"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 026 - The Spook Legion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

stated, тАЬShakespeare has been dead a long time.тАЭ

тАЬWell, you'd better talk to this fellow who says he is Shakespeare,тАЭ said the assistant pilot, and went
forward to consult with the airport operations manager.

They discussed the fat man and the shots.

тАЬHe's daffy,тАЭ said the co-pilot. тАЬSomething ought to be done about a guy like that running around with a
gun. He'll kill somebody.тАЭ

тАЬPut him in a car and take him to the police station,тАЭ suggested the manager.

тАЬGood idea,тАЭ agreed the co-pilot.

тАЬThe pilot will help you,тАЭ added the manager.

There were two observers to this conference, neither of whom was close enough to overhear. The fat
man was one, standing and fumbling his black hat uncertainly. The prizefighter individual was another,
although he looked on in a fashion calculated not to arouse suspicion. He was ostensibly fumbling over
his baggage.

The plane had emptied by now, and mechanics had appeared to wheel it into a hangar. One of them
drove a small caterpillar tractor, which was hitched to the ship and pulled it toward the hangar.

The pilot and co-pilot approached the fat man.
тАЬWe're going to take you to this guy who claims to be Shakespeare,тАЭ said the pilot.

The plump fellow put a very serious look under the black hat.

тАЬThe man is an imposter!тАЭ he declared loudly. тАЬHe cannot be Shakespeare, because I am Shakespeare!тАЭ

The instant he got that out, the man spun and leaped wildly in the direction of the operations office. The
abruptness of his move took the pilot and his assistant by surprise. By the time they started in pursuit,
their quarry was already passing through the operations office door. He slammed the panel. The spring
lock clicked.

Pilot and co-pilot hit the door with their shoulders. It held. They bounced back, looked at each other.

тАЬHe's sure bats!тАЭ said the pilot.

Inside, the fat man made a silent snarl when he heard that. His face had been benign, a bit vacuous. The
snarl turned it into the visage of an animal.

He fanned a glance around the room. There was a desk, a typewriter. He leaped to the typewriter,
seized it and used it as a clumsy club, and with one driving blow, smashed glass and metal crosspieces
from a window in the rear wall. The aperture was hardly ample to pass his plump frame, and he struck
again, so violently that his black hat fell off. Then he started to jump through.

His eyes lighted on a small group of men standing a short distance away. He waved his arms and caught
their attention.