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

Then the frosted glass panel broke with a jangling explosion. The man on the other side was beating it out
with his fists, and when he had a large opening, he threw a light-brown topcoat over the jagged edges
and vaulted through. He did not bother to recover his coat, but plunged toward the elevators, breathing
heavily) horror on his face.

The man did not look like one accustomed to violent physical action. He was portly, with ruddy cheeks,
and his head was almost bald. He had long-fingered, capable hands, which were also unusually
smooth-skinned.

The small man with the newspaper stood erect hastily, let the paper fall, and showed an automatic pistol
which it had hidden.

"Wait, brother!" he said.

The portly man looked at the gun, veered sharply to the left and slammed himself down in the shelter of a
long leather divan.

"Help!" he roared at the top of his voice. "Police! Help!"

The small man's mouth twisted, giving his face a cast of extreme evil. He aimed at the divan and began
shooting, the gun convulsing and jumping with each ear-shattering report.

Stenographers screamed; nurses began running; and the blonde telephone girl swallowed her gum and
tried to crawl under her switchboard.

When the small man's automatic was empty, he snapped a fresh cartridge clip into the magazine with the
skill of an expert gunman. Then he ran around behind the divan.

The portly man was a limp heap, leaking crimson in several places, for the bullets had driven through the
leather and upholstery of the divan.

The small man shot once more, deliberately, and his victim's head jarred as a small blue hole appeared a
little above the eyes. Then the killer ran for the stairway beside the elevators.

He reached the first stair landing. There he stopped, began to writhe about and shriek.

BETWEEN yells, the killer guashed his own lips so that scarlet ran down over his chin and stained his
necktie and shirt front. He doubled over as best he could, stamping his feet, slowly, then threw back his
head.

When his head was back, the strange thing happening to his eyes first became apparent. It looked as if
something behind the orbs was slowly forcing them out of their sockets.

The small man fell down on the landing and his gargling noises weakened until, before many seconds had
passed, he was silent. He ceased to breathe, but his body still retained its grotesquely stiff posture.

His eyes were all but hanging out of their sockets.

There was only one flight of stairs to the street, and heavy feet pounded these, mounting. Two policemen