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

coarse, rusted steel wool. His face was almost incredibly homely, the mouth being far too large.

"Sap!" said the gunman. "That department store has a branch on this side of the street A tunnel under the
street connects the two buildings."

Monk, blinking his small eyes, looked unutterably stupid - which showed how deceptive appearances
can be, for Monk, under his full name of Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, was known as an
industrial chemist whose ability was that of a wizard.

The man with the automatic looked at the other occupant of the car - Ham. Major General Theodore
Marley Brooks - it was with this name that Ham was formally designated - looked like a gentleman who
might qualify as a perfume salesman or a male clerk in an exclusive feminine shop.

He was a wasp-waisted man with the large mobile mouth of an orator and a pair of brightly intent eyes.
His garments were sartorial perfection - from creased afternoon trousers to gray derby. He held a thin,
plain black cane across his knees.

Ham was also a gentleman who belied his appearance, being one of the most astute lawyers ever to
acquire an accent and a degree from Harvard.

The witch-faced gunman, looking puzzled, shook his head slowly but did not divert the menace of his
automatic.

"I don't get this," he growled. "Are you two guys laws?"

Ham said in an aggravating, drawling accent, "Really, old fellow, you do misuse the English language
dreadfully."

"Horse collar!" said the man with the gun. "Why'd you two tail me."

Ham began, "My dear chap - " Then he stopped and watched the other.

The gunman was wearing a topcoat of some furry gray material, and he stepped back, burying his gun in
a pocket of the coat. It was chilly on the street and perfectly natural that a man should keep a hand in a
pocket.

"I'll let Boke talk to you," he said. "Let's stagger along."

"Huh?" The homely Monk blinked small eyes.

"Get a move on," advised the other. "Who's Boke?" Monk demanded.

"We're going for a walk," the man said.

THE witch-faced fellow now opened the car door, stepping back with it as if performing a polite service,
but he kept his eyes high, watching the faces of Monk and Ham, and their hands. When they got out of
the coupe, he fell in behind them and murmured, "Up the street. Boke's joint is close."

They walked several paces, the chill Fail air pulling breath steam out of their nostrils; a few chill particles
of snow, more like hail than flakes, crunched out whitely on the sidewalk.