"Robeson, Kenneth - Doc Savage 1936 09 - Cold Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

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, heТs 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 hasnТt 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 oТclock, or old Jackson has
guessed him wrong."
Again he glanced at his watch. It lacked five minutes to eight oТclock. 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 wonТt 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 oТclock. To the
watcherТs 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 oТclock. 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 the withdrawal of the rainbow gleam were a signal.
The catlike man became rigid. He glanced over his shoulder. The red eyes of fire
deeper in the marsh had not reappeared. Perhaps this unexpected camper was no
longer in the swamp.
Eight oТclock.
From the heart of the marsh, from no definite direction, came a low whirring
sound, vicious as the warning of a poisonous rattler.
The cat-eyed watcher had reared to his feet. He had turned and was running away.
The soggy ground of the swamp rocked and swayed. The earth heaved with a
convulsive, shuddering blast.

THE explosion started at the place of the old house. A knife of giant flame shot
upward and moved with ripping effect across the marsh.
The fleeing man was twice hurled from his feet. Each time, his face and clothing
were befouled by the ooze in which he fell.
The man staggered at last to the side road. The slicing destruction that had