Читать книгу The Annihilist: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 4

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The man who had spoken was a bulky fellow, with upstanding, frizzled hair and a ludicrously small mustache. He wore an exceptionally loud checked suit which, however, seemed entirely in keeping with his unruly hair.

“You pol-eezmans, vot you do here?” he demanded. Then he glimpsed the body of Leander Court and gulped, “Dot man, who shot him?”

Hardboiled Humbolt shouldered forward and demanded, “Who the heck are you?”

The officer at the elevator called, “He said he was Janko Sultman, the president of the Association of Physical Health. I thought I’d better let him in.”

Doc Savage asked abruptly, “Sultman, why did Leander Court come to see you?”

Janko Sultman looked puzzled. He made a tripod of the thumb and two forefingers of one hand, then reached up and absently massaged the top of his head.

“Leander Court,” he murmured. “I am sorry, genteelmans, but dod name I not hear before. Never.”

“Ever see him before?” the bronze man asked, and indicated dead Leander Court.

Sultman shook an emphatic, “Never!”

Hardboiled Humbolt, scowling at Doc Savage, monopolizing the questioning, strode forward so that he was between the bronze man and Janko Sultman.

“The telephone girl says Leander Court came in and said he had an appointment with you and was to wait in your private office,” Hardboiled rumbled.

“Dot mystifies me,” said Sultman. “Der man I have never seen before, believe you me.”

Hardboiled shifted his sneaker-clad feet as if they hurt him, and said loudly, “Nobody seems to know a thing around here—except you.” He glared at Doc Savage.

The bronze man nodded at the door from which the frosted glass was broken. “Mind if I try something?”

“Some of this snappy scientific detective stuff I hear you’re so good at?” Hardboiled growled.

“Something like that,” Doc admitted.

“All right,” Hardboiled told him. “But before you start, let’s get one thing straight.”

“What?”

“You’re under technical arrest on a charge of concealing evidence,” said Hardboiled.

Every one except Doc Savage looked extremely surprised, and the bronze man asked quietly, “Just what sort of evidence am I hiding?”

Hardboiled jabbed a hand at plump Leander Court’s bullet-riddled body. “Why is this guy wearing that identification disk?”

Doc Savage, seeming not to hear the question, said, “Let’s look over the office where Leander Court waited.”

Hardboiled swore, growled, “You’re gonna find I’m not a healthy guy to kid along, big fellow,” and led the way into the office from which Leander Court had smashed his way.

From a pocket, Doc Savage drew a small metal canister which had a perforated top. He twisted the lid so that the perforations were open, pepperbox fashion. Next, he pulled the shades over the locked window, causing gloom to descend upon the room. Outside, it was late afternoon of the first chilly day of fall.

Tilting the container, Doc Savage shook it. Liquid flame seemed to pour out and settle to the floor. The stuff was a powder which glowed like phosphorus.

Settling upon the floor, the stuff ceased to glow, except for certain spots which bore the shape of footprints.

The tracks showed where a man—they were unmistakably a man’s footprints—had come into the office and occupied a chair. From the chair they led to a stand which held a telephone, and from the telephone back to the door. From telephone stand to door they were farther apart, as if the man who made them had been running wildly.

Doc Savage lifted the telephone receiver, listened a moment and replaced it on the hook.

“An outside line which does not go through the switchboard,” he said. “That explains it. Leander Court was waiting here when he got a call. He became excited, cried out, and burst open the door in order to get out of the office.”

“Nuts!” said Hardboiled Humbolt. “No man could be started off yelling by a telephone call.”

Doc Savage replaced the metal canister in a pocket.

Hardboiled pointed and demanded, “What is that stuff, anyhow?”

“A powder which fluoresces, or glows, when exposed to the air,” Doc Savage explained. “The slightest disturbance, by shifting the particles which compose the powder, causes them to expose new surfaces to the air, which in turn glow.”

“But what made the tracks appear?” persisted the tough sleuth.

“The weight of Leander Court as he walked over the rug compressed the fibres,” Doc elaborated. “Those fibres are still straightening, although by only microscopic degrees. But the movement is enough to disturb the powder, causing it to glow and mark the footprints.”

“Well damn me!” Hardboiled growled. “I thought they had you overrated.”

There was a spanking sound from the window. Glass particles geysered like tiny jewels.

Janko Sultman, president of the Association of Physical Health, bawled out loudly and hideously and fell to the floor. A wriggling red stream came out of his frizzled hair, puddling on the carpet.

Hardboiled Humbolt jumped fully a foot in the air, roared “Somebody shot ’im!” and ran for the window. He banged the panel up, leaned out, a hand fishing under his coat.

The gun he brought out was not the regulation service revolver, but a lean-snouted .22-calibre target pistol. He balanced this in a hand as his eyes roved the street.

“Car going down the street,” he growled. “But the shot wasn’t fired from the street and the gunman hasn’t had time to get to a car.”

“What kind of a car is it?” Doc Savage questioned.

“Gray coupé,” snapped Hardboiled. He hauled back out of the window, holstering his unusual weapon and bounded for the door. “You stay here, Savage!” he yelled. “You’re still under arrest!”

