Читать книгу The Mystery on the Snow: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 3

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New York is a city where many people have unusual occupations. There are, for example, individuals who make their living snipping at newspapers with a pair of scissors.

These persons operate news-clipping agencies. Pay them a fee, and they will deliver to you clippings concerning yourself from all over the world—providing you are important enough to have had your name appear in all those newspapers. Clippings can be had concerning others, as well.

Celebrities who like to keep scrapbooks patronize these clipping agencies. Another type of gentry, not so wholesome, also do business with them.

Mahal was a sample of the latter.

Mahal was an oily specimen. He had a head like an almond, and many fine white teeth. He claimed to be an Oriental and, probably, he was. He also claimed to be a mystic. On that point, he was, beyond doubt, a liar. But he had made a little money out of the gullible with his fakery.

The police had a time or two considered putting a detective to watching him. It was too bad they did not do this. A sharp-eyed sleuth on Mahal’s trail might have made some interesting observations.

Mahal was careful to pick a clipping agency which did not inquire too carefully into the motives of its customers.

“I am Mahal,” he announced. “Yesterday I telephoned you for clippings concerning a certain individual. You have them, sahib?”

Mahal spoke excellent English, but he affected occasionally a word of his mother tongue of the Orient. It lent color to him.

He was handed an envelope, stuffed full with paper.

Mahal seemed surprised by the number of clippings the envelope obviously held. But he thrust the container in the outside pocket of his immaculate brown topcoat, paid the rather exorbitant fee requested, and walked out.

The clipping agency was on the seventeenth floor of an office building. Mahal took an elevator down.

In the elevator, a strange thing happened. There were numerous passengers aboard the car. Among these was a stooped gentleman with a flowing white beard. His clothing was extremely well-cut. He seemed rather feeble, for he leaned heavily on a plain black cane. He looked benign, peaceful.

The white-bearded gentleman’s cane slipped on the smooth floor of the elevator, and he stumbled heavily against Mahal.

“Burha bakra!” growled Mahal, and gave the elderly-looking one a shove.

Respect for age is one of the finer qualities of Orientals. But Mahal did not have it. He had called, in his native tongue, the bearded fellow an old goat. He would have called him an old goat in English, but he did not want trouble. He thought the white-whiskered one could not understand the Oriental words.

But he would have been surprised. For the benign old chap with the snowy beard had now the envelope of clippings. He had slipped it expertly from Mahal’s pocket during the collision.

The elevator reached the ground floor and discharged its passengers.

Mahal strode out to the street and glanced about for a taxi. He had not as yet missed the envelope.

The elderly-looking gentleman now showed surprising agility in scampering around behind a cigar stand. This concealed him from the door.

The envelope was not sealed. He opened it, drew out the clippings. There were scores of them. Headlines on the topmost read:

DOC SAVAGE SMASHES TIBETAN MENACE

Another story was captioned:

DOC SAVAGE ON MYSTERY MISSION GOES TO

ARABIA BY SUBMARINE

His white beard shook as the reader said something explosive under his breath. He worked toward the back of the clipping sheaf and studied another headline:

DOC SAVAGE, MAN OF MIRACLES, GIVES SURGERY

NEW OPERATION METHOD

By now, the whiskered one was certain all the clippings concerned Doc Savage. He replaced the contents of the envelope: then he hobbled toward the door, leaning heavily on his black cane.

At the door, he met Mahal.

Mahal had missed his property, and he was in a sweat. He saw the envelope in the elderly-looking man’s hand.

“Old Goat!” he yelled, this time in English. “Where did you get that?”

“It came out of your pocket in the elevator,” was the reply, delivered in a quavering voice.

And that was no lie.

Mahal snatched the envelope. Without a word of thanks, he stamped outside.

A taxi swung to the curb. Mahal got in, and gave the address of his seance room uptown.

Now the driver of the cab had some remarkable characteristics. His hands were of an almost unearthly hugeness. Each was composed of only a little less than a gallon of bone and gristle. The driver’s face was a long one, and it bore an expression of great gloom, as if he were going to a funeral. The fellow hunched low in the seat, possibly to hide the fact that he was a giant who weighed all of two hundred and fifty pounds.

Had Mahal been in an observant mood, he might have noted that the taxi seemed to have an engine of unusual power and smoothness.

Mahal, however, was sulking. He smoked a perfumed cigarette, which he carelessly dropped, still burning, on the taxi cushions when they reached the address he had given.

Mahal entered the building which held his seance room. He did not glance back. Had he looked around, it was doubtful if he would have observed the big-fisted taxi driver wheel his machine around a corner, park, extinguish the cigarette Mahal had dropped, and slide stealthily from behind the wheel.

The fellow with the huge fists was very careful that Mahal did not see his actions.

In the sidewalk near by was a metal hatch. This was intended for delivering freight to the basement of the building which held Mahal’s establishment. Opening the hatch, the big man with the enormous fists dropped into the basement.

Apparently, he had been there often before. He went to a stand which held many pieces of complicated-looking apparatus, and clamped a telephone headset over his ears.

Mahal’s seance rooms were up three gloomy flights of squeaky stairs. One expected to hear rats scamper about.

