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

When the fresh coppers hit the sidewalk, their guns were in their hands. But they did not fire. They halted, as if invisible hands had gripped their throats. They were in the dense opaqueness of the blinding gas. It lay thickly about them, inert in the damp black mist.
The choleric Inspector Carnahan rolled from the car.
"What the blazes now?" he gasped, clawing at his eyes. He may have thought for a moment the black fog was responsible for his sudden sightlessness. Then he roared, "Now I know Doc Savage is behind some of this crazy stuff! Feel your way over to that window!"
BOTH the big men now were at the window. The one outside whipped a small bottle from an inner pocket. He peered intently through the clumsy goggles. From the bottle came a yellow, sharp-smelling fluid. It flowed through a tiny rubber-hoselike device.
The liquid from the bottle followed the grisly outline of the woman's shadow in the glass. One big hand pushed in the center of the figure. The whole section of the heavy plate glass bent inward.
The weight of the glass was as much as two average men could have lifted. The big, goggled man inside caught it with ease. Then he shifted from the display window and picked his way rapidly through the milling mobsters.
The goggled man outside slid along the building. The black fog swallowed him.
"Great Jehoshaphat!" bellowed Inspector Carnaham. "They've gone an' snatched the corpus delicti! The woman's gone!"
The blinded inspector was feeling cautiously along the smooth, razorlike edges of the window glass from which the murder shadow had been abducted under his very nose.
In the rear of the store, a car started. The motor of this car gave forth no loud explosions. It was a mere hissing of an engine that could deliver super-power almost silently.
The cursing mobsters were slowly recovering their sight. One man ran outside and whistled softly. Others followed. A low whistle replied from across the street. The "laborers" who had attempted to snatch the murder shadow window poured into the thoroughfare.
The rear doors of the bread truck opened. Men packed themselves into the space. The truck started away with a clashing of gears.
Chapter VIII. FUSSEIN, THE BEDOUIN
THEIR noses were high-arched and thin as rapiers of bone. Set deep in their skulls, beady black eyes glittered. Their skins were of the color and texture of old copper.
When the elevator rose to the eighty-sixth floor of the impressive skyscraper, one of the men stepped out. The other moved as if to follow. One hand flashed under his coat. It came out bearing a pointed knife.
The keen blade touched the throat of the elevator operator. The youth paled, started to raise his hands, gasping, "Don't! What do you want?"
The dark-skinned man with the knife spoke in perfect English.
"You will accompany us to the quarters of this Doc Savage. Make no outcry and you will not be harmed. You are sure no one is now in these quarters?"
"N-no one is there," stammered the scared operator. "But I don't dare go in there."
"You will remain with us, or your time will be short," said the dark-skinned man. "It is the will of Allah."
The youth preceded his captor. He knew nothing whatever about this "Allah." But the knife was persuasive.
Both dark-skinned men wore correct American evening attire. The neatness and elegance of their clothing had caused them to pass muster in the lower corridor of the building.
But the piercing black eyes and beaklike nose of the leading man might well have been the features of a sheik of sheiks. These men had waited in the shadows of the rain-filled morning until they had witnessed the departure of Doc Savage's companions from the building.
The two Bedouins were prepared for trouble. They would have been ready enough to kill.
Accompanied by the shaking elevator man, they halted before a door. This bore in small bronze letters:
CLARK SAVAGE, JR.
The leading man dived hands into his pockets. A variety of instruments were produced. The tools would have done credit to the most expert American burglar. The sheiklike fellow tried one instrument after another. The lock was of a pattern that resisted any ordinary means of picking it.
Had Doc Savage been there, he would merely have raised his hands and the door would have opened. The Bedouin knew nothing of selenium cells and invisible electrical rays. He had never seen any kind of a lock among the black tents of the desert.
The Bedouins talked in low voices. Their words were only gobbling gutturals to the elevator man. They sounded sinister. The man's knees persisted in knocking together.
The lock picker swore in Arabic over the stubborn door. He was using a slender, curved tool. Suddenly the lock yielded. The door was swinging open.
THE Bedouin's eyes darted about the bronze man's outer room. The black orbs held deep suspicion. The opening of the door had puzzled him. He was familiar with the instruments he had used. Well, perhaps the wirelike tool was responsible. The Bedouin shrugged his skinny shoulders.
Both visitors looked admiringly at the furnishings of Doc Savage's office. They eyed the telephone contrivances. The complicated devices were different from any telephones they had ever seen. They did not know the bronze man's phones were equipped to record all calls and to repeat all messages without the assistance of any person.
One Bedouin kept the persuasive point of his knife touching the neck of the elevator man. The operator oozed perspiration. It ran down his spine in a cold stream. If he got out of this alive, the young man was firmly resolved to resign this job. This was the second time he had had a run-in with some of Doc's peculiar visitors.
He judged the third time, if there was a third time, would be three times and out.
The leading Bedouin crossed to the big library door. He pushed tentatively at the chrome-steel panels. The door opened so readily that he grunted and sprang to one side. His hand whipped to a knife under his coat.
But the great library room was empty. The Bedouin murmured to his companion. Interpreted, the words meant, "The All-Wise One must know." A crafty smile came over the faces of both Bedouins.
Apparently they had great faith in this "All-Wise One."
One said, "He surely has prepared the way for us."
He spoke deep words of truth. The way had indeed been prepared, but not as they imagined.
The Bedouins gobbled. They were speaking of "the bronze man" and great wisdom. They were surveying the thousands of solidly shelved books. If this Doc Savage knew the contents of one-tenth of these volumes, he must have infinite knowledge, was their opinion.
After a thorough inspection of the library, the Bedouins moved toward an inner door. This led to the bronze man's laboratory.
THE door opened at a touch. The leading Bedouin again whipped his hand to the knife under his coat. The elevator man was suddenly propelled ahead of the others. The point of the knife was sufficient without any other order.
Though he was frightened, the elevator man gasped and almost forgot his own predicament. He had never seen such a glittering array of instruments. They arose mysteriously from the floor. Some reached nearly to the ceiling.
Metal and marble boards were filled with innumerable devices and lights.
The leading Bedouin moved his lips, as if he were praying. He was doing just that. Here were weird marvels of mystic significance, as he viewed them. Allah, the Prophet, was all-powerful in the desert. But the Bedouin wasn't so sure Allah would know much about all this.
The veritable forest of machines, the chemical and scientific contraptions plainly were awe-inspired to the Bedouins. After all, they were simple Arabs of the desert.
The Bedouin leader licked his tongue across his papery-thin lips. He moved with infinite caution, careful not to touch any of the many devices. He knew all the hardships and dangers of the Rahia, the drive over waterless spaces; the threats of the ghrazzu, when enemy tribes were robbed of their treasures.
Those things he understood. These things he did not.
Telling his companion to remain near the door, the leader moved carefully down the long middle aisle of the laboratory. He acted as if he were lost in a forest of eerie possibilities.
A square desk lay close to his right hand. The Bedouin came as motionless as a statue. His tongue unwrapped some choice language. The other Bedouin craned forward, staring.