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

the powerful binoculars.

The two peddlers were not speaking English, but a foreign dialect. This tongue was one which required
use of the lips in forming many words. Moreover, the language was one which Doc had studied.

"The bronze man's baggage will be here soon," said one peddler. "We will act then."
DOC SAVAGE held no doubts about himself being the subject of conversation. He gave the focus
screw of the binoculars a slight twist.

"There must be no slip," said the second of the two peddlers, speaking the same foreign tongue. "Our
own lives and the lives of many others depend on the outcome of the next five minutes."

"It is true," agreed the other. "It is even possible that the destiny of much of the world rests with our
success or failure."

Doc Savage did not move; his unusually regular bronze features did not alter expression, but into the
hotel room there penetrated a weird sound, a not unmusical trilling which ran up and down a vagrant
scale, a sound distinctly inspiring-unnatural, fantastic. It might have been the filtering of a wind through a
denuded forest, or the call of an exotic tropical bird. Perhaps the most startling feature was the way the
sound seemed to come from everywhere in the room, yet from no definite spot.

This sound was a peculiar characteristic of Doc Savage, a thing he did unconsciously when his thought
processes were particularly agitated. Just now, it meant that he was surprised. He had encountered many
fantastic situations. But this one was unique.

Two shabby fruit peddlers talking as if the destiny of a good part of the world depended on something
they were going to do. They were quite sober about it, too. And they evidently thought no one was in
earshot, so they could not be putting on a show.

A little over a score of yards distant from the peddlers, the party of newspaper men were still looking
disappointed and disgusted and the cameramen were contenting themselves by taking pictures of the
Hotel Biscayneville. Traffic muttered on the street; an airplane made a distant moan, and warm breezes
rattled palm fronds outside the hotel window. It was a very peaceful scene.

A truck rounded the nearest corner. It was not a large truck, nor a rich-looking one. Doc Savage
watched it closely. It was the vehicle which he had hired to bring his trunks, shipped ahead by several
days, from the station to the hotel.

The truck pulled in to the curb and stopped, almost between the two fruit peddlers' carts. Inside its large
van of a body, various suitcases and large trunks could be seen. All the pieces of luggage were plentifully
smeared with hotel and steamship stickers.

Things began to happen.

ONE of the peddlers barked something in his native language. He and his fellow ran toward the truck.
Both drew, revolvers. There were two men in the truck, the driver and an assistant to help him wrestle
baggage. Both looked at the two peddlers, then displayed excellent sense by putting their hands up as
quickly and as high as they could.

"Sit very still," directed one of the peddlers.