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

Coming to life, the artist yelled, "Hey, I'll give you a hundred dollars to pose for me!"

There was no answer, and the artist, racing out, found no one. He returned, grumbling disgustedly, to
stare at his picture, which was a partially completed study of a Herculean male figure supporting a certain
well-known automobile. It was an advertising poster.

"What a model that fellow would have made," the painter groaned.

A uniformed patrolman loitered beside Doc Savage's roadster where it was parked in the street. His
manner showed plainly that he had been posted there to watch the car. He twirled his club and walked
around and around the machine, scrutinizing it closely. It had dawned on him that the car was no ordinary
stock vehicle.

From behind him - from a door somewhere, it seemed - a harsh voice called, "Never mind the car! Go
down and help the boys look for that gunman!"

The officer saluted briskly and departed. He thought he had recognized the tone as belonging to
Hardboiled Humbolt. He rounded a corner, took a few paces - and came face to face with Hardboiled
Humbolt in person.

"Dang it!" exploded the patrolman. "How'd you get here?"

"Whatcha mean?" growled Hardboiled.

The patrolman waved his club. "You just told me to leave the roadster. You were back there somewhere
when you called."

"The hell I was!" Hardboiled yelled, and ran for the corner. Sloping around it, he drew up and began to
swear.

The roadster was gone.

"You lunk!" Hardboiled accused the policeman. "I told you to watch that machine."

"But you told me to leave it, too," declared the cop.

"I did not!" Hardboiled growled. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"No," said the patrolman prudently. "I must be crazy."

A few blocks distant, Doc Savage tooled the roadster through the late afternoon traffic. He was a man of
a myriad accomplishments, this bronze giant. Among other things, he was a skilled voice mimic and
ventriloquist. It had been a simple matter to imitate Hardboiled's gruff tone and get the patrolman away
from the roadster.

From time to time, the bronze man leaned over and spoke into the radio microphone, calling, "Monk,
Ham," but getting no answer.

The apparatus operated on a short wavelength, and, compact though it was, it had power enough to
communicate over a number of miles, even through the highly unfavorable conditions set up by the