"063 (B064) - The Motion Menace (1938-05) - Ryerson Johnson" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

It was a store building, not a store. Rear windows were boarded up. There was a door in the rear. It appeared solid as they ran toward it. And it was locked with a bolt-and-chain combination.
Doc said, "CoЎperation, Monk!"
Monk got in step with the bronze man. One, two, three and jump! They hit the door together, each planting both feet solidly near the lock. Almost a quarter of a ton, moving fast. CoЎperation. The next instant, they were sitting out in the sunlight, in the wreckage of the door.
The apish chemist looked around.
"Aw, heck!" he complained.
There was open country behind the store. Or it would have been called open country around New York. There was two or three blocks of it, entirely bare of buildings.
The bronze man rose to his feet and reыntered the store. Another door inside led to what had once been a kitchen.
"That way!" Doc said, and gave Monk and Ky Halloc a shove toward the door. "Take the prisoner, Monk. I'll take care of the cops."
The bronze man then wheeled and ran out the rear door.
Ky Halloc recovered from the shove, wheeled, and showed he had ideas about following Doc.
Monk collared him. The chemist also carried the senseless captive.
"Mitt me, my friend!" Monk grunted.
"ButЧ"
"Nix!" the apish chemist said. A queer warp got on his mouth. "It just couldn't be that maybe you led us into this trap, eh?"
Monk shoved Ky Halloc into the room, followed.
Almost immediately the pursuers came into the store. They got a glimpse of the bronze man in the rear doorway, standing still. And then he was gone. They started shooting and falling over boxes. Ky Halloc looked strange.
DOC SAVAGE whirled from his position and ran along the rear of the building. He had cleverly led the enemy after him. As he ran, his right hand got an object out of a pocket.
The object out of his pocket proved to be a silk line with a collapsible grappling hook spliced to one end.
Doc threw the hook upward. There was, fortunately, a coaming along the edge of the building. The grapple hooked. Doc went up. There were no knots in the silk cord, but he had practiced until his remarkably muscular hands could grasp and throw half twists which were much more effective.
All this happened quickly. Yet the pursuers could easily have come through the store before he had mounted more than half the distance. They didn't, however. Not a man put his head out the rear door. They stood inside and swore profanely that their quarry probably waited with guns trained on the door.
Gaining the top of the building, Doc let the silk cord hang. A chimney reared out of the roof a few feet distant, and the top bricks were loose, as they somehow usually are on old chimneys. Doc took two bricks back to the roof edge and waited. He removed his coat.
Two of the fake cops popped out of the rear door together, one facing each way to take no more chances than necessary.
Monk and Ky Halloc were out of sight by now.
The men below looked around. They swore. Their companions came out. In a moment, they would see the open door Monk and Ky Halloc had gone through.
Doc leaned over and launched the first brick. Since a brick can do damage to a human skull that no surgeon can repair, Doc aimed for the thickest part of the fattest man. That part of Brooklyn probably never heard a louder yell than the fat man gave.
Doc did not throw the second brick. He used it to weight a bundle he had made of his coat. He put the bundle on the coping, but held it so it would seem from below that he was wearing the coat. The men saw him. They lifted guns. Doc ducked.
Bullets began knocking brick dust off the coping. Doc held the coat bundle on the little wall, moving it about to make the business seem real. He carried his fountain pens in his vest pockets, and he drew out the one which held red ink and emptied it so the ink would flow down the outside of the wall. Not much ink. But he was lucky, and the men saw it.
"Did I make a darb of a shot!" somebody boasted.
The men kept on shooting. The coat bundle was still visible, but it would soon get knocked off. There would only be a moment.
The bronze man ran across the rooftops.
The men continued to shoot at the coat.
"He's dead up there!" one yelled. "Some of you find a way up and throw his body down."
Two ran back inside.
"He may be only wounded!" the man in charge shouted. "Keep shooting!"
MONK, crouched inside the other door with Ky Halloc, heard all this. And it had about the effect that might have been expected. The homely chemist looked around. Some one had been living in the place, but was not home now. There was a stove. There were some rickety kitchen chairs. The senseless prisoner breathed noisily.
Monk picked up one of the chairs. Then he picked up the stove. It was not very large. The stovepipe made a racket and a cloud of soot fell down. Monk put his machine-pistol in his belt.
"Don't be a fool!" Ky Halloc gulped.
Monk swung around and came close to Halloc.
"I still think there's somethin' phony about you!" Monk said.
Halloc snarled, "I tell youЧ"
He did not finish. Monk's fist stopped him. He was senseless when he hit the floor.
"Anyhow, you won't be shootin' me in the back!" Monk gritted. Then to his pig: "Stay here, Habeas."
The apish chemist ran out, carrying the stove in front of his face. He held it by the iron legs, so his hands were fairly sheltered.
Bullets began hitting his body. They hurt. They slowed him. But their pain and shock was no more than light sledge blows, for the light alloy mesh armor he wore was the product of a great deal of experimental research by Doc Savage. A bullet hit the stove and all but deafened him.
Monk got a man with the chair, but broke it. He picked the machine-pistol out of his belt, balancing the little stove as a head shield. He aimed low, and put pressure on the trigger. There were penetrating bullets in the weapon instead of the usual "mercy" slugs.
The gun made a moan and a vibration which Monk felt from head to foot.
A man ran in from the side, jumped, and bore the stove down. Monk's gun hand was caught under the shield, and he dropped his gun. Men piled on him.
A man began to beat Monk's bullet head with a pistol gun. He beat enthusiastically. The blows sounded as if he were chopping wood. Other men held Monk's arms and his legs. His gun arm was held out straight, and convulsive muscular effort was keeping his finger tight on the trigger. The bawl of the weapon was so earsplitting that the screams of the men seemed like small mice squeaking.
The man clubbing Monk's head swung and swung. He used both hands. Monk's eyes stayed open, small and enraged.
The machine-pistol went silent. It had emptied itself. The slugs had dug a hole in the brick wall of the store, large enough for a calf to crawl through.