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

Doc's big car was always kept in sight.
Near Brooklyn Bridge, Long Tom swung toward the East River, angling back to strike South Street.
A little while later Long Tom swung off the smooth pavement of South Street, onto the cobblestone street that led to a sea-food tavern called Reefer's. He noticed several cars parked near by, but that meant nothing at the time. Reefer's was a popular place.
As Long Tom swung the big machine to the curb, he noticed several men alight from a car near by. One glance was all the electrical expert needed to recognize the type.
For just a moment Long Tom hesitated, his unhealthy-appearing face doubtful. Johnny was already getting out of the machine. Then Long Tom shut off the motor and opened the car door.
In that moment, the attackers struck.
MEN seemed to erupt from dark doorways, from behind cars. A surging mass crashed into Long Tom and Johnny in the same instant, arms swinging, deadly blackjacks in hand.
Doc's men should have gone down under that first rush.
They didn't. Their attackers had been too anxious. They had massed too closely for their charge, got in each other's way.
A bellowed shout came from Johnny. Long Tom tried to dive back into the car. Hands grabbed him, yanked him back into the street.
Then the fight was on.
Johnny, fists swinging, head low, plunged into the men bearing down on him like a long, lean dreadnought. Speed and the very unexpectedness of his hammer-like blows, carried him across the sidewalk to a wall. He whirled, back firm against boards, clenched knuckles cracking with dazzling speed.
Long Tom sprawled forward, almost went to his knees. Still doubled up, he hit like a charging football guard. Small, weakly as he appeared, he spun men in all directions, got clear for a moment.
A swinging blackjack caught the electrical wizard across one arm, almost paralyzed it. He did not hesitate, did not pause. Lifting one big thug from his feet with a right that came from his shoetops, he made a second dive for the car.
This time Long Tom got as far as the car door before a terrific blow caught him across the head. A shower of sparks seemed to flash before his eyes, but even as he fell he yanked a queer-shaped weapon from the car door pocket. He whirled, his finger tightening on the trigger.
There was a sound like a bullfiddle's roar. Attackers tumbled limply.
The weapon was one of Doc's own inventions. The "mercy" bullets it shot produced unconsciousness, not death; but it was as effective as a machine-gun.
LONG TOM was still dazed from the blow on top of his head. He could hear Johnny battling desperately. He thought only of that. He should have jumped inside the car. It had bulletproof glass, was as impregnable as a tank. From there he could have rescued Johnny easily.
Instead, he darted around the rear of the car, weapon in hand.
A small man, a wicked grin on scarred features, reared up behind him, swung a blackjack coldly and efficiently.
Long Tom went down, sprawled awkwardly on the cobblestones.
Something resembling a moan came from Johnny's tight lips. He went berserk. For a moment, his flaying fists beat back the men who crowded upon him. But he saw there was no hope. There were too many assailants.
"Help, Doc!" he bellowed instinctively.
A second later he, also, went down. A billy caught him squarely behind an ear.
Then the attackers suddenly froze.
Clear and cold came a voice. It was low, but it had a peculiar timbre, one that made it carry plain and distinctly. It was the voice of Doc Savage.
"I'll soon be there," Doc said.
Chapter III. A GIRL CALLS
BUT Doc Savage was far from the water-front battle scene.
His bronze skin gleaming in the reflected glow from an instrument board, his flake gold eyes intent on the story those instruments told, he was far even from civilization.
Seated in the inclosed cockpit of a speedy plane that was the type pilots call a "flying motor," Doc Savage did not appear big. But that was due to the remarkable symmetry of his body. His hair was straight, and bronze like his skin. Corded muscles showed on the backs of the hands that held the controls. His features were classic and calm. Seldom did he smile or show emotion.
The roar of the powerful motor came but faintly inside the cockpit. For that cockpit was heavily insulated. It had to be. The plane was flying thousands of feet up in the air, far up in the substratosphere. It was winging forward at nearly five hundred miles an hour.
The sound of Doc's strange, impelling voice had shocked the thugs in New York. They would have been more shocked if they had known just how far away he was when he had spoken. They would have thought it magic.
There was no magic about it. On the panel directly before the bronze man was a small television set. Above it was the speaker of a short-wave radio. A mike was near at hand.
The car Long Tom and Johnny had used was similarly equipped. Doc had seen part of the fight in New York; he had heard Johnny's cry for help. The bronze man's reply had merely come from the loudspeaker in the car his aids had occupied.
Now the bronze man was speeding toward New York. He had missed Long Tom's earlier calls. At that time he had not been in his plane.
Casual acquaintances had often wondered where Doc Savage ever found time to maintain his amazing grasp on every development of science, to study and keep ahead of a majority of those developments.
The secret was quite simple. Far in the north he had a hidden retreatЧhis "Fortress of Solitude." Here, when things were quiet, the bronze man would seek solitude for the tremendous concentration of which he was capable, would try new experiments, perfect new advances in medicine that would save thousands of lives, would solve some problem that had long puzzled chemists.
He was returning from such a trip now. For six months he had been apart from the world. And it was plain that he was returning just in time.
In a surprisingly short time Doc's plane dived down from the heavens to circle the lights of Manhattan. Minutes more, and it was dropping gently to the waters of the Hudson River, gliding smoothly toward the dingy warehouse that bore the sign, "Hidalgo Trading Co." Doc was the Hidalgo Trading Co. He owned the pier and warehouse.
From an adjoining pier, a small man slipped away unobtrusively. His close-set eyes gleamed wickedly in the darkness. At a corner cigar store he slipped into a phone booth, dialed a number.
"He's here, chief," he said curtly. "The bronze boy himself . . . OK . . . Yeah, I'll keep him covered."
DOC SAVAGE had no way of knowing that his movements were being watched. Yet he moved inconspicuously as he made his way to the skyscraper where he had his offices. His private elevator shot him to the eighty-sixth floor.
In the hallway, he moved soundlessly. Just outside the door he paused, his flake-gold eyes narrowing slightly.
A faint whisper of sound came through the hallway. It was so low that the normal ear would have missed it.
Seeming almost to float, so swiftly, yet so silently did he move, the bronze man drifted down the hallway. He stopped before an apparently solid section of wall.
A low-pitched whisper came from his lipsЧa whisper that could not have been heard two feet away.
Instantly a section of the wall melted away and an opening appeared. Doc vanished within. The opening closed.
The bronze man was standing in one of the rear rooms of his suite of offices. It was dark, but he moved without hesitation, opened a small panel, flicked a switch.
Light glowed on a tiny screen. A desk and several chairs came into view. On the screen appeared a picture of the front office.