"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 112 - The Speaking Stone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

When the bird broke cover, it was this: Someone had made a previous attempt to murder Jones.

A newspaper reporter named Wilfair Wickard unwittingly pushed the skunk out into the air. Wilfair
Wickard was a well-constructed young man with an enormous inferiority complex about his name. The
first thing he told people was to call him Spike or Bill or ButchтАФsomething besides Wilfair.

тАЬHe was a queer little guy, Jones was,тАЭ Wilfair said. тАЬCome to think of it, he didn't act much like a
newspaper correspondent. I didn't think much of it at the time.тАЭ

Renny remarked, тАЬI should think you would be able to recognize anyone in the same profession as
yourself.тАЭ

Wilfair Wickard shrugged. тАЬIt's not like it used to be. A lot of people are correspondents who have never
been near a newspaper office. It works like this: You build yourself a reputation; then somebody with a
chain of newspapers hires you as an expert on what you are supposed to know. You don't even have to
know how to write. The poor devils in the home office whip it into readable shape for twenty-five dollars
a week.тАЭ Wickard grinned faintly. тАЬHad strange dreams at night, little Jones did.тАЭ

тАЬDreams?тАЭ Doc Savage said.

тАЬNightmares, maybe you'd call them,тАЭ Wickard explained. тАЬI remember the night before we left Tahiti in
the plane. Jones busted into my room. It must have been three o'clock in the morning. He thanked me for
sending a drink up to his room.тАЭ

тАЬDrink?тАЭ

тАЬThe strange thing,тАЭ said Wilfair Wickard, тАЬis that I hadn't sent him any drink. It was whiskey. One of
those tiny bottles of it, you knowтАФthe size that holds an individual serving. It was Scotch whiskey.тАЭ

тАЬJones had it?тАЭ

тАЬOh, yesтАФin his hand. He assured me that he didn't drink. He handed it to me, saying it was a shame to
have it go to waste. And then he looked at me in the strangest way and said that it was poison; that it
wouldтАФтАЭ
Wickard's mouth remained open. His breathing and pulse seemed to stop.

тАЬPoison!тАЭ he exploded. тАЬGreat grief! Do you supposeтАФтАЭ

тАЬDo you still have that bottle?тАЭ

Tightly excited, Wickard nodded. тАЬSure! I kept it. Tossed it into my brief case for a lift later, in case I
needed one.тАЭ

He wheeled, ran for the thatched shelter which the newspaper correspondents had erected for
themselves. When he came back, he had the small flask.

Doc Savage spent fifteen minutes analyzing the contents of the bottle, then said, тАЬWhoever put in the
poison knew about poisons. There is enough to kill a man instantly, yet not so much that it would be
noticed.тАЭ