"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 022 - The Annhilist" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

The tracks showed where a man - they were unmistakably a man's footprints - had come into the office
and occupied a chair. From the chair they led to a stand which held a telephone, and from the telephone
back to the door. From telephone stand to door they were farther apart, as if the man who made them
had been running wildly.

Doc Savage lifted the telephone receiver, listened a moment and replaced it on the hook.

"An outside line which does not go through the switchboard," he said. "That explains it. Leander Court
was waiting here when he got a call. He became excited, cried out, and burst open the door in order to
get out of the office."

"Nuts!" said Hardboiled Humbolt. "No man could be started off yelling by a telephone call."

Doc Savage replaced the metal canister in a pocket.

Hardboiled pointed and demanded, "What is that stuff, anyhow?"

"A powder which fluoresces, or glows, when exposed to the air," Doc Savage explained. "'rile slightest
disturbance, by shifting the particles which compose the powder, causes them to expose new surfaces to
the air, which in turn glow."

"But what made the tracks appear?" persisted the tough sleuth.

"The weight of Leander Court as he walked over the rug compressed the fibres," Doc elaborated.
"Those fibres are still straightening, although by only microscopic degrees. But the movement is enough to
disturb the powder, causing it to glow and mark the footprints."

"Well damn me!" Hardboiled growled. "I thought they had you overrated."

There was a spanking sound from the window. Glass particles geysered like tiny jewels.

Janko Sultman, president of the Association of Physical Health, bawled out loudly and hideously and fell
to the floor. A wriggling red stream came out of his frizzled hair, puddling on the carpet.

HARDBOILED Humbolt jumped fully a foot in the air, roared "Somebody shot 'im!" and ran for the
window. He banged the panel up, leaned out, a hand fishing under his coat.

The gun he brought out was not the regulation service revolver, but a lean-snouted .22-calibre target
pistol. He balanced this in a hand as his eyes roved the street.

"Car going down the street," he growled. "But the shot wasn't fired from the street, and the gunman hasn't
had time to get to a car."

"What kind of a car is it?" Doc Savage questioned.

"Gray coupe," snapped Hardboiled. He hauled back out of the window, bolstering his unusual weapon
and bounded for the door. "You stay here, Savage!" he yelled. "You're still under arrest!"

Hardboiled plunged out through the door, taking ungainly leaps as if he were traveling on a hot surface.
His gait and the canvas sneakers which he wore indicated he must have a bad case of corns.