"032 (B032) - Dust of Death (1935-10) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Dust of Death
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson


Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
THE PLANE slammed down for a landing in a way that stood the hair on end, and conveyed the thought that the pilot did not care much for his life. The ship sank out of the South American sky in a power dive that made a moan which could be heard for miles. It hauled out, went into a side-slip that seemed more than a ship could stand. Then it landed.
The landing told things. The pilot was neither reckless nor a fool. He was a wizard.
The man who got out of the plane looked as if he were about ready to die. Not that he was wounded, not that he had any affliction. He was just a pale bag of bones, and not a very large bag. His complexion was about as inviting as green bananas.
The man peered about. Then, quite suddenly, he shoved a hand inside his greasy flying suit.
The flying field was jittery with heat waves. The fighting planesЧvery modern military planes they wereЧover by the army hangars were like baked insects that had just crawled out of hangars that were ovens.
Trouble was coming from the hangars in the shape of a squad of uniformed brown soldiers. There was trained precision in their advance, even if they were in a hurry. Their faces were grim and their rifles cleanЧcocked.
The officer in charge of the squad, was dapper, efficient, and, coming up to the flyer who had the look of an invalid, he presented a blue automatic, muzzle first. He spoke brisk and grim Spanish.
"This is a military airport, seёor," he said. "No landings are permitted here. You are under arrest."
"Si, si, amigo,"
said the puny-looking flyer.
He took his hand out of his flying suit and it held papers, official looking. He passed them over.
The officer took them and read them, and his eyebrows went up, then down, and his shoulders did the same. He spoke English this time and it was not especially good.
"Our consul, he ees not have right for you thees military field to use," he said. "Eet ees not what you callЧcallЧ"
"Not regular, I know," said the flyer. "But suppose you call your chief, contact some one high up in the war department. I did a little telephoning before I started."
The officer did tricks with his eyebrows while he thought that over.
"I will see," he said. "You wait."
He took the papers, which the flyer had given him, and walked away briskly, going past the hangars and along the walk which led to the operations office.
THE OFFICER took quick strides, eyeing from time to time the documents which obviously held great interest for him. He shook his head, sucked his tongue, and spoke to himself.
"If this flyer's identity is as these papers say," he murmured, "it means great and amazing things are to come."
He turned a corner briskly. The path, virtually an alley, ran between thick walls of shrubbery on either side.
"If this man is who these say he is," the officer waved papers at himself, "the mystery of the Inca in Gray may be solved after all."
A man came out of the bushes into the path behind the officer. He came swiftly without much noise.
The man was bent over and his hands were across his middle as if he had a permanent pain there. A beggar, to judge by his looks. His hair was long. His poncho ragged, his fiber sandals frayed. Unless the matter was given thought, it might not occur that the fellow was excellently disguised.
"
Seёor soldado," the ragamuffin, hissed, "I have something to tell, important."
The officer stopped, turned and, surprised, let the tall, stooped bundle of rags come up to him. He was unsuspicious. In the South American republic of Santa Amoza civilians treated army officers with respect. Not being suspicious was the officer's mistake.
The ragamuffin had a knife concealed in his hand. But the officer did not see that until he looked down at his chest and saw the hilt sticking out over his heart. Queerly, the army man kept his mouth closed tightly. But, after a moment, strings of crimson leaked from the corners of his mouth, a string from each corner at almost the same time. Then the army officer, in a slow, horrible way, got down on his hands and knees and lay on the knife hilt so that the point was shoved on through, and the point came out of the back of his neat khaki uniform.
He kicked as he died.
THE KILLER was a thrifty soul. He got his knife. Then he got the papers. After which he scampered away through the brush, making as little noise as he could.
Beyond the flying field was jungle, where there was rainfall down here on the coast where sat Alcala, capital city of Santa Amoza. Once in the jungle, the slayer ran as if his shadow were a devil. After a time, he came to a house, a very miserable looking hovel and apparently untenanted, but which held a modern telephone.
The telephone set-up was remarkable. Not the instrument itself, which was ordinary, but the box of apparatus through which its circuit ran. The device was what is known as a "scrambler" and it was ordinarily employed by telephone companies on government lines where eavesdroppers were not wanted. Only the proper unscrambler at the other end would make intelligible what went over the wire.
"Word must be got to the Inca in Gray," said the killer. "The thing we feared has happened."
"What do you mean?" demanded a coarse voice.
They were speaking Spanish.
"Major Thomas J. Roberts just arrived at military field," snapped the slayer. "I thought I recognized him. I used my knife on a fool officer, and got diplomatic passes which prove the man is indeed Major Thomas J. Roberts."
"And who might Major Thomas J. Roberts be?" the voice over the wire demanded.
"Who was your father, my friend?" asked the killer.
"He was a man of Inca blood, of which I am proud," rapped the other. "And what has that to doЧ"
"I thought he must have been an ox," sneered the slayer, "for naught but an ox could sire a son so dumb. This man Roberts is more commonly known as Long Tom."
"And so what, insulting dog?" demanded the other. "Is this Long Tom Seёor Diablo himself?"
"He is worse," declared the ragamuffin. "He is the assistant, one of the five assistants rather, of the one man our master, the Inca in Gray, fears."
"Continue, man of many words and little information," directed the voice on the wire.
"Doc Savage!" said the killer. "Long Tom is the assistant of Doc Savage."
There was silence. It was a long silence, as if the man on the other end of the wire had been hit a hard blow and was recovering. Then he began to swear, and his profanity was like the explosions of bundles of fire-crackers. He started in a loud scared voice and swore until he ran out of breath.