"033 (B015) - Murder Melody (1935-11) - Laurence Donovan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"Holy cow!" rapped out Renny. "That's all it's been, Doc! A fellow in bulletproof clothes that called himself Zoro said he was expectin' you!"
"And," remarked Ham dryly, "it seems as if he were speaking the truth. How it was done is among the mysteries, but the time could not have been more than two hours."
"Zoro seems to have known his means of transportation," said Doc. "We were shot down, as Monk has told you, by one of our own pistols in the hands of a girl. But the ringing in our ears comes from the instruments resembling flutes."
"Then you ran up against some of the same gang," declared Renny. "And now we are on the steamer Narwhal and it's running tail first, at high speed, without any power."
Monk emitted a soulful groan.
"Howlin' calamities!" he moaned. "Johnny an' me fly like nice little birdies with a couple of greasy Hindus! Then we're spirited a few thousand miles in an hour! Next time I wake up I suppose I'll be an angle-worm or maybe a fish!"
Ham let out a laugh of delighted glee.
"Even that might be an improvement," he stated solemnly. "But seeing you've got as far as the trees in the scale of evolution, it seems impossible."
"If I could only get my hands loose!" howled Monk. "Ouch!"
His sudden effort had tightened the metallic choker.
"You dag-goned shyster, you made me do that!"
Ham chuckled, then he said seriously, "What have you discovered about this Zoro, Doc?"
THE bronze man said nothing. The space of the hold was suddenly filled with an eerie exotic trilling. Though his companions were aware this emanated from Doc, all instinctively rolled their heads. The weird music of the flutes was still an acute memory.
Doc had sensed the slowing of the ship. The Narwhal had been shooting through the water at tremendous speed. Its slowing was so abrupt it shifted the bodies of the men on the grating. Two figures in the metallic jackets rolled from the darkness.
They were Caulkins and Cassalano. Doc identified them without speaking. He was listening intently. The Narwhal had been stopped as quickly as if it had been grounded. But it had not. There was no impact. Now there was a slight grating sound. Apparently their floating prison had been brought close to a rocky shore.
On the deck overhead feet scuffled along the steel plates. One heavy voice boomed out.
"By the great hornspoon! You shiny faced devils can't steal my ship out from under me! It's nothin' but danged piracy, that's what it is! You've busted off the rudder an' the propeller! Lemme outta this infernal steel shirt an' I'll wring your scrawny necks!"
"Evidently our friend the captain is also wearing an especially tailored suit," commented Ham. "They must be putting the others ashore."
A slow, unperturbed voice instantly confirmed Ham's conjecture.
"You will have your ship returned, my good captain. We have use for it only a short time. Your men have been left plenty of food. When we return you shall be paid in virgin gold more valuable than several inferior iron vessels such as this would be worth. Your own men can easily free you from the tunic when we have departed."
Captain Jarnagin's protesting voice roared once more. But the scuffling feet passed overside. In a few minutes the ship moved again. Now its speed seemed even greater than before.
DOC rolled his giant body closer to Monk, who lay nearest on the grating. At a glance, he had solved the device by which the imprisoning jackets were fastened.
But he saw this was of such ingenious construction that only the human hand could unlock it. He had hoped it might be possible to gain their freedom by using their teeth.
Homer Pearson Caulkins contrived to squirm his body over to Doc. The economist's lean face was blue with cold, but his courage seemed unshaken.
"I had always looked forward to the pleasure of meeting you, Clark Savage," he stated, "but the circumstances are somewhat strange. However, I know of no other living human I would rather have beside me in the present emergency. This man who calls himself Zoro seems to have some greatly advanced scientific weapons."
"Your work in the South has been good," Doc stated. "Both of us apparently chose an unfortunate time in which to meet Zoro."
Caulkins seemed somewhat surprised by the bronze man's words.
"Surely, Savage, you would not put it that it was by choice you are here?" he said quickly. "I certainly never would choose to meet any one like this Zoro."
"It was by choice," advised Doc calmly. "Only I have not yet had the opportunity to see him. That will soon be granted, I hope."
"He can only be some sort of a madman," declared Caulkins. "By the way, Savage, you know Cassalano, the mineralogist?"
"I have been greatly impressed by his wide knowledge," said the bronze man.
"Thank you," spoke up the bound professor of minerals. "Did you hear this Zoro telling the captain he would pay for the ship in virgin gold?"
"Huh!" snorted Monk. "An' they write their messages on paper made outta pure gold!"
Not often did one of Doc's men disclose so much, but Monk often let his enthusiasm betray him.
"Messages?" put in Caulkins quickly. "Then you have had some messages from this Zoro? I thought it was more than mere coincidence three of your men happened to be in the vicinity of our ship."
There was no doubt but that his tone was filled with suspicion. Doc made no answer.
THEIR floating prison had resumed its voyage with hissing speed. The rush of the passing water filled the hold with a rumbling roar. The craft, though moving backward, was slicking through ocean swells as if the ocean were smooth as glass. The thick steel plates could be seen to tremble and weave under the strain.
Doc and his men became quickly aware of a rising temperature in their prison. It seemed impossible in the short space of time, but Doc knew they had entered the Japan Current. This is the great river in the Pacific Ocean which makes California a winter resort, and gives Oregon, Washington and British Columbia coasts much higher temperatures than places of the same latitude on the Atlantic.
Caulkins had not spoken again to Doc or his men. He had shifted to one side and was conversing in a low tone with Cassalano.
"Looks like they think we're in cahoots with this Zoro," remarked Long Tom in a subdued voice.
Doc ignored this statement. He had maneuvered himself to a position where he had been watching the sky from a small porthole. The breeze wafted in suddenly had a changed odor. The bronze man breathed deeply.
"We're proceeding dangerously near the lower Washington coast," he stated. "At the terrific speed we are traveling, we are not many minutes from the Columbia River bar."
"Dag-gonit, Doc!" exclaimed Monk. "How could you know that?"
"There could be no mistaking the whale rendering plant below Gray's Harbor with this offshore breeze," obliged the bronze man. "The harbor is the next above the Columbia River entrance. We have been pulled through the sea at a speed never before attained by any craft on land, or sea, or in the air."
Doc Savage had spoken the truth. While its irate master was cooling his heels on an isolated island off the lower British Columbia coast, his Narwhal had fled through the night with the speed of a ghost ship. Though it was not yet dawn, the vessel was indeed approaching the great bar across the mouth of the wide Columbia River.
SINCE his awakening, Doc had been working steadily with his hands. Tensing his corded muscles against the tightening choker of the metallic jacket, he had discovered one surprising fact.
Though he had been rendered temporarily helpless, the Zoromen had overlooked several of the small devices which Doc carried in concealed pockets over his bulletproof vest. Or perhaps they had regarded certain small vials as inconsequential. Clearly Zoro had vast faith in his own weapons and thorough scorn for those he had chosen to make his enemies.
The bronze man's groping fingers encountered a new object. It was a round, flat disk. This was close to his breast. The bulletproof vest overlaid it. Innumerable as were his inventions, Doc knew always where to place his hands upon them.
This contrivance had not been there when he was on the glacier. It had been placed upon him during the two-hour interval of his unconsciousness. Doc might have suspected a trick. It could have been some deadly infernal machine.
But the bronze man's memory was as perfect as a recording disk. Once he had seen or touched anything, its details remained etched in his brain. And once before he had come in contact with just such a contrivance. It had been under the tunic of the murdered man in Stanley Park.