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

"There has been nothing in the newspapers of this," he reminded.
"Naturally not," said the informant. "And for some very good reasons. First, the fortune is to a certain extent a symbol of my prestige over my people. Should it become known that I had lost it, I naturally would not be thought such a remarkable fellow. There are certain tribesmen in Jondore who are all too willing to jump on the Nizam at the slightest excuse."
Doc Savage began searching the followers of Rama Tura who were dead in the vicinity. He found nothing in pockets. The small, dark man bobbed alongside, talking rapidly.
"The jewels and gold were kept in my palace in Jondore, in modern vaults and under heavy military guard," he said. "The stuff simply disappeared."
"Guards bribed?" Doc suggested.
"Unlikely. They were the royal guard of the Nizam. A Jondorean would rather belong to that than be the chief of a tribe of his own." The turbaned man smiled slightly. "We have always arranged for members of the guard to be treated as princes, for the very good psychological reason that it makes them like their jobs."
Doc Savage began stripping outer garments from the dead Rama Tura followers.
"What about the thieves entering the vaults?" he asked. "They use cutting torches or explosive?"
"They used nothing as far as we can see," said the small man. "The vaults were intactЧand empty. That is somewhat incredible, because only one living man knows the combinations."
"Who is that?"
"Myself."
Doc Savage was taking shoes, trousers, coats and turbans from the slain Jondoreans. He turned each garment inside out and rolled it separately, then tied them all together with a length of silken cord.
"The Nizam, Son of the Tiger, my brother who died, knew the combination," continued the alert dark man. "Before his death, he gave it to me."
"Your brother, the previous Nizam, died naturally?" Doc queried.
"He was shot," said the other, "by a fellow who has always been a source of trouble in Jondore."
"Rama Tura?" Doc asked.
"Rama Tura it was." The turbaned man blinked. "But how did you know?"
BY the time they had reached Doc Savage's skyscraper headquarters, the bronze man had also explained about the Ranee.
"Will you describe that woman again," requested Doc's companion.
The bronze man did so.
"That," declared the turbaned man, "is undoubtedly my brother's widow, the Ranee."
Doc Savage had the bundle of clothing which he had moved from the slain men, and he deposited this in the laboratory. Then he came back into the library and began glancing through scrapbooks of newspaper clippings.
There were hundreds of these. Doc did not prepare them. They were furnished by an agency which was in that business. They covered every political development reported by the press of the world, among other things.
Doc found a picture. He compared it with the visage of the man he had found in the boathouse on Long Island Sound. The legend below the picture said:
The New Nizam of Jondore
The small, dark man came over, glanced at the picture, and showed his amazingly white teeth in a quick smile.
"You are cautious, and there is a saying that the cautious tiger lives long," he murmured. "It is not a bad likeness of me, do you think?"
"Not bad," Doc said and put the clipping volume away.
The bronze man went back into the laboratory. He took off his coat and donned a rubber frock and rubber gloves, then pulled on a hood which had very large goggles built into it. Before going to work, he asked one question.
"What is behind all of this?"
The other seemed surprised. "But it is simple. Rama Tura stole the jewels. He is disposing of them."
"I suspect," Doc told him, "that there is much more to it than that."
Since Doc Savage's life was devoted to the strange pursuit of righting wrongs and punishing evildoers, he had devoted much time to the study of detective methods.
He had originated scientific procedures of his own, some of which had been adopted by police departments, but many of which were a bit too complicated for universal use.
Among other things, he had perfected a electro-spectroscopic analysis contrivance which, in the course of a very few seconds, would give him the chemical elements composing almost any given substance. This device further more had the advantage of being able to handle particles of microscopic smallness.
Doc spent almost an hour on the garments taken from the slain men.
"I should think," said the turbaned man, "that you would be worried over your three aides, Long Tom, Monk and Ham."
"I am," Doc Savage said quietly. "And I am doing everything possible to find them."
AFTER the hour had passed, the bronze man knew much about the clothing. He knew where the cotton had been grown, what mills had woven the garments, what clothing concern had made them. But to find where they had been sold would take time and might conceivably be valueless.
In each garment, there was dust. Doc concentrated on that. There was more than one kind of dust. The ordinary street variety, Doc dismissed.
There was a peculiar whitish dust. He put it under a strong microscope, studied it, then consulted geologic charts. In the laboratory storeroom were thousands of tiny phials holding ores, rock samples, soils, clays. All were labeled. Doc consulted these also.
The dust came from a rock strata that underlay by some thirty feet the downtown east side of New York City.
Doc Savage telephoned, got a man out of bed, and learned there was a building under construction on the east side. A huge, slum-clearance project, it was now in the excavation stage.
"You will stay here," Doc told his turbaned visitor.
The other blinked. "Why?"
"Rama Tura's men are quartered somewhere near that excavation," the bronze man said. "Otherwise, the dust would not be in their clothing, even the inside of their garments, in such quantity. It has been dry, very dusty weather for excavating."
The other nodded, murmured, "Truly you amaze me," and seemed content to remain behind.
DOC SAVAGE stripped off the rubber laboratory smock and hood and gloves. He substituted certain small containers for others in the pockets of his unusual vest. He drew on his coat.
"You should understand you will be virtually a prisoner here," he said. "The door has no lock, and will only open, thanks to a certain mechanical device, for myself and my men."
The turbaned man hesitated. "I suppose I will be safest here."