Читать книгу The Red Skull: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 8
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ОглавлениеOne thing distinguishes New York from other cities—the number and height of its office buildings. Gothamites can boast of their skyscrapers without fear of contradiction. And few of the cloud-piercers were the object of more bragging than the structure which housed Doc Savage’s office, library, and experimental laboratory.
To a height of almost a hundred stories, the skyscraper reared. Outside, the architecture was severely plain, in the modernistic fashion. The few decorations were in a shiny metal which was impervious to the weather. Inside, the fittings were elaborate and costly. More than fifty passenger elevators served the tenants.
Bandy Stevens hung his head out of his taxi window and studied the imposing edifice with no little awe. Bandy had secured a lift from a passing motorist and ridden until he had encountered a cruising taxi. The cab had hurried him into the city.
No cars were parked near the great office building at this night hour. Only one man was to be seen—a shabby fellow who sat on the walk near the entrance of the building. This man maintained a hunched position, and wore dark glasses. He held a bundle of newspapers, which he seemed to be offering for sale. A small bulldog crouched at his side, head on its paws, as if dozing.
Bandy peered upward at the face of the skyscraper. A number of windows were lighted. He decided this merely meant the janitor force was at work.
He had scant hope of finding Doc Savage here at this time of night. But he hoped to locate some one who would tell him where Doc could be found. This address was the only one Bandy possessed.
The taxi drew to a halt before the tower of steel and masonry. The driver was not courteous enough to take the trouble of opening the door for his fare.
This driver was a surly individual. His neck was a thin stem, and his head perched atop it like a puckered fruit.
“Five dollars,” he said, naming the fare.
The charge was too much, but Bandy did not argue. He dug out a roll of notes which made the taxi driver’s eyes glitter greedily, and peeled off a bill. Bandy was peering about in search of danger, and failed to notice he was handing over a ten-spot. The driver pocketed the bill quickly, and made no move to give change.
The vender of newspapers, seated on the walk, kept his head down. He had one hand on the neck of his dog. There was nothing suspicious in his manner. He might have been asleep.
Bandy started for the skyscraper entrance.
The newspaper seller gave his dog a shove in Bandy’s direction, and released the animal. The canine sped for the bow-legged man. Its jaws were distended, its fangs showing. There was something hideous, deadly in its charge.
Bandy strode ahead. It seemed certain he would be bitten before he dreamed of danger.
For the second time that night, Bandy’s sharpness of eye saved him. In the highly polished metal of the modernistic door ahead, he discovered the reflection of the canine.
With a quick wrench, Bandy got the door open. He sprang into the air. The snapping teeth of the animal missed him. The smooth tiling underfoot afforded poor purchase for the beast’s claws. It skidded through the door into the lobby, striving desperately to turn for a second attack. Bandy slammed the door, shutting the animal in the lobby.
He flung a look at the newspaper vender. The man was on his feet, fumbling inside his clothing as if after a gun.
It was Buttons Zortell!
Across the street, two of Buttons Zortell’s henchmen popped out of a shadowy doorway.
Bandy was still unarmed. He thought quickly. Two routes of flight were open. Through the lobby meant facing the canine, and there was something strange and deadly about the creature. Bandy chose the second—the taxi. He hurled into the cab.
“Drag it away from here, fella!” he yelled.
The driver cursed. He had been on the point of going on, and had the gears in mesh. He let out the clutch. The machine sprang ahead.
The two men on the opposite side of the street lifted guns.
“Don’t shoot!” bellowed Buttons Zortell. He wanted no gunplay downtown. He and his men, strangers in the city, would hardly be able to evade the police.
The taxi lunged past the first street intersection. Looking back, Bandy saw a car careen out of the side thoroughfare. Buttons Zortell and his men ran for this machine and piled in. Buttons had recovered his bulldog, and was carrying the beast under an arm.
“Step on it!” Bandy rasped at his driver. “They’re gonna ride our tail!”
Over his shoulder, the driver snarled, “If yer runnin’ from de law, don’t t’ink I’m gonna——”
“They ain’t the law! Twist the tail of this gasoline steer! Let ’er rip!”
