"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 043 - Cold Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

sinister shadows cast by this strange, penetrating light.

At times, the escaping light gave forth a rainbow glow.

A rutty, obscure road that was little more than a twisting trail through overgrowths of waving
swamp grass apparently was the only traffic communication between the old house and the
highway of civilization, some two miles distant.
Across the swamp a pair of telephone wires had been strung along available trees, most of
them gaunt-limbed and dead.
In the upper story of the old house there was no movement. Except for the faint light at the
one window, there was no evidence the structure was then occupied by a living person.


THE man from the roadster apparently feared something or some one within the old log
house. As he walked, it might have been observed he was a vague, catlike figure. He kept
to the tall marsh grass beside the road, pausing every few yards to listen intently.

In the swamp at a point off the road, some considerable distance from the old house, was a
single glowing eye of fire. The man hissed an oath under his breath. He crossed the soggy,
yielding ground with such quick lightness his feet seemed to leave no imprints.
Before he reached the spot, the red eye of fire winked out.

"Hunter maybe," the man murmured. "Well, heтАЩs picked a poor spot for a camp."
As if the possible presence of another human no longer interested him, the luminous-eyed
man retraced his steps. He glanced at the radium hands of a wrist watch.
"The time is near," he mumbled, "if old Jackson hasnтАЩt been having hallucinations."

Picking out a slightly higher, dry spot some two hundred yards to one side of the house, the
thin figure became a motionless part of the deeper marsh shadows. His thin lips continued
to emit whispered words.

"The great Doc Savage will be calling at eight oтАЩclock, or old Jackson has guessed him
wrong."
Again he glanced at his watch. It lacked five minutes to eight oтАЩclock. There was no doubt
but he had some objective which was closely related with the phone call Doc Savage had
been requested to make from Manhattan.

"It wonтАЩt work out," he muttered suddenly through gritted teeth. "And Doc Savage saw me. I
could feel him looking at the back of my head. I never really touched him, but somehow I
believe he knew I was there."

The radium hands of the wrist watch showed two minutes to eight oтАЩclock. To the watcherтАЩs
apparently raw-nerved senses, the lonely marsh had become alive with voices. His teeth
chewed nervously at his lower lip.
He glanced at a dead-armed tree. It seemed almost as if he were waiting to read the
message that might go out over the wires he knew were strung there. The thin threads of
communication between this eerie desolation and the teeming modern heart of Manhattan.

One minute to eight oтАЩclock. The spear of multi-colored light piercing the slit of the
underground window of the squatting old house winked out. The wind moaned a little, as if