"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 011 - Brand of the Werewolf" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"No sah!" said the porter. "Not that Ah knows of."

Doc Savage stood like an image graven in the metal he resembled.

On the washroom door, he had discovered another of the hideous smears - a human-faced wolf. The
mark of death!

Standing there, the bronze man was so quiet as to seem without life. An unseen monster of horror and
death was slowly wreathing its tentacles about him. Why, he did not know. But it must be something that
concerned his uncle, Alex Savage, or his uncle's daughter, Patricia.

Absently, Doc's golden eyes roved to the north and west. In that direction lay the estate of Alex Savage.
And there, it was possible, lay also the explanation of the mystery.

Chapter 5. THE WEREWOLF CRIES
DOC Savage was a man of profound accomplishments. But he was no clairvoyant with a gift of
transporting his vision. So he was unaware that mystery and horror also stalked the domain of Alex
Savage.

There, too, the werewolf was spreading its uncanny violence.

The estate of Alex Savage was no mere backwoods homestead. It was true that forty years ago Alex
Savage had homesteaded it. But now it had grown, until the estate spanned up and down the coast for
miles, and reached no little distance inland.

Scattered over other parts of Canada, Alex Savage had wheat ranches, mines, and an industrial plant or
two. He was considered a business success.

The estate at the edge of the sea was in the nature of a hunting preserve. Within its bounds was some of
the roughest land in Canada. The shore was a ragged stone wall which shot up out of the water. The
coast was fanged with reefs and tiny islands.

The estate itself was a collection of pinnacle and canyons, boulders and brush. Alex Savage boasted
freely that there were parts of his estate upon which he had never set eyes. Moreover, he claimed there
were spots which no one had ever explored. This was possible, since there were places to which none
could climb.

In this labyrinth of stone and brush, Alex Savage had erected a log cabin. In it, he spent part of each
summer, and all of the hunting seasons. The cabin had several rooms. It was filled with electric lights,
electric refrigeration, radio, and even air-conditioning apparatus, although there was seldom need for the
latter. The rugs were rich. Any one who sat in one of the luxurious chairs was in danger of sinking from
sight. The place was no backwoodsman's hut.

From the wide veranda of the cabin, an excellent view could be had of the sea. Monster boulders and tall
trees towered around the place; thick underbrush made these surroundings almost a jungle. Twilight came
to the brush almost an hour before the sun actually set

The birds usually made a good deal of noise settling for the night.

It was twilight now, but the birds were making no noise. The feathered songsters had been chilled into