The cab took a corner at the head of an arc of smoking tire tread and volleyed across town. It turned again, passing a policeman who promptly sprinted for the nearest call box.
Buttons Zortell’s machine was hot on the trail, Bandy discovered.
“We’ll have half de radio patrol cars in town after us if we keep dis up!” wailed Bandy’s driver.
Bandy considered. He would have welcomed the police, but there was a good chance they would not overhaul him in time. The car behind was gaining—it was a more powerful machine.
“What’s the busiest corner in town?” Bandy demanded.
“I dunno. Forty-second an’ Broadway, maybe.”
“That one will do! There’s a hundred bucks in it for you if you’ll meet me there in an hour! Will you?”
The driver negotiated another corner. “A hundred berries? Yeah, I’ll meet you! For dat much jack, I’d meet Old Harry himself!”
Bandy hastily stripped off his money belt. He jammed it down back of the seat cushion, out of sight.
“Lemme out at the next corner,” he commanded. “I can come nearer losin’ ’em if I’m afoot.”
The cab promptly squawled to a stop. Bandy whipped out. “Don’t forget to meet me in an hour, partner!”
He made a mental note of the cab license, then sprinted around the corner. A dimly lighted hole yawned before him. Steps led down into this. It was a subway entrance—the first Bandy had ever seen.
He descended the steps with bow-legged jumps. A string of cars stood at the platform. The doors were all closed; the cars were beginning to move. Bandy vaulted the turnstiles, not bothering to find how one paid fare.
Most of the subway car windows were open. He dived at one—got inside. The train plunged into the tunnel like a bellowing monster.
Bandy grinned and wiped perspiration off his leathery features. “Huh! If I’d knowed it was gonna be this easy, I’d have kept that belt!”
He imagined he heard angry yells through the train noise—probably his pursuers cursing him from the station platform. He grinned more widely, imagining their discomfiture.
Back in the subway station, Buttons Zortell had sent one loud, angry expletive after the receding train. He and his men had arrived possibly twenty seconds too late.
“He’s gone—the homely little pill!” Buttons groaned. “Damn! I thought sure I had ’im when I sicked the bowser on ’im!”
Perceiving the man in the change booth eying them suspiciously, Buttons and his men hastily returned to the street. There, they held a disgusted council.
The bulldog leaped out of their car, which Whitey had been driving, and scampered up. The men recoiled from the beast as from a rattlesnake.
“Blazes—supposin’ the pooch should bite one of us!” croaked a man.
Buttons carefully captured the animal, and from its front teeth removed a plate of sharp-pointed metal spikes. This was ingeniously made, each spike holding a small hypodermic needle. Had the dog bitten Bandy, the pressure of its jaws would have forced the contents of the needles into the wound.
“There’s enough poison in here to drop a longhorn quicker’n you could snap a finger,” Buttons grunted, gingerly stowing the grisly contrivance in a metal case and pocketing it. “The dog belongs to the boss. He’s been trained to bite anybody he’s set on.”
“Nifty,” admitted one of the group. “Only it didn’t work this time.”
The taxi in which Bandy had arrived, still stood at the curb. The stringy-necked driver now leaned out to call, “Hey, youse guys!”
“Don’t pay any attention to ’im!” snarled Buttons.
They started toward their own machine.
“Let’s me an’ youse boids have a talk!” suggested the taxi driver. “I t’ink maybe we can do each odder some good.”
Buttons Zortell hesitated. “The tramp probably wants us to slip ’im a few shekels to keep ’is mouth shut! I’ll throw a scare into ’im!”
Approaching the hack, Buttons snapped: “What d’you want, ranny?”
The cab driver studied the burly Westerner. “Was youse guys after somethin’ de little punk was carryin’?”
“What if we was?” Buttons demanded belligerently.
“Aw-w, don’t get hard about it! I just thought I might be able to help yer.”
“You interest me strangely, pard,” said Buttons in a tone that was suddenly soft and purring. He recognized a kindred soul in this taxi pirate.
“What’s it worth to youse to get de money de guy was wearin’?”