Hardboiled plunged out through the door, taking ungainly leaps as if he were traveling on a hot surface. His gait and the canvas sneakers which he wore indicated he must have a bad case of corns.

Doc Savage was at the window, and he watched steadily for some moments. Then he backed away, stood over Janko Sultman and looked at the small round hole which the bullet had made in the window. It was on a line with the top of the building across the street.

“Strange there was no sound of a shot,” said the medical examiner.

The bronze giant did not reply, but bent over and parted Janko Sultman’s frizzled hair. Then he slapped Sultman’s face with sharp, stinging force.

Sultman groaned, stirred, and shortly afterward was sitting up, his hands making aimless gestures. His eyes were cloudy.

“Boke,” he mumbled thickly.

“Who is Boke?” Doc Savage asked.

The cloud went out of Janko Sultman’s eyes and he held his head with both hands.

“Joke,” he groaned. “I say dot bullet no joke. I guess you not understand right.”

“Why should anybody try to shoot you?” Doc Savage asked sharply.

Sultman held his head and wailed, “I do not know, and dot is the truth, sure enough!”

Doc Savage went out into the reception room without saying anything, and found fresh excitement had arisen, with two of the stenographers screaming hysterically and the blonde telephone girl telling every one loudly that she was through.

“No telling who will get shot next,” she wailed. “I’m through with this place! I’m quitting!”

Doc Savage went to the elevator and a policeman stopped him, saying, “I’m sorry. Hardboiled ordered you kept here.”

The bronze man nodded, and roamed with apparent aimlessness over the offices. He peered into numerous small rooms where patients were examined, passed nurses and physicians without a word.

Down in the street, police sirens were wailing.

Doc Savage entered a washroom, closed the door and opened the tiny window. It gave into an air shaft. There was no door at the bottom of this, and no fire escape. The bronze man slid outside, negotiating the small aperture with a startling ease.

Had there been a hundred observers, fully ninety-nine of them would have sworn that not even a cat could climb the sheer wall. But the metallic giant went up in uncanny fashion, supported by the corded strength of his fingers and the shallow grooves between the bricks.

Reaching the top, he traveled over rooftops until he found a skylight, below which an artist painted. The artist, surprised, made a long smear on his painting as a giant man of metal smashed the skylight and dropped lightly at his side. While the artist stared, open-mouthed, the bronze man walked out.

Coming to life, the artist yelled, “Hey, I’ll give you a hundred dollars to pose for me!”

There was no answer, and the artist, racing out, found no one. He returned, grumbling disgustedly, to stare at his picture, which was a partially completed study of a Herculean male figure supporting a certain well-known automobile. It was an advertising poster.

“What a model that fellow would have made,” the painter groaned.

A uniformed patrolman loitered beside Doc Savage’s roadster where it was parked in the street. His manner showed plainly that he had been posted there to watch the car. He twirled his club and walked around and around the machine, scrutinizing it closely. It had dawned on him that the car was no ordinary stock vehicle.

From behind him—from a door somewhere, it seemed—a harsh voice called, “Never mind the car! Go down and help the boys look for that gunman!”

The officer saluted briskly and departed. He thought he had recognized the tone as belonging to Hardboiled Humbolt. He rounded a corner, took a few paces—and came face to face with Hardboiled Humbolt in person.

“Dang it!” exploded the patrolman. “How’d you get here?”

“Whatcha mean?” growled Hardboiled.

The patrolman waved his club. “You just told me to leave the roadster. You were back there somewhere when you called.”

“The hell I was!” Hardboiled yelled, and ran for the corner. Sloping around it, he drew up and began to swear.

The roadster was gone.

“You lunk!” Hardboiled accused the policeman. “I told you to watch that machine.”

“But you told me to leave it, too,” declared the cop.

“I did not!” Hardboiled growled. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“No,” said the patrolman prudently. “I must be crazy.”

A few blocks distant, Doc Savage tooled the roadster through the late afternoon traffic. He was a man of a myriad accomplishments, this bronze giant. Among other things, he was a skilled voice mimic and ventriloquist. It had been a simple matter to imitate Hardboiled’s gruff tone and get the patrolman away from the roadster.

From time to time, the bronze man leaned over and spoke into the radio microphone, calling, “Monk, Ham,” but getting no answer.

The apparatus operated on a short wavelength, and, compact though it was, it had power enough to communicate over a number of miles, even through the highly unfavorable conditions set up by the towering buildings of the city.

Doc called again, “Monk, Ham.”

The childlike voice of Monk said, “On deck, Doc,” from the loudspeaker.

“Did you manage to trail the sniper?” Doc Savage asked.

“Sure,” Monk answered. “We’ve got him spotted. He’s in a taxicab going down Broadway.”

“Don’t lose him,” Doc Savage requested.

The bronze man now wheeled the roadster to the right, and shortly afterward was traversing the rich canyon of Park Avenue, passing towering apartment houses which housed more wealthy persons per block than perhaps any other thoroughfare in the world.

