Читать книгу The Munitions Master: A Doc Savage Adventure - Harold A. Davis - Страница 3

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The little man did not look dangerous. Certainly those about him had no suspicion of the part he was to play in the almost unbelievable horror that within a few minutes would transform a gay, merry-making throng into a panic-stricken, fear-crazed mob.

He was a small man, with a thin face and wide mouth. His features were sullen, his cap pulled low over his head. He appeared insignificant.

And if he did not appear worthy of a second glance, neither did the burden he carried.

He was having difficulty getting that burden through the crowd. It consisted of three loaves of French bread, three or four feet long. The staff of life, not the symbol of horror and death.

In some countries it would have been uncommon to see bread carried in such a manner. In Paris, such a burden was taken for granted. Long loaves of bread are carried through the streets as a matter of course.

The little man twisted from side to side. His sole desire seemed to be to protect the bread. He apparently paid little attention otherwise to the crowds.

But to protect the bread was a hard enough task. Paris was in a holiday mood. The gay tricolor of France hung from almost every window. Gay throngs packed the tables of the sidewalk cafés. The stirring sound of martial music came from the distance. Troops would soon march in review.

The man with the bread was not as unconcerned as he appeared. Occasionally he would dart his head around, peer over his shoulder, as if fearful that he was being trailed.

Intelligence officers were in the crowd, but they were paying no attention to the little man. In fact, they did not know just what they feared, just what they were to watch for.

But there had been rumors. Strange rumors. Tenseness pervaded the foreign departments of several governments. Orders had been given to be constantly on the alert whenever crowds gathered.

Certain statesmen might have been forewarned. There had been queer activities in certain parts of the world. In fact, the horror had struck twice before.

The first time was in China. But the story was not believed—so many strange stories come out of China. The second time was in Russia. The world did not hear of that. The report was suppressed.

Once more the little man’s head jerked around. He swung his bread out of the way of an overenthusiastic celebrator, swore at him fiercely, while the palms of his hands were damp suddenly.

No one paid any attention. That is, no one human did.

The peculiar-appearing creature could hardly have been called human, even if it was clad conventionally. Its hairy face indicated it was of simian, not human descent.

A tall hat was perched grotesquely on the creature’s head. Long arms, half crooked, fell below the knees. It moved erect, but with a gliding motion.

It saw the bread, and its tiny eyes lighted. It slid resolutely after the thin man. A long arm reached out. A paw opened.

The little man’s head turned. He saw, just in time. He gave a frightened scream, snatched the bread away.

There was a sudden commotion. Two figures plowed through the crowd.

“Chemistry!” shouted one. “Daggonit, ain’t you got better sense than to try and steal food?”

The little man’s eyes goggled. His head jerked forward like a turtle’s. And from around him came a roar of good-natured amusement. The little man’s amazement was justified.

For the man who had called out startlingly resembled the ape who had reached for the bread. He was a little thicker, but he was also wearing a tall hat. His arms, likewise, fell below the knees. And his eyes appeared buried in gristle until they were as tiny as those of the ape.

Behind him, a tall, slender man, immaculately dressed, doubled up in laughter.

“He thinks he’s seeing double!” he roared. “And I don’t blame him!”

A gasp of recognition came from the crowd. “Les assistants de Doc Savage!” came an incredulous whisper. “Doc Savage’s men!”

The little man heard. He seemed to shrink back; his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hate.

The two men facing him did not notice. The tall, fashionplate appearing man was apologizing in his best French. The other, who looked like an ape himself, was holding onto the simian, complaining plaintively.

“Daggonit, Ham,” he bleated, “I told you to leave this ape at the hotel.”

“Ham,” otherwise known as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard’s gift to the legal profession, snickered delightedly.

“And deprive Parisians of the pleasure of seeing twins, Monk?” he asked, with exaggerated politeness.

“Monk,” known to the scientific world as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, an outstanding chemist, swallowed hard.

