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

The snow did not impede the progress of the spherical object. For where the globe touched, there was instantly no snow.
The fronts of buildings, the skeleton-like structure of the "el," the coupщ and the other cars were abruptly bathed in a weird, greenish light. The light was a warm glowing, yet it seemed to have some substance. It was as if the air had suddenly been filled with invisible particles.
THE second sedan had been pulled to the opposite side of the street, some distance away. Two men sprang from this car, running as they hit the street. These men were unmasked. Their white faces looked drawn and desperate under visors of caps pulled low over their eyes.
The two men swung automatic pistols of heavy caliber. They seemed intent upon reaching the four men with the dull leaden masks. But they did not shoot. The sedan from which they had come remained standing.
The air was filled with a low, slow hissing. The rolling globe lost the impetus it had been given. It was close to the young woman.
The woman, then in front of one of the plate-glass windows, gave forth a scream. The cry was high-pitched, almost animal in its utter anguish. Only death could wring such an emanation from a human throat.
There was another, lesser scream. It was like a minor echo of the death wail. This came from the yellow coupщ from which the young woman had come. A slender figure, closely hooded and cloaked, slipped from the little car. This was the other woman.
The glowing of the strange globe on the sidewalk was blinding in its intensity. The two men armed with automatics skidded to a halt in the snow. They cursed wildly and swabbed their coat sleeves across their eyes.
The slim figure from the car crossed the sidewalk. It reached the building front. The woman ran along the buildings, guiding herself with one lightly touching hand. Arriving at a cross alley between streets, she darted into it.
For a few more seconds the whole street was filled with the low, slow hissing. The invisible particles seemed to fill the air with a minor crackling. The fluorescent, greenish glow gave the snow an unearthly aspect.
With the one soul-chilling scream, the young woman who was attempting to reach the elevated, vanished from before the tall plate-glass window. The space between this spot and the stairs of the "el" was brightly illuminated. But the woman did not reach the steps of the "el."
For a matter of seconds, it appeared she might have fallen in the snow; that the fleecy downfall had buried her. But all around, the snow was melting as if touched by sudden, fierce heat. And when the pavement in front of the plate-glass windows was smooth and bare, the woman was not there.
The four men in the masks of leaden color moved like automatons. The pair with the long-handled tongs reached the sidewalk. Between them, they trapped and nipped the globe that had come from the sedan. With the tongs they swung it back into an opened door of the car.
All climbed in quickly. The sedan jumped away with a clashing of gears. The driver did not appear to be an expert, but he was in a hurry to leave. The car skidded around the corner, following the line of "el" pillars.
PATRICK BRENNAN, the patrolman, was ringing in at a box in the next cross avenue when the woman screamed. The patrolman's teeth had been playing like castanets. His light, summer uniform had not been made for a July blizzard.
Dropping the patrol box phone, Brennan whipped toward the corner.
Blinding luminance shut off the policeman's vision as if a camera shutter had clicked. He groped with one hand around the corner building.
Patrolman Brennan first saw the outline of the yellow coupщ. He hard-heeled toward it. His feet were hitting bare pavement. He clop-clopped over to the little car. His vision caught the music store window. He stared for a moment, his lower jaw dropping.
Beyond the coupщ, the two men from the second sedan started running. They held automatics. Both stumbled as if partly blinded.
"Hold it, you two!" barked Patrolman Brennan. "What's this all about? Stop, I say!"
This was a mistake on the part of the policeman. His voice provided the two white-faced men with a target. Their hands whipped up and the automatics erupted with a mean ripple.
Patrolman Brennan sagged, and he coughed. One hand on the side of the coupщ prevented him from collapsing. The erupting streams from the automatics were all that guided his aim. Though his big body was slowly sinking, Patrolman Brennan's hand was steady.
Three jumps of the service revolver and both running men rolled into the snow. One lay still. The body of the other jerked. Patrolman Brennan was now on his knees. He was unable to rise, so he crawled. He clawed his way into the street, making toward the halted, second sedan.