Shortly afterward, the roadster pulled up before an elaborately modernistic structure situated in the most exclusive section of the avenue. Two doormen in resplendent uniforms bowed Doc Savage inside and the bronze man entered a reception room where he was met by an exquisitely gowned redheaded young woman who politely inquired his business.

“I want to speak to Pat,” Doc said.

The titian receptionist was a beauty, but she was completely overshadowed by the young woman who soon put in an appearance.

This young woman was tall, had an exquisite form, and wore a stunning gown. The striking point about her appearance was her wealth of bronze hair—it was almost the same hue as Doc Savage’s hair. She looked very regal in the long, trailing gown.

Several males of varying ages waiting in the large, sumptuously furnished reception room sighed as they saw the bronze-haired vision.

“Hello, Pat,” Doc Savage said.

Pat asked, “Well, who’s trying to kill you now?”

Pat was Patricia Savage, cousin to the man of bronze, Doc Savage. Pat liked excitement, and had long ago sought to join the unusual group of five assistants with which Doc Savage had surrounded himself.

Doc, considering association with himself too dangerous, had refused to consider it. But the bronze man frequently employed Pat’s aid. Between adventures, Pat devoted herself to running this combination beauty parlor and gymnasium which catered to the very rich. Financially, she was very successful.

“Want to help me?” Doc asked her.

“That,” laughed Pat, “is equivalent to an invitation to be shot at, stabbed, drowned, beaten up and no telling what else. Sure, I’ll help you. Who are we fighting?”

“So far, the whole affair is strange,” Doc told her. “A gunman killed Leander Court, then the gunman had a fit and fell over dead with his eyes protruding. The way he died was very mysterious.”

“Do you know what caused the pop-eyed death?” Pat asked.

“No,” Doc told her promptly.

“Then it must be mysterious,” Pat murmured. “What am I to do?”

Doc Savage gave a brief synopsis of all that had occurred.

“Janko Sultman’s business is running the Association of Physical Health,” he finished. “I want you to scout around there and see what you can turn up.”

“Any suggestion about how I am to do it?” Pat asked.

“Use your own excellent judgment,” Doc told her. “But watch out for a tough cop called Hardboiled Humbolt.”

“I’ve been reading about him in the newspapers,” Pat smiled. “The new mayor put him in charge of Manhattan to clean up. They say that this alone was enough to scare half the crooks out of town. He must be a ripsnorter.”

“He is all of that,” Doc agreed. “He has already placed me under arrest.”

“Goodness!” exploded Pat. “What for?”

“He endeavored to bulldoze information out of me,” Doc said dryly. “Unluckily, he wanted to know something that could not be divulged.”

“What?”

“He tried to learn what connection Leander Court had with myself,” Doc Savage said.

Pat’s features suddenly became grim. “Listen, Doc, do you think some one could be trying——”

“It’s too early to tell,” the bronze man said. “And I’ve got to be moving.”

The armored roadster carried the bronze man south quietly and swiftly. He switched on the two-way radio apparatus and Monk’s small voice began coming from the speaker, making explanations.

“Me and Ham were in the street when we heard the noise of a silenced rifle and heard the bullet hit the window,” Monk stated. “We decided the shot must have come from the roof and we reasoned the gunman would come out in the next block, so we barged around there and sure enough, a lad pops out. He’s a thin-looking egg with a face like one of them old Salem witches. He dived into a cab. It’s him all right. He’s got his guns in the trombone case.”

“Where are you now?” the bronze man inquired.

Monk replied with an address far downtown.

Doc Savage angled over to the west side of Manhattan Island, took the elevated express highway which led southward, and eventually came out on Canal Street, where there were numberless trucks, taxicabs and a few horsedrawn drays.

An excited squeak, Monk’s small voice jumped out of the radio. “The sniper is gettin’ out of his hack!”

“Keep a line on him,” Doc requested.

“O.K.,” said Monk. “The bird has gone into a department store across the street.”

“Sure you can watch all entrances to the store?” Doc asked.

“You bet!” Monk’s small voice was confident. “We’ve got our heap parked close to the corner. The guy must have gone into the store to buy something.”

The next few seconds produced no more direct communication, although Doc Savage caught a number of sarcastic exchanges between the small-voiced Monk and his companion, “Ham,” who had a well-developed orator’s voice. The two seemed to be on the verge of a fight.

Doc Savage ignored the verbal hostilities. Monk and Ham always seemed on the verge of a fight; no one acquainted with the pair could recall one of them having addressed a civil word to the other. They squabbled continuously about anything and everything, and they were actually friends who would sacrifice everything for each other.

The bronze man devoted his attention to working through a fleet of drygoods trucks which were evidently bound for retail centers adjacent to New York City.

Unexpected, explosive, Monk’s small voice croaked out of the radio speaker. “Here, you, what’s the idea——”

A very brittle and totally strange voice said, “You two mugs have been shaggin’ the wrong guy!”

Doc Savage listened intently to the radio speaker, but almost at once, a loud snap of a sound came from it, and after that a shrill oscillating whine, a mournful, hair-raising wail which indicated something had happened to the transmitter in the car occupied by Monk and Ham.