"078 (B078) - The Crimson Serpent (1939-08) - Harold Davis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Now his ruse and the radio transmitter both had been discovered.
Chapter VII. A PICTURE IS STOLEN
ONLY rambling buildings surrounded the big garage, but Doc had no difficulty in making his escape. He walked a short distance until he came to a main highway.
Almost at once a coupщ drew up beside him, a door was opened. Doc got in. The driver was the man who had identified himself as Fletcher Carter, private detective. He had a fresh carnation in his coat lapel.
Doc said nothing. Carter drove for several minutes before his curiosity overcame him.
"Did you find out anything?" he blurted.
The bronze man's gold-flecked eyes surveyed him calmly. "About what?" he asked.
Frank admiration showed on Fletcher Carter's face. "I'd always heard you were a cold one. You sure are," he said. He sighed, "Since you won't talk, I'll have to, I guess.
"It's this way. I hung around the hotel, and saw that bunch leaving with a burlap bag. I knew the boys. They're bad. And I figured that you or one of your men must have been in the bag, since I saw the girl goin' along.
"So I trailed them out here, and was just trying to decide whether to try a lone-handed rescue or to call the cops when I heard the alarm bells go off.
"Then I knew whoever had been caught had got away, so I was cruising along, looking for you."
"Where do you figure in this?" Doc asked softly.
Fletcher Carter grinned. "I get around," he confessed. "I know somethin' is going on, somethin' big. Private dicks make their coin by hanging where big things is goin' on and jumping in at the right time."
Doc appeared to consider, as if deciding whether to say anything more.
"You might help me a little, at that," he said. "You say you recognized the men carrying the burlap bag. You evidently knew about the garage. Who owns it?"
Carter shook his head, his smile faded. "You sure ask tough ones," he complained. "I recognized the thugs, yes. They are all gangsters. But who owns the garage? Frankly, I don't know.
"A lot of the big gangs got knocked off by G-men after repeal, you know. The big shots then mostly disappeared; their gangs broke up.
"Now there is a new big shot, a new gang. But who the big shot is, I don't know. The garage probably belongs to him, although not necessarily. Some of the old boys may be moving back in with a new racket."
Doc nodded, but said nothing. Carter wheeled his coupщ expertly up in front of the bronze man's hotel.
"But what connection all this could have with trouble in the Arkansas swamps, I can't figure out," Carter complained. He looked at Doc expectantly.
The bronze man got to the sidewalk. "It is an interesting problem," he agreed. "Thank you for the ride." He turned, walked into the hotel.
Fletcher Carter looked after him, cursing bitterly. Now that he thought it over, he realized that he had done all the talking, had given all the information. Doc had contributed no facts at all.
AN alert country correspondent for a Chicago newspaper was doing a lot of talking, also.
The correspondent had heard rumors of the trouble in the Arkansas swampland. He had gone to the scene. And he had gotten a break.
The Crimson Serpent had struck again!
Hank Hendricks had lived in the swamp all his life. He had operated a still there for almost the same length of time. At least, he began to help his dad run one as soon as he could walk and talk, and had started his son in the trade as soon as the son could walk and talk.
With the son, Bill, he had been tending his still, as usual, during the early part of the preceding night. Then the two started to make a few deliveries.
The deliveries were never made.
Hank Hendricks couldn't tell a very clear story of just what happened. He was too excited, and, for the first time in his life, was too frightened.
But his story agreed with those that had been told previously. First, he had heard a clanking of chains. Then had come a sound like that of moving metal.
Hank had wanted to turn back. His son, Bill, had laughed and continued to paddle ahead in their boat.
Then Bill had screamed. Hank, himself, said he felt as if he had been gripped in hands of steel. He had been paralyzed with fright, expecting death any moment.
He had received a warning instead.
When he finally recovered enough to light a lantern, Bill was dead. His shirt had been torn from him, and he was lying on his face.
The mark of the Crimson Serpent was on his back.
"You gotta stop buildin' 'at 'ere dam!" Hank Hendricks shrieked. "At's the warnin' I got. I'm a-tellin' yuh! If yuh don't, all us swamp men are goin' to die!"
Then Hank had rushed back toward home, after sounding a warning of his own. The swamp men would not be idle, he said. Already they were organizing.
Whatever the Crimson Serpent was, it didn't want the dam built. Therefore, the swamp people didn't either. They were going to fight the engineers themselves to keep that dam from being built.
Nelson Erhard, the country correspondent, could hardly relay the story, he was so excited. Then he found he wasn't being believed. The skeptical city editor in Chicago told him he had heard too many stories of swamp magic to fall for this one.
"But one of Doc Savage's men was supposed to have been killed by the thing only two nights ago!" Erhard bellowed. "It was only today he telephoned here to say it was a mistake. But he knows all about it. And he's in Chicago. Get hold of him, he'll confirm it."
Extras were on the streets a half hour later.
CRIMSON DEATH
LOOSE IN SWAMP
Government Project Periled
as "Snake" Killer Runs Amuck
DOC SAVAGE AIDE ESCAPES
DOC entered the hotel, expecting to get away at once for Arkansas. This was impossible to do.
Within the space of minutes, the hostelry was swarming with newspapermen and photographers.
Doc always made it a practice to shun publicity whenever possible. He would have shunned it now, but he was given no chance. Besides, the bronze man never antagonized the press. He always at least pretended to coЎperate. Quite often he had found the help of newsmen invaluable.
He instructed Renny to answer questions to the best of his ability. The big engineer submitted with ill grace. Particularly did his severe features become strained at the constant popping of flashlight bulbs. He hardly was a pretty sight for easily shocked eyes.