Men ran across the tarmac from various directions, converging on the hangars. The floodlights were on. At least two bodies lay in their glow. Doc ran forward.
"Damned gang raided the midnight plane!" he was told. "After one of the passengers."
"They get him?" Doc asked.
"Heck no. The passenger had a bodyguard. Boy, you never saw such shooting."
"Who got killed?"
"The assistant pilot, poor sap. He tried to be a hero. The other stiff is one of the raiders. Shot through the thinking box."
Doc Savage nodded, asked, "Any one else?"
"Sure," said the informer. "The guy they are questioning."
"Who is he?"
"Another one of the raiders. Man, did he get it! One of the passenger's bodyguards swiped him with a knife, right across the lamps. Fixed 'em both."
"Put his eyes out?"
"You said it."
"Where is the passenger and his bodyguard?"
"Skipped. Grabbed a car and chased the other birds. Stole a hack from a poor driver to do it."
The informant could give information precisely and quickly.
"How long have they been gone?" Doc demanded.
"Long enough so that you can't catch 'em. Five minutes ago. These Long Island roads go every which way."
Doc Savage considered briefly.
"Do not let it be known that I am here," he directed. "But tell whoever is in charge that I want to see him privately."
"O. K."
THE member of the raiding party who had been left behind was horribly blinded, thanks to the knife cut which he had sustained across the eyes.
The blade had all but separated his eyeballs as a sharp knife would a pair of apples. He was moaning and blubbering and it was quite certain he would never look upon the world again.
The airport attendant stood around and looked sorry, for it was a pitiful thing.
They might not have looked so sorry had they known this man who was blinded was the same one who had pursued the Ranee the night before and had so callously killed a taxi driver, simply because the poor fellow had known the Ranee was endeavoring to get to Doc Savage. He was a cold slayer and he had probably gotten less than he deserved.
They were trying to question him. The man moaned and blubbered and screamed. The questioners were not experts enough on wounds to know the man was suffering no very intense pain as yet, and that he was setting up a howl to make it seem he was in no shape to answer questions.
The questioning had gotten nowhere when a rasping, coarse voice said from the door:
"The first man who moves won't move again!"
Every one spun. What they saw inspired neither mirth nor a wish to move too quickly. There was a man in the door, shrouded in a black raincoat, an aviator's helmet and mask. He held two revolvers as huge as any one present had ever seen.
"Get your hands up!" the newcomer snarled. "Back against the wall, then turn around."
They did so and he searched them. Such weapons as he found, he smashed on the concrete floor, after unloading them.
He walked over and grabbed the blinded man by an arm.
"I'm gettin' you outta this, buddy!" he growled. "Let's blow!"
They went out swiftly, the masked man guiding the blinded one.