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

The electrical wizard twisted his head to get a look at the wall. What he saw caused him to swallow. The wall was full of pits which had been made, no doubt, by rifle bullets. So here was where they shot their spies.
"A blindfold?" General Vigo inquired, much too politely.
"Yes," Long Tom said promptly.
General Vigo seemed surprised, but before he could speak, Long Tom explained.
"I don't want to be looking at the fellow who kills me," he said. "He might have bad dreams."
Contrarily enough, that struck General Vigo as extremely funny. His roar of laughter echoed off the walls, and sounded exactly like the noise of a farmyard turkey.
"Ready!" he bawled at the execution squad.
That shouted word was very loud. It carried beyond the compound wall and reached the ears of the crowd which had gathered outside. These curious persons had not been admitted to the stockade. Apparently no spectators were allowed. A tense silence settled over this small throng.
"Aim!" They all heard General Vigo shout the word.
If anything, the tension, the silence, increased.
On the outskirts of the listening crowd stood the insignificant man with the pocked face, the fellow who had been observing the proceedings with such interest. He strained his ears.
"Fire!" came General Vigo's command.
It was almost drowned by a volley of rifle shots. In the midst of the ragged fusillade, every one in the listening throng distinctly heard a cry of agony, exactly such a scream as a man would utter when he feels death lead in his vitals.
Silence followed that.
STRANGELY ENOUGH, only one man in the throng outside the stockade smiled. Every one else was sober. Death was not a pleasant thing.
But one man smiled, and that man was the pock-faced, curious spectator. After permitting himself the smile, he turned and scuttled back among the huts. He lost himself in the shabbier part of the village.
In one respect this village resembled the capital city of Santa Amoza, Alcala. It had stray pigeons. There was not a great number of them, but, nevertheless, there were pigeons.
So no one noted one particular pigeon which arose shortly from the village and winged in the direction of Santa Amoza. Certainly, no one caught the significance of the bird, because carrier pigeons look very much like ordinary pigeons.
Long Tom Roberts was dead. The bird carried word of the end of Doc Savage's aide.
Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
THE AIR SPEED indicator needle stood near three-hundred-miles-an-hour; but the instrument was not entirely reliable. Not that it was defectiveЧup here in the stratosphere there were wind currents, terrific in velocity, which carried an aircraft hither and yon so that only by celestial observation could speed be reliably calculated.
Doc Savage, a giant of bronze, leaned over a lighted map board, marking their position.
"At this speed, we should be in Alcala, capital of Santa Amoza, in another three hours," he said quietly.
Monk, a grotesque, baboon figure in the vague light of the stratosphere airship control cabin, lifted a furry hand to stifle a yawn.
"This chariot sure can travel," he muttered sleepily.
No clouds were about them, for they were too high. A cotton mass of vapor was some thousands of feet below. It was night. The clouds underneath had the aspect of silver which needed polishing in spots. Overhead, the sky looked remarkably black, the stars unnaturally bright.
Ham, dapperly clad as usual, was in the rear of the control room, applying a bilious looking substance to the tip of his sword cane. The bilious concoction was a drugged mixture which would produce abrupt unconsciousness should a victim be pricked. Ham finished his task and came forward.
He said, "Doc, if you wish to get some sleep, Monk and myself can handle the craft."
Doc Savage shook his head. "Not tired. You and Monk turn in."
Ham nodded agreement, turned, and immediately stumbled over something that emitted a startled grunt.
Monk's bulky form straightened, his homely face contorted with what, if it was not rage, was an excellent imitation.
"Be careful, you fashion plate!" Monk howled. "You kicked that hog on purpose."
Ham sniffed and managed to do it with great dignity.
"Get your insect out of the way," he requested.
The homely Monk, registering great indignation, began to examine the object over which Ham had stumbled. This was a pig. The shote was one of striking appearance, having a scrawny body, the legs of a dog, an inquiring snout, and ears which induced thoughts of a young elephant.
The pig was Habeas Corpus, Monk's pet.
Monk picked Habeas up by one over-sized ear, looked him over, and sat him down again, then glared at Ham. The dapper lawyer glared back. They did this as a matter of habit. Not only did they never speak civilly to each other, but they invariably looked as if they were on the point of indulging in mutual murder.
Doc Savage had resumed his position calculations. The speed of the dirigible and more especially the velocity and vagary of the air currents made frequent checks necessary. The lighter-than-air craft was much more subject to being swept off its course than would have been a heavier plane.
ALL SEEMED peaceful, safe, aboard the unusual aircraft. But appearances are deceptive.
Dirigibles are, of necessity, complicated craft, with many structural intricacies. In this one, for instance, there was a little tunnel of a catwalk running underneath from bow to stern, and another on top. There were various chimneylike tunnels with ladders. It was possible to reach almost any part of the gas bag by this system of passages. They were there so that repairs might be made easily while in the air.
They furnished an excellent hiding place; and, as such, they had been taken advantage of.
Two men crouched in one of the tunnels. Both of them had been with the gang which attempted to murder Doc Savage with the elevator trap in New York City. One was the burly fellow whose physical build somewhat resembled that of a box with short legs.
It was very cold up here in the stratosphere. The two skulkers, stowaways in fact, were blue, and almost too stiff to shiver. They had to hold hands over their mouths so that breath could warm their blue lips, in fact, before they could whisper to each other. They had been doing this for the last few moments, preparatory to a conversation.
"We can't hold out much longer," whispered the box-of-a-man's companion.
The burly fellow tried to agree with a nod, but was so cold he could hardly manage even that slight motion. "We're gonna freeze stiff," he said.
"This is a helluva hiding place," the other complained.
"We was damn lucky to get away with even this," the burly fellow told his companion earnestly.
"This Doc Savage ain't such hot stuff," said the first. "He didn't find out we were aboard."
The other man now managed a pronounced shiver which was not due entirely to the cold.
"Don't fool yourself," he mumbled. "The bronze guy took off in a heck of a hurry for South America."