"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 024 - Red Snow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Biscayneville, the conservative and not overly large hostelry where he had registered. It was some
moments before he suspected anything. Then, when he did, it was just a little too late.
The peddlers and their one-horse wagons were very ordinary looking; scores like them ranged the streets
of Miami, peddling cocoanuts, grapefruit, and oranges. Neither was it suspicious that the two drivers
should advance and begin talking. They might have been disputing over routes.

They were not. But it was not immediately that Doc Savage became aware of that.

The two drivers were stocky black fellows. However, their lips were not thick and both wore colored
sun glasses of the type not at all uncommon in Florida. These latter two facts were destined to take on
much significance.

Doc Savage neglected to give the peddlers the attention they deserved, because he was interested in a
group of half a dozen young men who stood in front of the hotel. Two of these carried large press
cameras. The others had pads of copy paper stuffed in their pockets. They all looked indignant.

They were newspaper reporters and photographers. From where he stood in his room, behind a
Venetian blind, Doc Savage could not be seen by the journalists. He did not want to be seen. He wished
heartily that the newspaper reporters and photographers would go away. He wished that they were not
even aware he was in Florida.

Doc had tried hard enough to arrive in Miami unobtrusively, but an attendant at the airport where he had
left his plane had tipped off the gentlemen of the press, and they had descended like a locust swarm.

The fact that Doc had insisted he was in Miami for nothing more spectacular than to conduct scientific
experiments whereby it might be possible to eliminate mosquitoes by spreading a peculiar insect disease
fatal only to mosquitoes, had not satisfied the newspaper men.

Doc Savage, rumor had it, was a man who walked always in the shadow of peril and excitement, and the
reporters refused to believe he was in Florida for anything so prosaic as scientific experiments.

Doc Savage, the reporters knew, was a man who was devoting his life to the often thankless, always
dangerous, and sometimes seemingly mad, task of righting wrongs, of aiding the oppressed, and
of-strangely enough-not exactly punishing evildoers, but of causing things to happen to them which not
infrequently moved them to change their ways.

Furthermore, Doc Savage was supposed to be something of a miracle man, a muscular marvel and a
mental wizard. Practically every act of Doc's was supposed to be good newspaper copy. That was why
the scribes were indignant Doc had refused to interview them.

Doc Savage did not like publicity. It was distasteful, for he was a genuinely modest man. Sometimes, it
was dangerous.

Doc Savage took his eyes from the newspaper men and glanced at the two peddlers. His gaze became
fixed. Doc Savage had strange eyes that were like pools of flake-gold, and now tiny winds seemed to stir
the flakes briskly. He whirled and leaped to his hand bag. He dug out a pair of binoculars. Back at the
window, he focused the lenses on the conversing peddlers.

By intensive study, Doc Savage had learned to do so many things, that he was sometimes considered to
have slightly supernatural capabilities. Among other things, he could read lips. He read them now through