"035 (B071) - Murder Mirage (1936-01) - Laurence Donovan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

The man of bronze did not divulge the disappearance of Monk and Ham. Lady Fotheran's eyes showed her surprise that Doc should know the hotel where she would be stopping. But she did not speak of it.
Doc had checked on the reservation before Lady Fotheran arrived. Carson Dernall named another hotel farther downtown, where he said he could be reached.
"I feel it incumbent upon me to join you in solving the mystery of tonight's happenings and the desert murder mirage," declared Dernall. "With my experience among the Bedouins, I am sure I can be valuable."
"I'm sure your experience will be valuable," agreed Doc. "You shall hear from me."
Chapter VII. A MOB GOES BLIND
EIGHT stalwart policemen were guarding the murder shadow of the woman in the window of the music store. Plainly enough, they did not relish this duty.
That tall, silhouetted figure, with its one slender arm up-raised as if to ward off death, looked too realistic to be a mere picture. After the attempt to break the window, the eight policemen were on the alert.
One copper inside and one outside were armed with short, ugly riot guns. They were ready to blast enthusiastically the first suspicious characters which might appear
Bright brass trumpets and other musical instruments of silvery color reflected the lights behind the unbroken plate glass. The play of this illumination gave the murder shadow the appearance of being in motion.
"Holy cat!" grunted one red-faced copper. "That picture looks like the dame was still alive an' trying to run away from something! I'd swear I saw the thing move!"
The pudgy proprietor of the store was in his small office at the rear of the display room.
"I want they should get that crazy thing out of the window," he complained repeatedly "Would you look? Nobody's coming in here to buy a nickel's worth, as long as the picture stays there!"
The deputy medical examiner had insisted the murder shadow must be kept intact. A heavy conference was being held in the coroner's office. There was no precedent for performing an autopsy on plate glass.
In normal weather, it should have been early daylight. But all of Manhattan was shrouded in thick fog. Black mist wrapped all of the metropolitan area. The sun had not yet arisen far enough to dispel the gloom.
Workers employed in various forms of labor were beginning to appear. Though this was the morning of July 5th, many were wearing overcoats. The midsummer blizzard had left a chill in the air.
Men passing through the streets near the music store carried tools and lunch boxes. The policemen on guard had no means of knowing that a score or more men with the appearance of laborers were rapidly converging on the scene of the murder window.
These men swung along individually. Each wore an overcoat. These swathed some to their knees.
A bread truck, with huge loaves painted on its sides, stopped in front of a store around a corner in the next block. A box of bread was set out. The driver of the truck apparently took time out for a sandwich and a cup of coffee at a near-by lunch stand.
The bread truck remained standing in front of the store.
Half a dozen laborers were approaching the murder window. Each walked alone. Three came alongside the four policemen outside the music store. Soundlessly, but with quick effectiveness, the other three were inside the store.
"Inside, alla you mugs!" grated a voice. "We don't want to start burnin', butЧ"
SNUB-NOSED automatics flashed into the hands of the laborers. Wicked muzzles jammed into the stomachs of the policemen before they could defend themselves. The two armed with riot guns had pistols thrust into their stomachs.
"Why, you dirty rat!" rapped out one of the riot-gun coppers.
"Meanin' me?" growled one of the mobsters. His snub-nosed gun crashed across the policeman's forehead as the riot gun was lifted.
"Back into that office!" snarled a command. "All you get goin'!"
The music store proprietor rushed out. He waved his fat hands.
"Hi, you can't do anything like that! I'llЧ"
There was a minor crack, like the breaking of a sharp stick. A snub-nosed automatic with a clumsy-looking silencer on its snout vomited fire. The music store man clapped his hands over his pudgy stomach. He groaned and coughed. Scarlet threads appeared at the corners of his round mouth.
Then he sat down and rolled over as if very tired.
"Back into that hole in the wall!" grated a harsh command. "We mean business and we're in a hurry!"
At least a dozen more pseudo laborers had joined the original six. The weapons of the eight police were stripped from them. A score of men with hard, grim faces pushed them into the little office of the music store.
Two of the mobsters swung submachine guns. They planted themselves in the doorway of the office. Some mobsters patrolled the outside. Three men moved swiftly inside of the window of the murder picture. Tools for cutting glass appeared in their hands.
From around the corner appeared the bread truck with the loaves painted on its sides. The driver apparently took some interest in the action around the music store. He parked the truck directly across the street.
A glass-cutting tool gritted into the thick plate. The mobster wielding it started a circle around the head and upraised arm of the death-glow phantom.
"Make it snappy!" urged a voice behind the three men. "This is the clean-up!"
The whole building housing the music store seemed to shake.
Blows that might have been struck with a sledge hammer jarred the big door in the rear. A thick panel splintered and a gaping hole appeared. Through this came a man's fist. It was an extraordinary bunch of knuckles. They would have made three or four average fists.
The lock was snapped open. The door swung inward.
Two huge figures appeared. They were beyond ordinary size. Their great bulk caused them to whip into the store singly. Yet they moved with such unbelievable suddenness that the mobsters failed to begin shooting quickly enough. The score or more men had been directing their attention upon the murder window.
THE two big men were strange apparitions. Each wore curiously complicated goggles which covered the tip of his nose. These obscured their features.
The hands of the goggled men flashed under their coats. One pair of these hands moved with the speed of light. The other pair was a bit slower and more clumsy. But in each pair appeared what might have been mistaken for miniature fire extinguishers.
These were of some dull metal. Each had a release value and a little wheel at the end. These wheels turned.
A dozen snakes suddenly released from a cage would have emitted the same sound. It was a sibilant, angry hissing. One of the men at the window yelled.
"Burn 'em! It's gas! They're cops!"
Even while their guns were jumping in their hands, the gunmen discovered their bulky targets had faded from view. Vile oaths rang out. The mobsters stopped shooting. They were groping about. Without causing the slightest pain or smarting, the gas had blinded them effectively.
This blinding gas was a new chemical. It was composed of various sulphides combined with liquefied selenium. It was the first time selenium had ever been successfully liquefied.
ONE of the big men swung around with his hissing tank of gas. "Into the window," he ordered the other man. "I'll take care of the outside."
Though the store was filled with the hubbub of shouts and oaths, the command was spoken in an ordinary tone. One big man reached the street doorway. The other sprang inside the display window of the murder picture.
Holding the gas tank with one hand, the man in the window roared with a booming voice. His free fist shot out with bone-crushing impact. The mobsters with the glass cutters left their feet. One went crashing through a side of plate glass into the store's entryway.
A police siren wailed in the black fog. A squad car rocketed around the corner, brakes squealing. Almost before it had stopped, newly arriving policemen were leaping from the doors.