"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 032 - Dust of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

fire-crackers. He started in a loud scared voice and swore until he ran out of breath.

"Wait," he said.

The killer waited. It was all of five minutes. Then the other was back on the line.

"The Inca in Gray will direct this personally," he said. "This Long Tom will be disposed of."

"Good-by, son of an ox," the killer chuckled and hung up.



BACK AT the military flying field there was excitement. For the body of the knifed officer had been found. It
was orderly excitement, grim. For these soldiers of Santa Amoza were well trainedтАФand long trained, for the
war had been going on for four years already.

"Long Tom" Roberts was in the office of the field commander, standing stark naked, for he had been stripped
as they searched him. He looked more than ever like a man who was waiting for a coffin. But there was
nothing moribund about the Spanish he spoke. It was good Spanish. He used plenty of it, pointedly, loudly.

"Call Se├▒or Junio Serrato, war minister of Santa Amoza," Long Tom bellowed. "He'll okay me. He knows I'm
coming."

They finally did call Se├▒or Junio Serrato, war minister, and what he said must have been emphatic and
plenty. For the flying field officials turned suddenly apologetic.

"My treatment of you is to be regretted greatly. But you must understand our country is at war," the field
commander himself said. "And the mysterious murder of the officerтАФ"

There was much shrugging, in the middle of which Long Tom Roberts left. He took a horse-drawn hack driven
by an old woman who looked like the Yankee conception of a witch. All gasoline was commandeered for
military use in Santa Amoza and all ablebodied men were in the army. Long Tom eventually got into town.

Alcala, after the fashion of South American cities, was a bright-colored town, made brighter by the flags
which hung in profusion. Bright sunshine made the white houses whiter and filled the streets with heat waves.
Tourists would have ecstasized over the place.

But there were no tourists. There was war!

It showed in something besides the numbers of uniformed men. There was a grimness, chill in the faces, a
thing as distinct as the snow-capped Andes, which could be distinctly seen inland.

Long Tom surrendered his conveyance, because marching squads of soldiers frequently held him up and he
could make better time walking.

The walking, Long Tom concluded in short order, was a mistake. There were beggars; war makes beggars.
Tattered and filthy and pleading, they tagged at his heels. He tossed them coins, knowing that was a
mistake, for it drew more of them like sugar in the midst of flies. He tossed more coins, but they grew bolder,
more insistent. They scuttled alongside him, tugged his clothing.