"044 (B077) - The South Pole Terror (1936-10) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

THE SOUTH POLE TERROR
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson

Chapter I. DEATH ON THE SLOOP
DOC SAVAGE happened to be only one of a few million persons who heard about the mystery of the silver sloop almost at once. When it first came to Doc Savage's notice, the mystery probably baffled the bronze man as much as it did any one.
A coast guard patrol boat picked up the silver sloop on Long Island Sound. It was night. The coast guard hailed the sloop because the craft was carrying no lights. Hailed, and got no answer. The silver sloop was a silent ghost with slatting canvas. So the coast guard boarded it.
Next morning, it was in all of the newspapers. They put out extra editions in London. Paris and Berlin sheets had it on the front pages. In remote Japan, they brushed it in queer-looking characters on the public news boards.
Doc Savage, of course, read the papers. Long ago, Doc Savage had found it advisable to keep a close check on the news events of the world. This precaution had on several occasions saved Doc Savage's life. The fact that it had was due to the highly unusual profession which Doc Savage practiced.
The silver sloop was approximately fifty feet long, and she was a fine hooker with teakwood decks, jib-headed sails with roller reefing gear and the rest of the newfangled gadgets. She was all mahogany and shiny metals inside. She was a honey. She made sailors grin from ear to ear and murmur in admiration when they boarded her.
The coast guardsmen were sailors. But when they went aboard the silver sloop, they turned white with horror; some leaned over the rail and were sick.
It was an incredible thing which they found aboard the silver sloop. The thing was so horrible that no newspaper photographers were allowed aboard after the silver sloop was towed into New London harbor.
The American public, whether they know it or not, are often preserved from sights that might turn their stomachs or keep them awake nights.
What the coast guard found aboard the silver sloop would probably have kept a good many people from sleeping nights. It did the coast guardsmen.
A dead man was found in the steering cockpit of the silver sloop. He was a well-known banker and philanthropistЧa man who had been known for his kindliness, his gentle manners.
This kindly soul's dead hand was gripping the hair of a woman whose throat he had cut from ear to ear, and who, later investigation brought out, had been blackmailing the philanthropist for years over an episode of his youth.
The coast guardsmen searched farther and found more horror.
THERE had been fifteen people aboard the silver sloop, a later inquiry disclosed. Fourteen of the fifteen were found, and all fourteen were dead. There was only the one murder, however.
Close examination revealed no wound on any of the bodies, except the cut throat of the woman who had been murdered by the man she had tormented.
At first, the coast guardsmen thought it was poison gas or something, but they found nothing to bear out that assumption. All fifteen persons aboard the silver sloop when she had sailed were identified and they were all either nice or famous people, wealthy for the most part. Even the crew had been decent fellows. Moreover, while one person had died by visible means, there was a great deal of doubt about what had killed the others.
Physicians were naturally called aboard to make an examination. Detectives came, also. They learned a few things.
All the victims had a case of fierce sunburn. But the previous day had been a scorcher for late fall, and the sunburns escaped attention.
The ship's clock had been knocked off the hook by some one at three o'clock, for it had stopped at that point. Presumably this was three o'clock the previous afternoon.
The tarlike seam compound had been squeezed out of some of the deck's seams. A journalist wrote a wild story about it looking as if a giant hand had seized the craft.
The other point was the most interesting.
One person was missing.
That there was a missing individual was realized immediately that it became known that fifteen persons had sailed aboard the silver sloop for a day's outing on the Sound. A check was made of the names of those sailing.
Velma Crale was the missing name.
Velma Crale's name went into the newspaper headlines with a bang. Velma Crale was famous already; she was the outstanding he-woman of the day. She had flown the Atlantic, the Pacific. She had brought legendary white Indians out of the Amazon wilds. She had received the keys to New York City and had dined with the president.
Velma Crale's latest exploit had been an exploration by air of the South Polar regions. This project had not been so hot, apparently. There had not been the usual publicity upon Velma Crale's return, two weeks previously. Velma Crale had simply announced that she had discovered nothing of value.
This was unusual. Velma Crale was known as a publicity grabber, a lens louse, a show-off who made a big whoop and holler, even if she had not accomplished much. She maintained she could do anything better than any mere man, and she was not backward about telling the world.
That Velma Crale should come back from the South Polar regions and say she hadn't done anything worth while had simply floored the newspaper boys who knew her. They had once dubbed her "Thunderbird" Crale. Now they wondered why.
Velma Crate had even seemed reluctant to let the cameramen shoot her really snappy profile.
And now Velma Crale was missing. Gone. And she had left fourteen dead madmen and madwomen behind!
The world began looking for Velma Crale. She was not accused of anything. In fact, it was thought that some of the maniacs must have thrown her off the silver sloop during the holocaust. This theory gathered more weight as time passed, and no trace was found of Velma Crale.
Then Doc Savage heard from Velma Crale.
DOC SAVAGE was known in many far corners of the world, and his was a name calculated to make certain types of shady gentry have a good shake in their boots when they heard it.
Almost every one who had heard of Doc Savage knew that he practiced one of the most unusual professions ever pursued by a man. Doc Savage was a modern Galahad. He went around mixing in other people's troubles, aiding the oppressed, righting wrongs, meting out his peculiar brand of justice to evildoers.
This had not proved to be a very profitable profession for Doc Savage. He never took pay from those whom he aided. But he had managed to amass wealth until no one knew how much he controlled.
But very few knew that Doc Savage was financially able to buy some nations outright.
Doc Savage was known more for his fabulous mental ability, his uncanny mastery of electricity, chemistry, surgery, and other professions. Doc Savage was recognized as one of the most skilled in, not one of these professions, but a number of them.
Doc Savage's physical development came in for attention, as well.
The eighty-sixth floor of one of New York's most impressive midtown skyscrapers was the site of Doc Savage's headquartersЧhis library, laboratory and trick reception room. Laboratory and library were both so complete that scientists frequently came from abroad to examine them. The place was replete with scientific contraptions.
The telephone robot was one of the contraptions. It was put on the telephone wire when Doc Savage was not there. You called up, and a mechanical voice told you that the bronze man was not there, and that any message you cared to give would be recorded for Doc Savage's attention when he returned.
This device was merely an adaptation of the dictaphone, phonograph and vacuum tube amplifier, all built as one instrument.
DOC SAVAGE spent the afternoon delivering a lecture to an eminent group of paleontologists, leaving the group amazed at some of his research work on the subject. Then Doc returned to his headquarters and found the following conversation recorded on the telephone robot.
"This is Velma Crale," a rather pleasant voice had said. "Something awful is happening, and your help is needed. Later in the afternoon, you will receive a package. Please examine the contents and use your own discretion about what to do."
At the end of this brief advice, the robot had automatically recorded the following words, taken off a mechanical clock which gave the time vocally: "This message was received at 3:10 this afternoon."
Doc Savage played the message back at a quarter to six.
Doc Savage called the package receiving room of the skyscraper. Sure enough, there was a package, addressed to Doc. He had it sent up.