"038 (B045) - The Man Who Smiled No More (1936-04) - Laurence Donovan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"The idea seems to be that we will save ourselves from heavy losses by retiring about half the ships of the freight fleets," he said. "Our dividends probably will be reduced somewhat. But we can carry on and still show a profit."
"Yes," said another director, "that's the general idea. It's much better than attempting to maintain the whole organization at a loss. We are lucky in having the Domyn. Islands. The big boost in nitrate prices brought on by national armaments ought to keep our net operations about up to the usual figures."
Simon Stevens said nothing.
A director pulled them over the embarrassing lull.
"Well, then I suppose all of us here favor the retirement of as many of the ships as necessary?" he suggested. "Then perhaps we should concentrate on the operation of the Domyn Islands. I would favor doubling our output, or employing more men there."
DOC SAVAGE spoke for the first time. He was watching Simon Stevens closely.
"I had hoped that might happen," said the man of bronze. "As usual, I would like to pass my own dividends to help place more men at work in the islands."
Simon Stevens lifted his eyes to meet the flaky gold orbs of Doc Savage. Doc noted then that the millionaire's face seemed wholly lacking in expression.
Simon Stevens spoke. His words were drawn from some deep well of effort. But his tone was colorless. His announcement was to strike into that luxurious directors' room like a bolt of lightning. He was about to blast a shipping line organization that had been foremost in its earnings over a period of three generations.
Yet his speech was calm, most casual.
"The Domyn Islands?" he said. "Oh, yes. I just now recalled. I sold the Domyn Islands yesterday."
For a full thirty seconds, Doc Savage could clearly hear the ticking of watches in the room. There was one deep, indrawn breath for ten pairs of lungs. At the end of the half minute came the released gasp of all the directors.
"Sold the islands?" spoke one, as if he couldn't believe his ears.
"Fifty per cent of all our stock is wrapped up in the islands!" ventured another. "It's never been mentionedЧnever even proposed. You couldn't have done anything like that! This board wouldn't stand for it!"
Simon Stevens must have heard. But he did not glance at his fellow directors. He was looking at his polished shoes. The shipping line president was entirely unaffected by the amazement of his colleagues.
Doc Savage spoke quietly.
"If the president wanted to sell the islands, it was not necessary to consult any of us," he said. "A vote by the board is no more than a matter of form. Of course, this is a time when a handsome price would be offered. Several nations would like to have control of the nitrate supply."
SIMON STEVENS looked at Doc Savage. Usually, the president's jowls were shaking with some inward mirth when he wasn't laughing aloud. But the big, rounded face now had assumed lines as stiff and hard as granite.
"Just thought of a good one," he said unexpectedly, and without referring to his own momentous announcement. "Did you ever hear the one aboutЧ"
A pointless story rambled along aimlessly for several minutes. Afterward, a director couldn't hold himself any longer.
"Well, if you sold the islands, chief, does it mean we are getting out of business temporarily?" he asked. "Our ships could only operate at a loss. There would be a melon of at least fifty millions to cut from the islands. What was the price?"
"I accepted half a million dollars for the whole outfit," said the shipping line president. "I signed the sales contract at once. We now will vote on the sale of the Domyn Islands. All in favor say, 'Aye.' Those opposed, 'No.'"
"No! No! No! No!!!" shouted ten directors.
Doc Savage was silent. He was watching Simon Stevens.
"The motion is carried," said Simon Stevens, without raising his voice. "The Domyn Islands are sold."
TEN amazed, unbelieving minority stockholders surged from their chairs. For the minute they forgot they were only holders of minority stock in the World Waterways Shipping Corporation. Forgot they were conservative, middle-aged business men. At this instant, they were a mob of ten, cursing, bitter men.
The director nearest to Simon Stevens was a tall man. He so far forgot himself as to brandish his fist under the president's nose.
