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

Georges Douter grinned without mirth. He took a fountain-pen flashlight from his pocket, shaded it so that the glare would not be visible at the camp, and went rapidly toward the spot from which the scream had come.
He found the body on a narrow strip of land that projected for a ways into the swamp. The body was on its back. Near one outstretched hand was an over-sized pistol with a big cartridge drum on top.
The man's face had disappeared. In its place was a crimson-appearing mass, like a coiled snake. Blood still trickled from the hideous wound. It looked as if the "snake's" head vanished into the man's skull. The hole in the scalp and bone was responsible for that.
Faint clucking sounds came from Georges Douter. The sounds indicated neither pity nor exultation. The little man's face was expressionless, but he did not appear surprised.
The tiny beam from the pencil flash darted back and forth. Georges Douter reached forward suddenly and picked up a piece of broken string.
"Oui.
As I expected," he nodded.
Men were approaching cautiously from the camp. Georges Douter doused his flashlight and vanished.
He stopped at one of the ancient flivvers, replaced a carburetor float, then made his way without haste to his hidden car. Its motor started almost without noise. No one heard him as he edged out on the rough road and headed toward the nearest town.
A mile from the camp, he turned on his headlights. He laid one gun on the seat beside him so he could use both hands on the wheel, and increased his speed as much as he could. He was humming faintly.
He was still humming when lights of the town came into view. He drew off to one side and stopped the car. Then he went to the trunk in the rear and worked swiftly.
When he got back into the car, his appearance had changed. His natty-looking clothes had been replaced by a suit of coveralls, a faded shirt and an ancient hat. The coveralls hung to the ground, hiding the shoes with built-up soles which added several inches to his height.
In place of shining teeth, he appeared to have two gold plates in the front of his mouth. Marks of dirt, artfully applied, made him look ten years older.
He drove up in front of a small telephone exchange and halted. Only a few people were in sight, but he waited until the street was momentarily clear before he got out and went inside. A grimy hand produced several bills.
The girl behind the desk looked at him without interest.
"I want to make a long-distance telephone call," he said. He spoke with an Arkansas drawl.
"Whom do you wish to call?" the girl asked indifferently. She lost her indifference a moment later. She sat up straight and went into action swiftly.
"I want to speak to New YorkЧto Doc Savage," said Georges Douter.
THE telephone bell rang sharply in the eighty-sixth-floor office in one of New York's biggest skyscrapers. There was no one in the office. The bell rang three times. Then there was a click, followed by a faint buzzing sound.
"This is the office of Clark Savage, Jr.," a recorded voice said into the telephone transmitter. "Mr. Savage is not here at the moment. If you have any message for him, it will be given to him when he comes in."
For some minutes there was an excited flow of words from the other end of the line. Then the connection was broken. A few seconds later a disk resembling a dictaphone record stopped revolving, and an electric robot replaced the receiver on the hook.
It was half an hour after that before the first visitor arrived at the office. He came silently and furtively.
He was a peculiar-appearing man, with long arms that hung, gorillalike, far below his knees. Tiny eyes appeared buried in pits of gristle, while his mouth was so big it looked like an accident.
He was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, the chemist among Doc's aides.
A few moments later, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. A door, robot-controlled, opened noiselessly in what had appeared to be a solid section of the wall. A tall man paused for a moment in the doorway.
This man was the ultimate in "what the well-dressed man wears." A natty derby was perched on his head. His light-colored suit was faultlessly pressed, the corner of a handkerchief peering from the breast pocket of his coat. A white carnation was in one lapel. In his hand was a stylish cane, which he spun debonairly.
For a moment he seemed to be posing. Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks was justly proud of his title of fashion plate among the five helpers of Doc Savage. His present ensemble had been picked up from his tailor less than four hours before. Known as Ham to his friends, he was Harvard's gift to the legal profession.
Usually Ham liked to fight and argue with the chemist, who was called Monk and was really one of Ham's closest friends. But he couldn't fight with Monk at the moment, for the chemist was wandering over to the small box that held the machinery for recording telephone messages. It was purely a routine check, a matter of long habit.
A glance at the disk showed someone had telephoned in their absence. He removed the disk, started toward a machine where he could "play back" whatever message it contained.
He tripped over a wire leading to one of the several fans he had used to fool Ham. For an instant, he fought for balance, juggling the disk in his two big hands. Then he went down.
"Break it'?" Ham asked without sympathy.
Monk grunted. The disk was still intact, but he'd taken a hard fall to protect it. Still grumbling, he put it on the machine, started the disk turning and put on a pair of headphones.
An angry howl burst from him. Ham whirled. The dapper lawyer took one look at Monk's face and made a dive for a second set of headphones.
"I-I'll repeat it," Monk said queerly. His hands were opening and closing, a look of pain had filled his small eyes.
Once more the record turned. Ham's features became grim suddenly.
"This is the Oracle," came a voice from the disk. "I am calling to give you a warning it would be well not to ignore. Also, I have some information. The information is this. Your man, whom you call Colonel Renwick, was killed tonight. He was killed for trying to meddle into some thing that was none of his business. He died rather horribly. He died the death of the Crimson Serpent." The voice paused for a moment, became stern and hard. "Do not try to investigate his death. Stay away. If not, the Crimson Serpent will kill again!"
Chapter IV. A GIRL CALLS
FOR a moment after the voice ceased, neither Ham nor Monk spoke. They sat silently, eyes locked.
Still without a word, Monk slipped off the earphones, went to the telephone. He asked for a record of the last long-distance call for Doc Savage.
Ham went into the next room. There was a radio transmitter there. He sounded Renny's call, time after time.
There was no answer.
Monk got the chief of police of the small town from which the warning had been telephoned. His shoulders sagged as he joined Ham.
"IЧI'm afraid it's so," he mumbled. "Some of the men from the camp where Renny was located have got into town. They tell a strange story of chains and screamsЧand say Renny got killed."
Ham's expression grew grimmer.
"Well, what are we waitin' for, daggonit?" Monk raged. His shoulders hunched, his long arms sprung back and forth. "Let's go. The speed ship's set to go, we can get down there before morning. I'll tear that swamp apart, if necessary, but when I get my hands on that Crimson SerpentЧ"
"We'd better get Doc first," Ham said quietly.
Monk subsided slowly. If there was trouble to be found, he didn't like to wait. But he knew Ham was right. Doc Savage should be notified.
A banquet was being held in one of Chicago's largest hotels. The big dining room was crowded with men of international reputation.
The occasion was the annual dinner of the Scientific Adventurers' Club. Those present included men who had visited both poles, who had penetrated jungle-guarded spots where no other white men had ever been. Others had risked life and health to ferret out secrets of ancient civilizations.
All were accustomed to danger. To a layman, whose only peril is fighting a way through a subway rush hour, it would have seemed none of those men could ever know excitement.