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

Once on the lobby level, Derek Flammen showed that he could think quickly. He had two of his armed aides force themselves into the basement switchboard room and cut all electrical power from the building. The elevators immediately became inactive, with one exception.
The exception was Doc Savage's speed elevator. Power for this came from the bronze man's private electrical system, with an automatic generating room deep in the basement.
But sometime during the excitement, the raiders had taken care of the speed elevator. Fortunately, Doc Savage discovered it in time. He stopped his men, on the verge of entering, with an outstretched arm.
"Don't use it!" he warned.
"Huh!" Monk exploded. "I don't see nothin' wrong?"
The bronze man pointed out that the electric bulb which ordinarily illuminated the cage had been smashed, leaving comparative murk inside. The reason for this, they soon discovered: a parcel of high explosive and an electric detonator, the latter attached to the elevator control so that, had the control been moved in haste, the blast would have been set off.
"Blazes!" complained Monk. "They're gonna get away!"
They did.
THAT the raiders and the young woman, Velma Crale, had entirely escaped became clear in the course of the next ten minutes. There was no sign of them down on the street.
Returning to the eighty-sixth floor headquarters, Doc Savage went over the floor to make sure none of the trapdoorsЧgiving access to crawl-ways beneathЧhad been left open. He did not want casual visitors to discover them. They had all closed. He reloaded the flash device with the powder that burned with such blinding qualities.
"Long Tom," the bronze man suggested, "you stick here."
The feeble-looking Long Tom grinned sourly. "O. K."
He had visions of missing out on future developments by being left behind.
"Be careful," Doc warned. "Don't let them get hold of you again."
"Sure," Long Tom agreed, cheerfully. "They wouldn't have gotten me before, only they said they were building inspectors, and showed badges to prove it. They must have stolen or faked the badges. Anyway, first thing I knew, they had me."
Doc Savage did not advise more caution in the future. It was not often that Long Tom got taken in.
Accompanied by Monk and Ham, the bronze man left the huge building which housed his headquarters. They drove, in an innocent-looking armored sedan, toward the Hudson River water front, where Doc Savage maintained secretly a huge hangar housing a number of boats and aircraft. The hangar masqueraded as a warehouse owned by a mythical Hidalgo Trading Co.
Monk sighed loudly and said, "I don't make heads or tails of this!" in a baffled tone.
"I am beginning to get some pretty good ideas," said the dapper Ham.
"Yeah?" Monk snorted.
"There are at least three mobs fighting to get hold of something," Ham said. "The girl, Velma Crale, is heading one crowd. Derek Flammen is heading another. And the third is bossed by person or persons unknown."
Monk sniffed in the insulting manner which he always used to greet any suggestion made by Ham.
"Suppose you know what they're fighting over?" he demanded.
Ham scowled at Monk, became suddenly indignant, and yelled, "You awful mistake of nature! I don't know, but I'll bet my guess is betterЧ"
"We'll take the big speed plane for the flight to the Regis," interrupted Doc Savage.
Chapter VIII. HORROR AFLOAT
SOMETHING over an hour had by this time elapsed since the mysterious, unfinished S O S had come from the liner Regis. Several steamers were enroute toward the spot, but these craft were not making much headway. The reason for this was a violent storm which had sprung up.
The arising of the storm was inexplicable. The weather bureau charts showed a uniform area of high pressure over that section of the Atlantic, together with no conditions indicating a change.
Yet there was a storm. It was mostly wind, although there was also a light rain, together with some thunder and lightning. Radio reports from the ships rushing to the Regis indicated the force of wind was increasing. Already, it had attained almost the velocity of a full gale.
Two U.S. coast guard planes which had started to fly to the Regis found themselves buffeted about badly. A number of news reel planes and newspaper photographic planes were likewise beset. It began to seem as if they would have to turn back.
As homely Monk put it, "Brother, if this zephyr got hold of a man's hair, it'd sure scalp 'im!"
Ham, the dapper lawyer, said nothing. Ham had become somewhat greenish-looking. He was airsick, something that rarely befell him. But then, air as rough as this was rarely encountered.
Sprawled beside Ham, hanging onto an arm-rest with a ghastly grim intentness, was the dapper lawyer's rather weird-looking pet, Chemistry. In some respects, Chemistry looked remarkably human. Certain it was that Chemistry bore a startling likeness to the homely chemist, MonkЧwhich was probably the reason why Ham had adopted Chemistry as a pet.
Chemistry was some species of South American monkey, although it was true no one had ever been able to decide just what species. He was airsick also.
Across the plane aisle, balancing easily with the plane's antics, big ears fanned out as if to aid in flying, if such should become necessary, sat Monk's pet, Habeas Corpus, the pig. Habeas was an Arabian hog, composed of, other than ears, nothing much except legs and an inquisitive snout.
Monk and Ham rarely went anywhere without these two pets, and it was significant that Habeas Corpus and Chemistry got along about as well as did Monk and Ham. Periodically, they had to be forcibly restrained from eating each other alive.
The big plane leaped, heaved, and all but did a loop. Doc Savage fought the controls. The radio receivers inside his helmetЧhe was using the headset rather than the loud-speaker because of the bad ether conditionsЧwere a bedlam of static. He had just managed to pick up a fragmentary message indicating that the coast guard and news reel planes had been forced to turn back.
This big ship of Doc Savage's was an all-metal, low-wing job with three motors. Streamlining had been carried out to an infinite degree. The plane, as a matter of fact, was perhaps the fastest and most stanch craft of its size in existence.
Monk howled cheerfully, "Anything on the radio from the Regis, Doc?"
"No," Doc Savage said.
The plane's cabin was efficiently soundproof, so that it was comparatively quiet inside.
"In this case, no news is bad news," Monk declared.
"Will you shut up, you human period!" Ham gritted. "Just the sound of your voice makes my ears ache!"
Monk began to squeak a sea chantey having to do with men who died at sea and had their bones picked by sharks, managing in some inexplicable fashion to keep time to the pitching of the gale-buffeted plane.
THE Regis lay in the trough of the sea, taking the short, violent waves as they came. At times, water sheeted almost completely over her decks. Brine and rain wetted her down from bow to stern. Smoke came from her funnels, but the screws did not seem to be turning over. She was a stout, new hooker, this Regis, however. Little likelihood of her leaking as yet.
"What I wanta know," Monk grumbled, "is how we're gonna get aboard?"
They had picked up the liner without a great deal of difficulty.
Doc Savage offered no suggestion about how they were to get aboard until he had sent the big plane in two slow spirals about the liner, barely clearing the mast tops.
"Have to use parachutes," he said. "One of you will remain in the plane and pick us up later, if it can be done."
Monk peered downward, muttered, "I see a few bodies on deck."