"You dirty double-crosser!" he shouted. "Nearly all I've got is wrapped up in World Waterways! You can't sell me out!"
His fist whipped out. Simon Stevens was a bigger man, if he was an older one. The tall director's knuckles rasped across the president's bulging jowls.
No emotion whatever appeared in Simon Stevens's countenance. His eyes, half hidden in rolling wrinkles of good-natured fat, remained as cold and unperturbed as those of some fish. Only his big hand went methodically to a heavy inkstand of carved silver beside him.
The hand went up with the inkstand. The thing weighed enough to have brained an ox. And the millionaire shipping line president was putting the weight of a beefy arm behind the swing. The tall director was off balance. The inkstand could not have missed his skull.
None could have told how Doc Savage had whipped across that room. The bronze giant had lifted to his toes. He was moving with incredible speed, as the inkstand went over Simon Stevens's head. One immense bronze arm became a swiftly shooting steel piston.
The inkstand descended with a crash. The tall director went off his feet. His lanky body flew half the length of the room before he collapsed. But the blow that had caught him was delivered by Doc Savage's fist. It was lucky for the director that Doc had picked out the tall man's shoulder as a target.
Taking the full straight-arm from Doc Savage would not have been much of an improvement over being brained by a carved-silver inkstand.
SIMON STEVENS sat down. Even now, he showed no emotion. Instead of hurling a murderous inkstand, he rolled the fat cigar with his teeth, chewing its end calmly.
Doc Savage was looking directly into the man's eyes. What he saw there was not pleasant.
But the bronze man said to the other directors, "Perhaps we should talk this over more calmly. I am convinced you will feel differently when we know more of the circumstances. Simon, no doubt, has not informed us of all to be told in connection with selling the Domyn Islands. I have as much interest as any of you. We will listen."
The directors resumed their seats. Doc Savage returned to his chair beside the open window. For probably two minutes, there was the shuffling of men a bit ashamed of giving away to their emotions.
Doc was looking from the window. He saw a swarthy man with a shoe shiner's box over his shoulder. Even at that distance, the fixed, horrible, death's-head grin on the man's face was clear to Doc. His eyes, like the rest of his senses, had been trained from childhood to excel those of other men.
Doc whipped his glance back to the face of Simon Stevens. The pair of facesЧthat of the multi-millionaire who apparently had just accomplished his own ruin, and that of an East Side shoe shinerЧwere strangely similar.
One of the directors made talk.
"Then, if I might inquire," he said, with some sarcasm, "who has been lucky enough to buy the Domyn Islands for half a million? That's hardly bird seed!"
Simon Stevens rubbed one hand over his big round chin. His voice indicated he hadn't even an office boy's interest in the fate of the Domyn Islands.
"I signed a contract of sale," he said, casually, "but it's funny I can't recall offhand who I sold the islands to."
DOC SAVAGE heard these strange words. But he was looking down upon the platform of the elevated railway. The other directors let out amazed gasps for the second time that afternoon. The bronze man was gliding from the room toward the building corridor. He gave no word of explanation.
That announced itself through the open window. Piercing screams of women came from outside. A crowd on the elevated platform was roaring. The World Waterways directors crowded each other at the open window.
One man let out a choking oath. He pulled his eyes from the scene below. He had seen a man's hand stick out from under the truck wheels of a train coach. The fingers of the hands were still writhing. They seemed to be reaching for something that might pull the victim from under the ruthless iron and steel.
Chapter III. WITHOUT EMOTIONS
DOCTOR BUELOW T. MADREN pursed his small, round mouth in puzzlement. When he shook his head, the electric light shone on it as on a polished billiard ball. His hairless skull and the pudgy roundness of his face gave Doctor Madren a cherubic, angelic appearance.
But his eyes were deepset and glowed brilliantly. There was deep, probing intelligence there which belied the contour of the rest of his countenance. For half an hour, he had been asking casual and seemingly meaningless questions.