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

The private detective went on to say there had been several of the old men. All of them had white beards. They wore a uniform of some kind when they were not on the street. A gaberdine coat and a queer white hat. He had written out all he had been able to learn about Doc Savage, and they had called for the information at his office.
"How'd they kill my hog, if they did?" Monk growled.
"I don't know, mister, so help me," the sleuth wailed. "One old man told another one day he could kill anything anywhere any time he wanted. He acted so earnest I believed 'im."
"What else d'you know?"
"The old men call themselves the Elders. And they mutter all the time about some Great Plan. Oh, yes, I found this out over a dictograph I rigged in my reception room. I always check on what my clients say behind my back. These old men told me all the time that they represented a newspaper syndicate doing a story on you."
That seemed to be all he knew. Monk ambled over anxiously to see how Doc was getting along with Habeas. The homely chemist saw the bronze man's hands. His eyes popped.
"Blazes, Doc! What's wrong with your right hand?"
The bronze man's usually metallic-looking right hand was now a bruised-looking purple, and was obviously swollen somewhat. The skin was not broken.
Doc began to talk as he worked. He told what had happened in the street, and left out no details about the mysterious seizure in the darkness of the hallway.
"My foot is in the same condition as the hand, from the way it feels," he finished.
"Bones broken?"
"No, Monk."
"Flesh crushed?"
"Strangely, no."
"Skinned anywhere?"
"No."
"Then how the heck does it feel?"
"As if it had been frozen and was thawing out."
"I'll be switched!" Monk said.
DOC continued to work over the pig. Most of his movements were made with his left hand. He seemed to be using a series of chemical injections, coupled with massage intended to restore heart action.
Fifteen minutes later, Habeas Corpus kicked both rear legs and flopped his enormous ears slightly.
"He gonna make it?" Monk breathed.
"He will," Doc replied.
"Yeo-w-w!"
Monk squawled. "Hurrah! Yeo-w-w!"
The telephone started ringing.
"That'll be the cops to tell us they did or didn't find the elevator operator," Monk said.
He started for the telephone. It stopped ringingЧstopped queerly in the middle of one of its ringing bursts.
Doc got between Monk and the room where the telephone was.
"Watch out," Doc said.
Monk, puzzled, eyed the bronze man, saw he was watching the telephone room. Monk looked in that direction also. Nothing happened.
Monk began to have a creepy feeling. Was he wrong, or had two of the flies, on the far side of the room, fallen to the floor?
They had! There went another! That one was closer.
Doc scooped up the pig. "Run!"
"Help!" screamed the prisoner, "Don't leave me!"
Monk grabbed him by the collar and dragged him along toward the elevator, grumbling, "I don't know why I'm doin' this!"
They reached the elevator. It was waiting. They piled in. Doc seemed in a wild haste. He himself grasped the control and clamped it over to full speed descent.
Despite the fact that rarely did the bronze man's features show any expression, they registered something during the next few moments. Tension. Expectancy. Grimness.
But nothing happened, and they dashed out on the street.
Doc hailed a taxi.
A cab came rolling up. They got in. The driver was a tall fellow with blond hair, and a cleanly shaven nape.
"Get away from here," Doc directed. "Use speed."
"Speed may not be enough," the driver said calmly. "They may kill us anyway."
MONK stiffened, yelled, "May killЧhey, driver, how the blazes do you know so much?"
The driver got the cab off fast.
"I should know something about it," he said. "They've been trying to kill me for over a month."
Doc reacted quickly to that. He leaned forward through the sliding window, gripped the driver and held him helpless, using one hand. With the other hand, he made a quick search.
He found a gun.
He also found something that the driver did not observe that he foundЧa tiny, triangular badge of gold with enamel on it . The inscription on it was not English, and it was not the badge of any American organization.
Monk had produced a weapon which resembled an oversize automatic and which was a machine-pistol of Doc's invention. He held it ready.