"059 (B061) - The Living Fire Menace (1938-01) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Chapter II. ATTACKERS STRIKE
WILLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN, better known as "Johnny," seldom showed excitement. Lean, with a half-starved look, with glasses hiding his eyes, he appeared like just what he was: a studious scientist, one of the world's greatest geologists and archaeologists.
But he was excited now. With almost unseemly haste, for him, he signaled for the long-distance operator, barked with unaccustomed harshness:
"Get that number back, operator. Get it back at once. This is Doc Savage's office speaking!"
Across the room a thin, lean man with yellow, unhealthy-appearing skin, lounged indolently in an easy-chair. He was pulling absently at an oversize ear.
Major Thomas J. Roberts appeared a physical weakling. Appearances were deceitful, even as his slouching pose was now. He tried to seem nonchalant; actually, he was afire with curiosity.
"What is it, Johnny, some nut?" he asked.
"Nut, nothing!" Johnny rapped.
Major Thomas J. Roberts, familiarly called "Long Tom," sat up abruptly in his chair. The very fact that Johnny had failed to use his usual quota of big words was sufficient to tell him that something was in the air.
"That was Z-2," Johnny explained rapidly. "He's an undercover agent for the Department of Justice. I once knew him well, was in the army with him. He's tripped across something big."
Swiftly Johnny repeated the message the man known as Z-2 had given him.
"I wish Doc were here," Long Tom muttered.
But Doc Savage was not near by. He was not even in the city, but was miles away, possibly thousands of miles away.
The telephone rang sharply. Johnny grabbed for it.
"I have your party back for you," the operator said sweetly.
"Z-2?" Johnny demanded breathlessly. "What happened? What was that noiseЧ"
"Naw," came a half-frightened, choking voice. "T-this ain't that guy who called himself Z-2. H-he ain't here no more. H-he's dead. T-this is Paul Smith, the filling-station attendant."
PAUL SMITH'S pimply face was still white. He'd witnessed something he knew he'd remember until he diedЧsomething that had horrified, yet fascinated him.
"This guy, see," he explained, as Johnny demanded details swiftly. "This guy he came in here all funny dressed. Hot as it is, he even had gloves on and had inner tire tubing wrapped around his feet for shoes."
"Go on," Johnny ordered crisply.
"His face was a funny red color, and his hand, too, when he took one glove off. I didn't think of it at the time, but I know now he was awful scared."
"I'll take that for granted. What happened?" Johnny interrupted impatiently.
"W-why, this guy, he called for Doc Savage," Paul Smith explained. "Somebody answered. He started to talk."
"Yes. Yes."
"He was awfully hot. He was wiping sweat off his face as he talked. And he really was shouting. He seemed awful worked up."
"I know." Johnny's voice became very resigned. "But tell me in words of one syllable, what happened?"
Paul Smith wet dry lips with the tip of his tongue.
"HeЧhe blew up!" he shouted. "H-he just became a sheet of fire!"
There was silence for a moment.
"How did it happen?" Johnny asked softly.
"IЧI don't know." Paul Smith was frankly sobbing now. "ItЧit was just as if a sheet of lightning hit him, or something. HeЧhe just became one big flash of fire, like I said. HeЧhe shriveled and burned, and the odor of his flesh, itЧahЧ"
"And there was nothing near him, no one close but you?"
"N-no one," Paul Smith whimpered. "ItЧit just happened. IЧI couldn't'a' done it. No one could. I-it seemed as if the flame came from within, not from outside him anywhere. No one but I was near him, anyway."
Paul Smith thought he told the truth. He never had seen the beautiful face of the girl that had been near the half-opened window.
Long Tom was an electrical genius. He shook his head when Johnny suggested there might have been something about the telephone that caused a short circuit or electrical discharge that could have killed Z-2.
"Impossible," he said flatly. "That could not have happened under any circumstances."
"But something did," Johnny reflected softly.
"What could a government man have been doing in a small desert town like Sandrit?" Long Tom puzzled aloud. "It had to be something big, but whoever heard of a living fire? And what was he trying to warn us about? How could we be in danger?"
Johnny shook his head. He was equally puzzled.
LONG TOM and Johnny would have been even more puzzled just then if they could have heard and seen what was going on in a lavish suite at a big hotel not many blocks away.
Three men were there. One was pacing nervously up and down the room. He was a tall man, and very thin. He looked almost like a scarecrow. His face was a peculiar cherry-red. Petrod Yardoff was not well known in the United States. In some European countries he was too well known. Many strange stories had been linked with his name.
Lounging across from Yardoff was a long, husky man, with the steely, unblinking eyes of a snake. Those eyes and the gun he always carried had earned him the nickname "Stinger." Stinger Salvatore was well known in the United States. Many strange tales had been linked with his name, too, but none had ever been proved in court.
The third of the group watched his companions with cynical amusement. Clement Hoskins was known to very few. He intended to remain that way. Huge, with a barrel-shaped body that was as big around as he was tall, Hoskins nevertheless gave the impression of rough, vicious strength.
"You have done good work so far, Stinger," Petrod Yardoff said softly. "But one job remains. A tough job."
Stinger shrugged slightly. He pulled a handkerchief from one sleeve, wiped his hands. "Spill it," he said laconically.
"Would you like to cut in on a game that will pay off in millions?" Clement Hoskins queried sardonically.
Stinger Salvatore's lounging frame came erect suddenly. "Millions?" he repeated slowly. "The job you've got for me must be a tough one!"
"A tough job, but worth itЧif you consider the millions," Hoskins grated. "But I wonderЧI wonder if you've got nerve enough to tackle it?"
Stinger's face reddened. "Spill it!" he snapped.
"We want six menЧjust six," Clement Hoskins breathed.