Читать книгу The Midas Man: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 5

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Alexander Cromwell Mandebran was, as was natural under the circumstances, a public figure for the time being, a celebrity. Alex Mandebran had been interviewed aboard the transatlantic liner and had named the airport at which he expected to land in the United States. As a result, reporters and cameramen were on hand to greet Mandebran’s plane.

The airport selected was one on the outskirts of the city of Philadelphia, the metropolis from which the missing Jethro Mandebran had disappeared.

The plane was a small English amphibian, sturdily built. An English pilot employed by Alex Mandebran was at the controls, and, fairly early in the morning, he made an excellent landing. He taxied up to the hangar of the airport, and immediately the ship was surrounded by a crowd.

Alex Mandebran proved to be a large man, with an especially good pair of shoulders. He had full lips, a square jaw, and his general appearance indicated considerable physical strength. His hair was smeared with gray at the temples, despite the fact that his age had been reported in the newspapers at twenty-eight.

“Really, now, I cawn’t be expected to waste much time, can I?” he said, when asked to answer questions. “Nawsty thing, you know. Fair takes my breath. I’m in rawther a hurry to get to Philadelphia and investigate the beastly mess.”

Despite the affected English accent, Alex Mandebran seemed a nice enough young man.

“What do you think has happened to your father?” he was asked.

“Really, I cawn’t say yet,” he replied.

“What do you think has happened to the twenty million dollars?” was the next question.

“Really, I’d rawther not say as to that either,” the young man murmured.

“Do you know anything at all about the case?”

“I am sure that the name of my father will be cleared in the end, oh, definitely! I am going to Philadelphia at once. I trust I shall have more to say, after I am there a short time.”

A reporter inquired, “How long have you been abroad?”

“Most of my life, to tell the truth,” said young Mandebran.

At this point, a very large Negro, wearing a neat blue uniform, stepped up to Alex Mandebran and saluted deftly.

“Ah got an official cah waitin’ foh yo’, suh,” he said.

Alex Mandebran blinked. “I do not understand.”

“Police, boss,” said the Negro. “They done want to be nice to yo’ all. In this heah cah, yo’ can make a quick trip, an’ it won’ cos’ a cent.”

Taking off his hat, Alex Mandebran ran his fingers through his hair. “The police want to question me?”

“Ah reckons dey do,” said the big black man. “Ah wouldn’t know.”

The car proved to be a large, dark limousine. The big Negro in the uniform handed young Mandebran into the rear and got behind the wheel. The car rolled away from the airport and headed for Philadelphia.

Three other cars followed. These machines held newspaper reporters, who had orders to keep tab on young Mandebran.

The three cars of the newspapermen started out with full expectations of keeping the machine ahead in sight. They received a surprise. The dark limousine traveled faster and faster. The newspapermen pushed their cars to the utmost, but they were rapidly left behind. Within twenty minutes, the newshawks had lost all trace of the black car. Thus they missed a bit of drama which would surely have been good for headlines.

Alex Mandebran in the black car became alarmed at the excessive speed.

“I say, driver!” he called. “We are hardly going to a fire!”

This got no results. Alex Mandebran rapped sharply on the glass which separated the driver’s compartment. The big Negro piloting the machine did not even look around. The young man tried to crank the glass down. It would not budge. He endeavored to open the doors. They would not open. He tackled the windows. No luck there, either.

“What the hell does this mean?” Mandebran shrieked, completely shedding his English accent.

Getting no answer, he wrenched off a shoe and employed it to beat against the glass. The glass was like armor plate. Alex Mandebran sank back on the cushions, somewhat pale.

The black limousine had left the main highway by now, and was jouncing over rough roads. Turning off sharply into a grove of trees, it stopped. The driver got out, calmly opened the rear door.

“Damn you, whoever you are!” Alex Mandebran gritted, and leaped to the attack.

The thirty seconds or so which ensued were brisk and discomfiting to Mandebran. Not only did he fail to bear the other down with his charge, but he was seized, lifted and slammed to the earth so hard that the breath left his lungs. The captor held his wrists easily, searched him for a weapon, but found none.

“Blast you! What are—”

Alex Mandebran went abruptly silent, for he had gotten a look at one of his captor’s wrists.

Some of the disguising color had been rubbed off the wrists in the struggle. The captor was unmistakably a white man.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Alex Mandebran demanded.

The reply of the mysterious black driver was to begin wiping more of the coloring off his features. He worked rapidly, employing a chemical remover which came in a tube, and which he had been carrying in a pocket.

Alex Mandebran began to stare in amazement. He all but rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

“Good night!” he gasped.

“So you recognize me?”

Alex Mandebran wet his lips. “I—I recognize you from your pictures!” he admitted, jerkily.

Alex Mandebran was now urged into the limousine, and the erstwhile Negro chauffeur got behind the wheel. The car was shortly swallowed by the woods.