"052 (B075) - The Land of Fear (1937-06) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Seated in the automobile, it was difficult for the casual observer to realize the true proportions of the bronze giant's stature. Corded muscles meshed under his skin in a manner which made their tremendous size scarcely noticeable.
People turned, to stare with awe and admiration. Doc Savage apparently was unaware of their scrutiny, but his gold-flecked eyes missed nothing.
A voice came from a loud-speaker cleverly concealed somewhere in the car.
"Doc! A girl just telephoned. Appeared frightened. Wouldn't say what the trouble was."
The bronze man stepped down on the accelerator; the big car shot ahead through city traffic. The message had come from Doc Savage's office over a special micro-wave radio beam.
There was nothing to tell Doc Savage that this call was any different from the others he received each day asking for aid. A majority of those calls referred to trivial matters. Every one knew his reputation, asked him for help.
But it took something bigЧsomething beyond the ken of ordinary criminologistsЧto put Doc Savage on the trail.
There was one part of the laconic message that interested him, however. The girl had sounded frightened and hadn't said why. That was unusual, for those who answered his telephone were adept in drawing all details from callers.
A DOZEN blocks away, Richard Castleman was having his difficulties. There was a reassuring sound in the hum of motors, in the undertone of voices and traffic. Policemen stood at corners, and there was the comfort that comes from brushing elbows with others.
Richard Castleman should have felt easier. He didn't. One hand held a small sheet of paperЧdirections for reaching Doc Savage's offices written for him by the room clerk. The other hand was clenched; his eyes were bewildered. Every now and then his frantic gaze swept the crowd behind him.
Perhaps it had been imagination, but he'd thought he'd seen some one following him. It was hard to be sure in a crowd, but there was no use taking chances.
The little man stopped a policeman, asked a question and darted on. He was beginning to breathe easier now. He had almost reached his goal.
Doc Savage's headquarters was in this same blockЧin the one skyscraper which occupied the entire block.
A traffic light changed. The crowd swarmed across the street. For a moment, Richard Castleman was standing almost alone. He glanced in a window and saw a reflection. Instantly, he threw back his head and emitted a shriek of such terrible fear, that it carried above all street noises.
People turned to look, paralyzed, and what they saw left their faces masks of panicЧleft them with a scene of such terror, that it recurred in nightmares for weeks.
Richard Castleman had turned, had thrown up his arms and started to run. Then his body seemed to fade. There was a faint cloud that resembled steam, but where it started at, where it went, none later was able to say.
Where the man had been, a strange heap fell to the sidewalk.
A few hardier souls stepped forward, looked once, then added their cries to those of others. Some fainted.
What had been a man was now only a ghastly, grinning dried framework. It was as if the body had belonged to a person dead for centuries, instead of seconds. Clothes that had been strong and serviceable had crumpled away.
A big car drew up at the curb, and a bronze giant stepped out. Doc Savage had sped to his office to investigate the strange call received from the girl. As he saw the skeleton, a peculiar, eerie trilling note filled the airЧa fantastic sound that seemed to come from everywhere and yet had no definite source. The trilling was a small, unconscious thing which Doc Savage did when under sudden stressЧor when greatly surprised.
Chapter II. A STRANGE WARNING
THE bronze man could not have prevented the murder. Richard Castleman was dead before Doc Savage reached the scene.
At the rear of the crowd, a figure turned and walked away, melting into obscurity, hidden by curious forms as New Yorkers played true to custom and crowded forward with necks craned to see what had happened.
No one but Doc would have noticed that vanishing figure. His gold-flecked eyes photographed the move, caught a fleeting glimpse of a slinking form before it vanished in a sea of struggling humans.
It would have been useless to attempt pursuit. The crammed street prevented movement. And besides, there was nothing definite to connect the disappearing figure with the strange pile of bones on the sidewalk. But the incident was impressed firmly on Doc's brain.
Since childhood, he had gone through a routine of exercises dailyЧa routine that not only had developed him physically, but had trained his mind so that he could couple cause and effect more swiftly than the ordinary man.
The average person would never have seen a connection between the laconic message Doc had received and the murder in front of the building where the bronze man had his offices.
Doc did not know there was such a connection, but his gold-flecked eyes were glinting strangely.
Easily, his huge shoulders cutting a path for him, Doc moved through the crowd and entered an office building, a huge structure of brick and steel that towered high in the air.
Doc stepped into a special high-speed elevator; it went to the eighty-sixth floor, rising with such speed that an ordinary man would have sagged and gone to his knees. Doc Savage withstood the strain without apparent effort.
As he approached his office, a door swung open suddenly. A shadowy figure appeared on the opposite wall of the hall, a slender well-dressed figure carrying a long cane under one armЧand a strange-appearing pig under the other.
Without pausing, the bronze man walked straight ahead, and the door of the office closed behind him.
A ROAR of rage came from one of the two men who confronted him.
"You ape-faced missing link! You misguided freak of nature! Where did you get that?"
The two men were paying no attention to DocЧthe words were not addressed to him.
The speaker was a tall man with lean shoulders and thin hips, attired in a fashion that was sartorially perfectЧand who resembled the shadowy figure that had appeared on the hall wall, except that he had no pig under one arm.
"Just a gentle reminder of your upbringing," said the second man. His voice was small and childlike, and came strangely from a homely face composed mostly of mouth. Tiny eyes were sunk in pits of gristle. Long, hairy arms hung below his knees.
In appearance, he did resemble a bull ape. Hardly more than five feet in height, almost as wide, his nubbin of a skull looked as if it held scarcely a thimblefull of brains. But that was misleading.
The two turned, faced Doc. "ThisЧthisЧ" The tall man broke off, as if at loss for words. Which was unusual. Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, better known as "Ham," was one of the most astute lawyers in the world. The halls of Harvard still shouted his praises. "MonkЧ" he began again, then gestured resignedly and stopped.
"Monk," Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, grinned, his homely features lighting up amazingly. One of the greatest living industrial chemists, he had a perpetual quarrel with Ham. Much of it dated back to an event which took place during the World War, when Brigadier General Brooks had once been accused of stealing a pigЧan offense he had always laid at Monk's door.
"I really got the goods on him this time, Doc," Monk grunted. "I got a picture of him walking around with a pig under his arm."
At Monk's right elbow was a small movie projector. It had been pointed toward the door, and when the door had opened to let Doc enter, the scene had flashed on the wall of the hallway.
"He's faked that picture!" the dapper Ham squawled. "He's taken a picture of that pig, Habeas Corpus, he always has around him, and made it look like I was carrying him!"
"You received a message from a girl, a call for help?" Doc broke in.
Monk and Ham abruptly stopped their bickering. They knew the bronze manЧknew every inflection of his voice. And that voice indicated now that something serious was in the airЧsomething probably connected with the telephone call.
"We made a record of the conversation," Ham said.
Doc nodded, went to a desk and opened a drawer. Through a robot arrangement, every telephone call received at his office was recorded, if no one was present to take it. And often when some one was present the voice was recorded so the bronze man himself could hear the message.
In silence, the dapper Ham and bulky Monk watched as Doc put on earphones and listened. Twice Doc repeated the record, missing no shade of inflection, no word of the message.
"She mentioned a Harlan Spotfield," the bronze man said. "Call all hotels, starting with the best ones, and see if a man by that name is registered at any of them."
Ham leaped to do his bidding.