Ham had dressed Chemistry, his pet ape, to resemble Monk as nearly as possible. And for once, in good-natured ribbing that had been going on for years, Monk knew Ham had the edge. And as Habeas Corpus, Monk’s pet pig, was homesick, the hairy chemist, worried, was behind in his digs.

The little man with the bread disappeared in the throng. Neither Monk nor Ham saw him go.

In an office on the third floor of the building across the street, a man was removing binoculars from his eyes. He had witnessed the little man’s narrow escape at losing part of one loaf of bread.

A sign on the office door said, “Carloff Traniv, Avocat.” But the office was a queer one for a lawyer to use. And the man himself did not appear to fall into that category.

Carloff Traniv stood almost six feet four. His frame was that of a soldier, more than an attorney. His shoulders were squared, his stomach lean. His morning clothes fitted him as if he had been poured into them, but he gave them the effect of a military uniform, not a civilian dress.

But his face was his most compelling feature. It had an air of command. His jaw was square, his eyes hard under long, thick black eyelashes. Heavy, almost curly black hair bushed forward over his forehead.

“Doc Savage,” he sneered. “The master adventurer. The man who always blocks evil.”

Two men slid close to him, peered out the window. “Almost time, boss?” one asked. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent, which was peculiar. For both he and his companion were dressed in the blue uniforms of French gendarmes.

The big man nodded. There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside. The sound of martial music was very loud sounds of cheering reëchoed.

“Go!” Traniv rasped. “You have your instructions. Do not fail! If you do——”

A quick rippling of nerves passed over the two men in gendarme uniforms. Their eyes darted fearfully over strange, weird-appearing appliances about the office. Then they sped for the door.

Across the street in an alleyway, the little man wet dry lips with a nervous tongue. His eyes were burning feverishly.

Attention was centered on a reviewing stand, almost directly below Traniv’s office.

“Doc Savage!” came the roar. “Doc Savage!”

A tall, bronze giant was making his way toward a seat directly in the center of the reviewing stand. Despite his size, the symmetry of his development was such that it was difficult for the crowd to realize his true stature. His features were regular, almost classic. Now he was smiling slightly in acknowledgment of the applause.

His straight hair was a slightly darker bronze than that of his skin. His eyes were like hypnotic pools of flake gold, compelling, attractive eyes. Muscles rippled smoothly.

Monk and Ham chuckled delightedly. They knew part of the enthusiasm was due to newspaper reports of Doc’s errand in France.

For Doc Savage, known formally as Clark Savage, Jr., was one of the world’s foremost medical authorities, even as he was an outstanding leader in such widely separated subjects as astronomy, undersea navigation and electrical research.

The newspapers had hailed the bronze man widely. Doc Savage had discovered a new type of cell development that led him to believe it might be possible to restore the health of many war cripples, might even restore the sight of many thought hopelessly blind. He had come to Paris to work with French specialists.

Doc lifted one hand, then took his seat. The lifting of that hand quieted the crowd. It showed in what reverence the bronze man was held.

At that moment, two men in gendarme uniforms ducked out an entrance of the Metro, or Paris subway, moved until they were close to the reviewing stand.

Across the street, the small, thin man with his loaves of bread, suddenly pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

A band blared. Those in the reviewing stand rose to their feet. The military men saluted. There was a moment of silence as long ranks of young, tanned, physically perfect appearing soldiers started to march by.

Then it happened!

There was an unbelieving gasp. Then came the terrible, almost animal-sounding screams. The screams came from the soldiers.

But only for a moment. Then noise burst from the crowd. Panic seized the multitude. The crowd became a seething mass of motion in which men fought blindly in wild panic, in which women were trampled underfoot. Those at the rear fought to get near the street to learn what had happened.

In the street itself there was a strange sight. The ranks of soldiers had disappeared. In their place were rows of fallen figures that twisted and squirmed, and from which groans and horrible noises came constantly.

A youth who had been at the edge of the sidewalk suddenly turned, fought to get away.

“I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” he shrieked. “They were marching along! Then their legs melted! They can’t march without legs!”