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

Bill Craig's back became tense. "Almost there," he whispered.
Renny said nothing, but he didn't see anything unusual about the other whispering. He felt the same way himself. The huge, overhanging cypress created an artificial gloom. The air was hot and humid, filled with the heavy peculiar odor of bay trees. From somewhere near came the flat splash of an alligator.
The boat rounded a bend. An almost inarticulate sound came from Bill Craig. The young engineer's face whitened. One arm raised, pointed toward a big tree.
"It-it-t-the-body is gone!" he gasped.
RENNY'S expression did not change. It was almost as if he had been expecting such a development. But he asked:
"You're sure this is the spot?"
Bill Craig nodded wordlessly. Close inspection showed he was correct. There were dark-brown stains on one of the rattan vines about the tree.
"Friends may have found him," Renny said. The big engineer spoke calmly, but he didn't feel that way. And he didn't believe Jute's friends had come back for him, either.
Neither did Young Bill. "But-butЧ" he started.
"I'm going to notify Doc," Renny added softly. "This is a case for him."
They got out of there swiftly. Renny's enormous arms helped drive the boat at an astounding pace. It didn't take them long to get back to camp.
Bill Craig was almost light-hearted, Doc Savage was to be summoned. Everything would be all right.
Young Bill had never seen Doc Savage, but he'd heard much of him. Everyone had, he guessed. There were so many stories told about him that he was almost a legendary figure.
It was exciting enough to work for Colonel Renwick, but to have Doc Savage on the scene alsoЧ
Bill Craig's eyes shone. He wasn't beyond the age of hero worship. Now he was going to get to see the famous Clark Savage, Jr., himself.
If half the stories they told about him were true, then the menace of the swamp, whatever it was, was as good as conquered. That was the way Bill Craig felt.
Doc Savage was known as master of many sciences. He was recognized as one of the outstanding physicians and surgeons. But it wasn't of these things Bill Craig was thinking.
He was thinking of Doc Savage, the adventurer, of the Doc Savage who was the unrelenting foe against the forces of evil. With his five aids, of whom Renny was one, Doc Savage was known the world over as the man who had conquered perils that had threatened nations.
So busy were his thoughts that it came as a surprise to Bill Craig to find they had left the swamp behind.
The camp had been laid out on solid ground just outside the wilderness. It was some miles from the closest town, but served as a base for operations.
A series of wooden shacks had been thrown up. There was one big building, Renny used that as his headquarters, where he correlated the work of the engineers. Near it was a long structure that was used as a mess hall.
Smoke was coming from the mess hall stovepipe. The few workers left in camp were at lunch.
"Tell them nothing," Renny ordered crisply. "It won't do to have this getting out until we know what it is all about."
Bill Craig nodded. Renny turned toward his office, reaching for his keys. A small, compact short-wave radio sending and receiving set was there. All Doc's aids had similar sets. With them, they could communicate with Doc Savage no matter where they were.
Renny stopped suddenly. His jaw dropped. He'd left his office door closed and locked. It was open now. A stranger sat inside, feet cocked jauntily on a desk.
RENNY'S monstrosity of fists made tight balls. He advanced menacingly.
"It ees not permeeted to hit a gentleman of the press," the stranger said lazily.
Renny's advance stopped. The belligerence went out of his eyes. He looked as near stupid as was possible.
"Holy cow! Why didn't you say so before?" he grumbled. He went on without pause: "Work is comin' along as good as would be expected, but it's quite a job. You can sayЧ"
The other's feet came off the table, hit the floor. He held up one hand. He was a small man with black hair plastered close to his head. He was almost elegantly dressed. A perfumed handkerchief was jammed into the breast pocket of his coat. He showed very white teeth as he grinned.
"Trшs bon,
a very good act, Colonel Renwick," he complimented. "But it ees of the red serpent and the murder that I weesh to know."
Renny blinked rapidly, but that was all. "Your name?" he rapped.
"Georges Douter." The little man bowed, "Federation Press man for thees district, and a very good reporter."
Renny sighed. "I was afraid of that," he said. His manner became confidential. "Can't you lay off for a day or so? Then maybe I'll have a real story to give you. If you spring anything now, you'll scare off what few workers I've got left, might even defeat the ends of justiceЧ"
He broke off suddenly, and his lips became thin again, his voice cold. "Just how did you know there had been a murder, anyway?" he snapped.
Georges Douter smirked. "Naturally I know some of the natives, even in the swamp. Rumors have come to my ears. Now if you'll just confirm them?"
Renny's jaw snapped shut. "I've nothing to say."
The other bowed again, grinned sardonically. "That ees confirmation enough. I shall send out my story."
He started toward the door. Renny's hand shot forward, he appeared to reach out and nab the little man. Then he stepped aside. Georges Douter laughed and walked out. Renny watched him as he went to the edge of the clearing and disappeared. A few moments later he heard the sound of an auto.
A thin ridge appeared in Renny's forehead. He wondered just who had put on the best act.
Georges Douter had talked with a French accent. That was all right. Lots of residents of the Mississippi bottom lands in this district spoke French. He might even be a native of the district. For that matter, he might even have heard of the red serpent and Jute's murder as he said he had.
But he wasn't a newspaperman.
RENNY had encountered plenty of reporters in his time. He had even known a few, mostly cubs, who carried guns. But he had never met one who carried a gun on his hip, another in a shoulder holster and a knife sheathed under his coat at the back of his neck.
That was too much arsenal even for the greenest cub.
No, Georges Douter was not a reporter. But Renny had seen no reason for disclosing that he had learned that fact. The big engineer had discovered long ago that hasty action often was unwise.
But the whole thing was getting more complicated. Doc should be notified without loss of time. He walked toward a rear room where he had installed the radio sending-outfit.
A moment later and he was racing back out of the building. He ran toward the spot where he had last seen Georges Douter, even though he knew it was useless. His fists were clenched. It was one of his tricks to break oaken panels of doors with those fists. Right now he wanted to use them to smear the features of the dapper little fake reporter.
The radio set had been sabotaged. It wouldn't work.
Georges Douter grinned as he heard the words Renny was using. He didn't understand American idiom enough to recognize all the phrases, but the tone of the big man's voice was sufficient to indicate what they probably meant.