"143 (B094) - Violent Night (The Hate Genius) (1945-01) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"No, it will cost you twice as much," the driver insisted, for evidently he had decided his passenger was one of the mysterious international gentlemen, secretive about their business, who had been plentiful in neutral Lisbon for a couple of years.



"All right," Doc said curtly. To punish the driver for being greedy, he carefully wrote down the man's name and identification and description, letting the fellow see him do it.



They went on. The streets were narrow, the corners sharp. He picked a sharp corner, and after they were around it, stepped hurriedly out of the car and ducked into the handiest doorway. His cab went on. The other machine, the one occupied by the red-headed man, was out of sight when he quit his own cab, but it popped into view a moment later, passing within hand-reach.



Doc got a thorough look at the red-headed man. The fellow was around forty, not large, but with an intense animal expression. He was dapperly dressed, with tan gloves and a cane. He was leaning forward, both gloved hands resting on the cane, staring at the cab he was following.

His hair was about the color of a freshly cut carrot. His lips had an expression that was not exactly a grin, more of an I-like-this-sort-of-thing twist. He was a complete stranger.



Doc Savage began walking toward a hostelry called the Chiaro di Luna. He wondered about the redheaded man as he walked, trying to figure out who the fellow might be, and frightening himself with some of the possibilities.



The red-headed young man had seemed so vital and enthusiastic about doing his following lob. He was so damned hearty about it. Whoever and whatever he was, he liked his job, and a man with enthusiasm for this kind of work was dangerous.



The Hotel Chiaro di Luna was a gaudy, noisy hostelry where you could go without attracting much attention. The name meant, in Italian, moonlight, but something relative to a circus or carnival would have been more appropriate.



"Mr. Carlos Napolena calling to see Mr. Scimmia," Doc Savage told the clerk.



His name was not Carlos Napolena, and neither was Monk Mayfair named Mr. Scimmia. Monk Mayfair was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, a chemist of great ability when he worked at it, which wasn't very often because he liked excitement.



"By golly!" Monk said heartily. "By golly, I'm glad you showed up."



Monk looked and acted as if he were mentally about ten years old, which was deceptive. It would also have been entertaining, but he frequently overdid it He was short, wide, homely, hairy; he had more than a general resemblance to an amiable ape, and Doc Savage sometimes suspected he went out of his way to cultivate the mannerisms of one.



Ham Brooks was with Monk. Ham was a lawyer. Calling Ham a lawyer was somewhat like calling Buckingham Palace a house.