The driver of this car ignored the bodies in the street. The sedan moved away mockingly. Patrolman Brennan lifted his revolver. His finger curled around the trigger. But his strength left him.
Scarlet fluid trickled from the policeman's lips. It stained the snow in a circle around his head.
The yellow coupщ stood alone and empty. All life had gone from the block. The three bodies were only dark lumps. These were whitening with the still-falling snow.
In the space where the young woman had been before the plate-glass window of the music store was a blackened area. The pavement looked as if a searing iron had been run over it.
The young woman's body could not be seen.
On the sidewalk in front of the music store was a queer little collection of objects.
Directly before the plate-glass window lay a satchel purse of metallic chain mesh. The purse had flopped open. A small caliber automatic pistol, such as a woman might have carried for protection, had slipped out.
A dozen bright metal buttons lay in a glittering cluster. From these emanated the greenish glow which still lingered over the street.
A diamond ring had rolled to the edge of the curb. An expensive wrist watch and earrings set with emeralds were close to the window of the music store.
Of the lovely figure which the jewelry had adorned, there was no slightest trace.
Chapter II. "CORPUS DELICTI" IN GLASS
CORDED bronze hands moved deftly among a variety of gleaming instruments affixed to a panel of black marble. The tiny lights set in the panel were reflected in flaky, golden eyes. The specks of light moved in the bronze man's orbs as if they had been caught in small whirlwinds.
Doc Savage's bronze skin over his corded neck merged with the smooth mask of similarly tinged hair. He was so motionless in concentration that his head gave the effect of being that of a carved statue.
"There is no doubt but what the snowstorm of itself is isolated and purely local in the New York area," stated the bronze man. "But there are indications possibly of other distant spots similarly affected. She said there might be sudden weather changes."
The bronze man's words were more musing tone, rather than a statement to the three companions then with him. For nearly an hour, he had been studying the freakish July snowstorm. With the radio and other instruments, he had been checking many widely separated areas of the world.
The scientific equipment in the eighty-sixth floor headquarters of the noted adventurer was advanced in its design. With but a touch, Doc Savage could contact almost any latitude.
"Johnny," who never used a short word where a longer one would serve, was busy with the radio.
"This barometric phenomenon is indubitably a solaric manifestation beyond the scope of casual elucidation," observed the scholarly geologist and archeologist of Doc Savage's adventurous group.
"That would be sun spots to you, Monk, if even such simple words come within range of simian understanding," grinned "Ham," flicking some dust from the sleeve of a suit that was the latest in summer fashions.
"Monk's" broad body nearly filled one opened window. His figure was almost as wide as it was long. He turned and his small eyes snapped with fire under his gristled brows. Hair the color of rust stuck out like clipped wires around his ears and on his neck. His hands were covered with it. It looked like shaggy fur.
Monk's body shook with indignation. One furry hand scooped snow from the window ledge.
"In less than a minute, one crackpot shyster will be in the market for a new suit of dude clothes!" he squealed.
For HamЧBrigadier General Theodore Marley BrooksЧone of the most astute lawyers ever graduated from Harvard, and MonkЧLieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, famous chemistЧconsidered any day misspent without the exchange of caustic insult.
Johnny continued his observations on the weather. The keen, scholarly geologist was tall and bony to the point of emaciation. As William Harper Littlejohn, he had occupied one of the highest chairs of learning in a leading university. He spoke in one-syllable words only when he was excited or the going got rough.
"She said there would be sudden weather changes," Doc Savage repeated, glancing at the barometric reading on the black marble board.
Though the repeated statement was cryptic, none of his three companions questioned its meaning. The bronze man would explain in due time.
Just now, the blizzard, or snowy tempest, was at its height. Snow swirled around Monk in the opened window. The impressive skyscraper, with its tower thrusting into the sky, seemed to sway and rock in gusty blasts.