"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 005 - Pirate of the Pacific" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

have seen them. A sharp jerk broke them, and left the bird free."

Leaning out of the window, Doc glanced up the sheer side of the skyscraper, then down. Only darkened
windows met his gaze.

He examined the window ledge, noting bits of grayish powder. In a crack, he discovered a particle of
cracked corn.

"The bird has been fed on the ledge!" he declared. "Either the office door was forced, or the grain was
lowered from above. That was how it was taught to fly here."

He spun from the window, crossed the office. The speed with which his big bronze form moved was
startling. He entered the corridor, glided down it to the end elevator. At his touch upon a secret button,
the elevator door leafed back.

So quickly had Doc moved that his five men were still in the office. They piled out, big-fisted Renny in the
lead, and joined Doc in the lift.

The cage sank them. It was a special installation, used only by Doc Savage, and geared at terrific speed.
Such was the pace of descent that their feet were off the floor for the first sixty stories. Monk, Johnny,
and Long Tom were wrenched to their knees by the shock of stopping.

"What I mean, that thing brings you down!" Monk grinned, getting up from all fours.

Monk had nearly worn out the high-speed elevator the first week after Doc had it installed, riding it up
and down for the wallop he got out of it.

A cop was twiddling his nightstick out in front.

"See any one leave this neighborhood in a hurry within the last few minutes?" Doc demanded.

"No, sor," said the cop. "Sure, an' the only lads I've seen come out av a buildin' around here was two
slant-eyed fellers. 'Twas in no hurry they were."

"Where'd they go?"
"Took a taxi."

Doc eyed his five friends.

"They must have been the men who sent us the pigeon," he told them. "They knew we'd discovered their
trick, and fled. We'd be wasting time to hunt them."

Doc whirled back into the skyscraper.

His five men milled uncertainly, then trailed Doc. But the speed elevator was already gone. They rode a
slower lift lip to the eighty-sixth floor aerie, only to discover Doc had gotten whatever he had wanted
from his laboratory, and had departed.

THE home of Scott S. Osborn, sugar importer, was a castlelike stone building perched atop a low hill in
a wooded section of Pelham, one of the northern residential suburbs of New York City. The medieval