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

"Is some one approaching? I haven't heard anything but the underground rifling of strata."
Both men then shifted their gaze to Doc.
The eerie melody, though it was faint, was similar in its musical running of the scale to the weird whistling emanation which always came from Doc Savage in periods of deep concentration or at the moment of some impending happening. The companions of the bronze man always took it to mean that danger; swift action might be expected in such a moment.
The weird music really was coming from up the main trail.
Doc snapped off the generator flashlight. For seconds he stood as motionless as a carved rock. The heaving of the ground did not disturb the bronze man's balance. His massively corded legs were immovable as pillars of granite.
When Doc Savage spoke, the weird wailing in the distance continued.
"The woman has spoken the truth," he said quietly. "There is danger. We shall investigate."
JOHNNY and Monk knew the bronze man referred to the mysterious message which had brought the world's most amazing adventurer and his five companions to the British Columbia coast. This message had required much extra postage because of its weight, though it had been contained in an envelope of ordinary size.
The letter had been addressed simply to "Clark Savage Jr., New York City." Such general address was sufficient. The postal authorities of the big city knew of only one such man. His regular address was the eighty-sixth floor of Manhattan's most impressive skyscraper.
The message had been sent by registered mail from Seattle. It was unique in that the "paper" on which it was written was not paper at all. It was thinner than the average onionskin parchment, but it was very heavy.
For it was, amazingly enough, of rolled gold leaf, virgin gold.
The writing upon this was stylographic, couched in perfect English. The words seemed to have been etched into the gold leaf with what might have been "silver ink," or some similar chemical.
Doc had known instantly a woman had written it. A young woman. The letters were firmly formed. The style was gracefully flowing.
The bronze man had read the character of the writer. He knew she was a girl of determined and extraordinary personality.
The message read:
Clark Savage, Jr.ЧYour safety is threatened. Watch Aleutian Islands. Come to Stanley Park, Vancouver, B. C., at 2 a. m. on the 16th. Be at old reservoir above zoological gardens. Perhaps slight earth shaking will precede my messenger. You will learn more.
This message had been unsigned. The uncanny intuition of Doc Savage made him know when one of the countless communications he received was of great importance. Then he had received the letter the previous day. About that time came the inexplicable temblor in the New England coastal region.
Doc and his five companions had arrived on Burrard Inlet in two of his special airplanes only this evening. One of the planes had immediately taken off for the north, at Doc's order.
AS always, when the bronze man said, "We shall investigate," he was already many yards in advance of Johnny and Monk. The three followed the gloomy tunnel of the main trail in the direction from which the queer melody had come.
Doc's swift gliding movement always was soundless. Johnny was likewise jungle trained to catlike progress. Monk's feet scuffed some in the trail gravel. The hands at the ends of his long arms swung below his knees.
The occasionally spaced light bulbs gave them little illumination. Doc's ultrasensitive ears, however, were guiding him directly to the secluded bench on which a man was in the final throes of death. The bronze man's auditory nerves were several times as selective as those of an ordinary man.
Doc surprised the others by suddenly placing his finger tips in his ears. For some reason, he was not surprised when this did not seem to lessen the impact of the music. It had a knifelike piercing quality.
"Sounds like a whole hive of giant bees," stated Johnny. "And I can almost feel them stinging."
"Nothin' but some dag-goned mosquitoes buzzin' around," complained Monk, slapping at his small ears buried in tufts of gristly hair.
"Keep your ears plugged," advised Doc. "This is strange to me."
Johnny and Monk hastily followed their leader's example. Anything which might be strange to the bronze man must be strange indeed.
Even with his ears thus stopped by his fingers, Doc heard the final, faint scuffling of a man's feet in the dead leaves and gravel just off the main trail.
The earth shook again. The weird music ceased as suddenly as it had begun. The rumbling crash of the dead tree obliterated all other sound.
Doc had led the way around the trunk of a massive fir tree.
Here the yellowish, misty glow of the string of trail lights played into a niche where sat a bench. The bench was of carved iron. It was painted green.
"Some guy's sleepin' on it," whispered Monk. "Gosh! You'd think all them trees jumpin' and crackin' woulda waked him up!"
Doc had glided to the bench. His flashlight was held down close, its presence nearly obscured by his corded bronze hands.
"This one will never awaken," he said quietly.
He was lifting the man's head.
"Looks like he has been strangled," said Johnny. "Say, he's wearing some kind of make-up!"
Doc said nothing. He lifted the dead man's head gently. The mouth of the corpse was gaping open. The man had every appearance of having been choked.
But there was total absence of any discoloration such as would appear from strangulation. The man's thin throat bore no marks of any character.
The face was smooth, even calm. It had a silvery glowing texture, which had caused Johnny to remark the make-up effect. The skin seemed poreless, as if encased in a layer of tinfoil, only of a much finer color.
Outwardly, the man was normally clad. A tan raincoat was pulled around his body. Doc lifted the man's chin. The mouth gaped open with ghastly effect. The raincoat fell open.
"Lookit!" exclaimed Monk. "He's the fella was playin' that crazy tune, Doc!"
THEY could see the dead man apparently carried no weapon. Under his coat was a curious, tightly woven shirt of some silken substance. It came down like a tunic. Glass buttons of an obsidian character ornamented the front of the garment, but they were irregularly spaced. They were not employed to fasten the garment.
Monk pushed forward. A slender metal tube was sticking under what seemed to be the loose belt of the tunic. Doc said nothing as Monk removed the instrument. The bronze man's fingers had moved so rapidly the eyes of his companions had not followed them.
He had removed a small roll of papery gold from the throat of the corpse.
Johnny took the slender tube from Monk. He fiddled it over his long, thin fingers. He tested it experimentally with a thumbnail. The weight of it was obtained by delicately balancing it over his finger tips.
"This is an example of remarkable metallurgical craftsmanship," concluded Johnny. "This has one-fifth the specific gravity of aluminum with a carboniferous molecular density. I have never before encountered such an alloy."
"Huh?" piped up Monk's childish treble. "It ain't nothin' but one of them flutes what the fella plays marchin' in that picture of Washington crossin' the Delaware in the Revolutionary War."
Monk's knowledge of chemistry was vast, but history was mostly an unexplored region to him.
"That dead man's the fella was playin' it, I'll betcha," Monk added. "I used to know how to blow a horn. Lemme show yuh."
One of his hairy paws extracted the flutelike instrument from Johnny's hands. Monk placed it to his lips.
Doc hardly seemed to move. But the "flute" did not reach Monk's mouth for him to demonstrate how he had once blown a horn.