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

him and bowed, letting him down face-first to the floor. Saliva came from his mouth and puddled on the
grimy, cold carpet.

Monk kicked him; the impact rolled the man half over.

"Cut it!" snarled one of the others.

The witch-faced man reached back and rubbed the spot where he had been kicked, then rolled over and
jacked himself up by the strength of his arms. Slowly he raised himself erect.

"The kick was what be needed," Monk said gloomily.

One of the men scowled at Monk, then at Ham, and said, "Walk ahead of us - and be sure you got a will
all made out before you squawk or make a jump."

The man with the face of a harridan weaved toward the back door, saying, "I've got plenty to tell Boke."

The hallway gave into a cement-floored courtyard which smelled of cold garbage. A cat, the sole living
thing in sight, hackled its back and slunk among garbage cans.

Crossing the court, the cavalcade entered a hallway where the air was too hot and mounted stairs, and
opened a door. Warm, tobacco-laden air gushed out. A fireplace made fitful red light in the room
beyond. The place was windowless. It whitened up blindingly when some one thumbed an electric
switch.

Monk and Ham were forced to stand with their faces jammed in comers, not unlike schoolboys receiving
punishment. They were warned not to turn around; and Monk, disobeying, was knocked rubber-kneed
with a slender stick of stovewood from the fuel rack beside the fireplace.

Some one said, "I wonder what happened to that hog?"

"Hell with the hog!" another snorted. "Hey, Boke, things have been happening!"
One of the most pleasant voices Monk and Ham had ever heard said, "That is to be regretted."

Monk and Ham both turned their heads. The speaker was not in the room. Just where the voice was
coming from, they could not tell, for the menace of a clubbing forced them to face into the corners again.

The spokesman began, "We were all watching the back way just in case something might turn up, and we
saw - "

"Let Frightful tell it," directed the mysterious, amiable voice.

Monk snorted loudly, suddenly realizing that "Frightful" was the nickname of the witch-faced man.

Frightful, listlessness in his voice showing the effects of the drug on the sword cane, said, "I followed your
orders, Boke."

Boke's voice asked pleasantly, "What do you mean?"

"I plugged Janko Sultman in the head," said Frightful.