"058 (B055) - The Golden Peril (1937-12) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"What do you mean?" Ham asked suspiciously.
"Why your head is so full of hot air, we could 'a' floated down, just hanging on to you," Monk chuckled gleefully.
Ham whirled, waved his sword cane angrily. "We shouldn't have taken you, anyway!" he yelped. "An ape like you should have been made to climb down!"
Monk chuckled. Things were back to normal. He became serious. "That seems to wash up Long Tom's theory that the baron was in on this," he grunted. "That is, unless he was double-crossed."
"We still must do what the baron asked," Doc Savage said quietly. "I gave my promise. You and Ham go to the hangar. Fuel the plane for a three thousand mile non-stop flight. I need several things from the office, and will bring Long Tom."
"We head for Switzerland?" Ham asked.
"We take the danger trail," the bronze man promised.
IF Doc could have seen the electrical wizard right then, he would have realized that danger had already arrived for Long Tom.
Behind the impersonal, mushroom-complexioned face of Long Tom, was hidden real sympathy for those in need. That sympathy had gotten him into trouble before. But he couldn't help being the soul of generosity. He could never resist the plaintive pleading of beggars.
If some one had knocked on the door of the office laboratory, he might have been suspicious. But Long Tom was standing in the hallway just after the coroner's men had taken away the body of the dead messenger boy.
An aged and infirm step came down the stairs that led from the observation tower of the skyscraper. That was not unusual. It was one way that peddlers could get down through the building and canvass the offices.
The man was white-haired. His face was pinched and drawn, as if life had dealt harshly with him. He might have had a family to support, and selling pencils is not usually considered a quick way to riches.
The pencils were in a square box. Around them was a band blazoning a well-known make.
"Please, mister," the ancient said haltingly, "couldn't you use a few pencils?"
Long Tom hesitated, thrust his hand into a pocket. Then he remembered his wallet was in his coat pocket back in the office. He didn't have any change.
"Just a minute," he said, and opened the door.
It was only two steps to where his coat was hanging. Long Tom was a little surprised to see that the man had followed him in. But there was still that apologetic, suppliant look on his face. Long Tom reached out to take some of the pencils.
Pfffft!
A hissing sound came from a dozen little nozzles. Every pencil was a tiny hose from which came a jet of tear gas. Long Tom staggered back, blinded. Too late he realized he had been tricked.
The bent old man straightened. Sharp orders tumbled from his lips. There was a rush of feet from outside. A dozen dark figures swarmed through the door.
Long Tom, blinded though he was, plunged forward. The men quickly understood that his unhealthy appearance was no catalogue of his fighting ability. Three men went down, moaned on the floor.
But twelve against one are too many, particularly when that one cannot see. Long Tom's sight was slowly returning, but even that wasn't enough.
He flung two foes from him, staggered back. Four more gangsters bored in. The electrical wizard was driven back against a wall. Then a mighty fist sent him sagging to the floor. He landed on his back, hands outstretched. One slammed against the desk's baseboard.
Groggy and helpless, he was bound hand and foot and gagged.
THE phone jangled sharply.
The white-haired man who was no longer old seized it. At first he imitated Long Tom's voice. It was a surprisingly good imitation. Then his voice dropped back to normal.
"O. K.," he rapped. "He's got away with a lot of things. I don't see how he got out of the hotel. But he can't get out of this trap. We'll fill him so full of lead they can use him for an anchor."
The man clicked the receiver back on the hook and turned to the gangsters.
"The bronze man is in the elevator," he rasped. "Go to the stations appointed. Shoot for the head only!"
There came the sound of the high-speed elevator. Its meteoric ascension forced air whistling through the cracks of the door.
The elevator outside clicked to a stop. The automatic doors opened. Footsteps came toward the door. The white-haired leader glanced quickly at Long Tom, smiled in satisfaction.
Long Tom's expression showed he had recognized that tread.
The footsteps reached the door. Guns were pointing that way from all directions.
The door swung open. Long Tom held his breath. The white-haired man stopped smiling.
For the footsteps walked right into the center of the room. But no one was there!
Hair rose on the necks of the gangsters. Eyes seemed almost to pop from their heads. Some moistened dry lips. Others could only gape stupidly.
And the sounds went on!
The chair behind Doc's huge desk scraped back. There was a sighing, as if a huge bulk had dropped into the soft leather cushion. The seat of the chair sank.
Sweat was pouring now from a dozen faces. One gangster whipped a little paper from a pocket, sniffed the powdered contents up his nostrils. But the drug didn't seem to have any effect. He was still scared to death.
The white-haired man broke the spell with an effort. "Shoot, you idiots!" he screamed. "Shoot at that chair!"
The roaring of the guns sounded like a stepped-up Niagara. Acrid smoke filled the air. The chair behind the desk seemed to disintegrate. Lead literally tore it apart.
The silence that followed that burst of firing was like that in a courtroom following a verdict of death. Long Tom lay wide-eyed and motionless.
Then there was a low cough. It came from right above the shattered chair!
Then a memo pad on the big desk was riffled back.
"Long Tom," came Doc's voice from the chair, "when these persons have gone, I would like to talk to you about our plans."
THE gangsters stood frozen. If they had been frightened before, now they were actually oozing fear. Their features were chalk-white, their entire bodies shaking.
Through the door to the library came the shrill voice of Monk.
"You danged shyster!" he shouted. "As soon as we clean out this nest of gangsters, I'm going to take you apart, injunction by injunction!"
"Ha!" Ham's voice came sarcastically. "You're not any tougher than those twelve babies out there."
Two pairs of footsteps clattered into the room. But no one was visible.