“Ten bucks,” said Buttons cautiously.
“Blah! Whatcha take me for? I want five-hundred!”
Buttons’s gun hand made a move for his pocket. Then he reconsidered. After all, it was best to avoid violence here in the strange city. And it was not his own money he was spending. He could put it down on the expense account he would turn in to his sinister employer.
“All right,” he grumbled, and produced a well-stuffed wallet.
The taxi driver counted the money over carefully. Then he drew Bandy’s belt out of his shirt. He had seen his passenger conceal it, and had examined it, hoping to find money. There had been no currency, much to his disgust.
Buttons Zortell climbed into the cab to inspect the belt contents. Two envelopes came to light one large and brown, the other small and white. He rifled through the larger.
“This one is just maps and plans and stuff,” he grunted.
The little white envelope held a letter. The scar-cheeked man read this through. Several times, he grimaced in a manner which showed great satisfaction.
“It’s lucky we got this!” he told his fellows as they clustered about.
“I was to get a hundred berries for deliverin’ dat to de little guy in an hour,” whined the taximan. “Ain’t dere some way for me to collect dat jack?”
Buttons began to grin. He crashed a palm upon his knee in delight.
“You’ve given me an idea, hombre!” he chortled. “Not only can you collect, but I’ll pay you another hundred simoleons on top of that! All you gotta do is follow my orders!”
“O. K.” The driver’s sour face was avid with greed.
“We don’t wanta take any chances on Bandy gettin’ to Doc Savage,” muttered a man.
“Don’t worry,” Buttons chuckled. “I’ve got a system for takin’ care of Bandy. There won’t be any more slips.”
The taxi driver stared at Buttons. Uneasiness had replaced greed on his dour features.
“Did I hear yer say somethin’ about Doc Savage?” he questioned.
“Yeah.”
“Den count me out of dis!”
“Hell!” snarled Buttons. “What’s eatin’ you?”
The hackey shivered. “I ain’t gettin’ near dat bronze guy.”
“Bronze guy?”
“Ain’t yer ever seen Doc Savage?” The driver was incredulous. “He looks like a livin’ statue made outa bronze metal. I wouldn’t go up against dat guy fer no man’s money. A pal of mine tried to croak ’im once—an’ dropped outa sight! I didn’t see de pal for months. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I ran onto him.
“It was awful! Doc Savage had done somethin’ strange to de poor feller. He didn’t even recognize me, his old pal! He didn’t know his own father, who is a big shot on de East Side. I tell yer, it gimme de jitters to watch ’im!
“An’ when I told ’im where he could get a job peddlin’ dope, he hauled off an’ knocked me down, den walked away. I’m tellin’ yer—Doc Savage ain’t human. He worked some kind of black magic on my buddy. I don’t want no part of ’im!”
Buttons Zortell snarled angrily. He could see this weird tale had had a distressing effect upon his men. He did not want their courage undermined by such talk.
“We’re not scared of this Doc Savage!” he snapped.
“Dat’s what my pal said,” retorted the driver.
“Hell an’ damnation!” Buttons roared. “We’re not goin’ near Savage! We’re just tryin’ to keep Bandy Stevens from gettin’ to ’im.”
“Count me out,” mumbled the taximan. “I ain’t even botherin’ no friends of dat Doc Savage.”
“Bandy is no friend of the man,” Buttons said patiently. “He don’t even know Doc Savage. Nor does Savage know Bandy. Think of the two hundred bucks you’re lettin’ slip by not helpin’ us!”
The driver licked his lips while greed and fear alternated on his wrinkled, evil face. “Yer sure I won’t get messed up wit’ dis bronze man?”
“Absolutely.”
“Den I’ll help yer,” the hackey agreed.
Buttons nodded. He wheeled upon his aides. “Now listen, you rannies! We’ve got to work fast. I’ve thought of a scheme which will not only get rid of that blasted Bandy, but fix it so we won’t have to worry about Doc Savage.”
The others nodded uneasily.
A moment later, the men were traveling rapidly uptown in their car, with the taxicab trailing behind.