The mystic’s establishment consisted of two rooms. One—the reception chamber, where customers awaited Mahal’s pleasure—had windows. The inner room, where Mahal conducted his mystic rites, and extorted a few dollars from gullible clients, if it was humanly possible, was perpetually dark.

Mahal’s trade was not one that flourished in the light.

The sanctum of fakery was hung with impressive tapestries, which would have looked their true cheapness in full daylight. There were cushions, curtains, a raised dais—and the inevitable crystal ball glistened in the rays of a tiny concealed light.

Mahal got a harsh-voiced reception when he entered.

“No lights, my oily friend!”

The snarl came from a spot beyond the dais. Even after Mahal’s eyes became accustomed to the incense-drenched gloom, the speaker remained totally unseen. He was behind a curtain—and the voice was obviously a disguised one.

Mahal knew who was talking—knew him by name only. He had never seen the individual’s face. All of his contacts with the person had been over the telephone, or by interviews during which the other remained out of sight.

The unseen speaker’s mouselike, squeaking tones were such an excellent disguise that Mahal was not even sure whether the other was a man or not.

The mysterious one used the name of Stroam.

“You are being unnecessarily cautious, Stroam,” Mahal suggested.

“Possibly,” Stroam squeaked in agreement. “But it is best that I keep completely under cover. What information concerning Doc Savage have you secured for me to-day, my friend?”

Mahal seemed to be well entrenched in the confidences of this enigmatic person whose countenance he had never seen. To a certain extent, he knew what it was all about. But he desired to know more.

“You think Ben Lane may be here in New York, hunting you?” he asked, instead of answering Stroam’s query.

“Ben Lane is in the Canadian wilderness,” replied the hidden one. His squeak sounded impatient.

“Then why fear him?”

“It is not a question of fear!” the other retorted sharply. “It is a matter of caution. Ben Lane is not a dumb man. He may be having me watched.”

Mahal was a born showman. He habitually assumed a trance-like attitude when in conversation. He now seated himself beside the crystal ball and looked as if he were communing with a higher plane. As a matter of truth, he was slyly pumping his mysterious employer. Any information he gained, he might later use to his own profit—he hoped.

“But where could Ben Lane have put watchers on your trail?” he asked.

“I had trouble with Ben Lane,” replied Stroam. “That was in the Canadian wilderness, far north in the snow country. But all that, I have told you before. I will dispose of Ben Lane. And there must be no outside interference.”

“Such as Doc Savage entering the affair, eh, sahib?”

“Doc Savage must never hear a word of Ben Lane!” shrilled Stroam. “And I am here to prevent it!”

That Stroam was in New York to prevent Doc Savage from going to the assistance of Ben Lane, Mahal had known. But there were many other things he did not know. Thus he continued his angling for information.

“You think Ben Lane may have had someone follow you to New York?”

“Lane is not a fool!” squeaked Stroam. “Now, about the information concerning Doc Savage which you have been gathering——”

“Who are you, actually?” Mahal interrupted. “I like to know something about the people I work for.”

“That need not concern you too greatly, my friend. I am powerful, and mysterious. I have a knowledge of things occult, a learning beyond that of other men.”

“That sounds as if you might have come from the Orient, like myself.”

“I have studied for a time in the Orient. But this is no ordinary fakery, my friend. This is big business. I will tell you this much: I control the destiny of one of the greatest business syndicates in Asia and Europe.”

“And Ben Lane has something which you want?” queried Mahal.

“Something I must have! Something which, if I do not get it, will bring financial ruin to my syndicate.”

“What is it?”

“Your nose is getting too long, my friend!”

Mahal ignored this warning that he was becoming too inquisitive. “I might be of much assistance, if you would tell me——”

“No! You have merely been hired to secure information concerning Doc Savage, that I may know how best to combat him. What have you learned today?”

“If you will tell me——” Mahal parried.

“No more questions, fool! What of Doc Savage?”

Mahal felt like heaving a disappointed sigh, but refrained from doing so.

“What you told me about your being powerful reminds me of Doc Savage,” he grumbled.

“Make your meaning clearer!”

“Doc Savage, from what I’ve been able to learn by asking questions, has developed one of the most remarkable brains ever owned by a man. I heard, Stroam, that Savage is a mental wizard. I heard, too, that he has unbelievable strength. Sach bat! Indeed! I believe it, too, after having seen him.”

“You saw Doc Savage?”

“Han, sahib. Yes, sir. I have been trailing him, observing him.”

“That was reckless!”

“You underestimate my cleverness. There is not a possibility that Doc Savage knew I was watching him.”

Stroam, behind the curtain, was silent a bit, as if doubtful.

“You got the newspaper clippings, Mahal?”

“Han, sahib. Here they are.”

Mahal drew the envelope of clippings from his pocket and tossed it to the individual behind the curtain.

A tiny light appeared—but did not illuminate Stroam’s face, much to Mahal’s disgust. Stroam riffled through the clippings.

“The fool newspapers seem to think Doc Savage is a miracle man!” came a disgusted squeak.

“Savage is what these Yankees call a big shot,” said Mahal.

“What is his profession?”

“Punishing evildoers all over the world.”

“What?” Stroam seemed startled.

“I know it sounds strange,” Mahal grunted. “But that is straight. He goes around helping people out of trouble, and handing those outside the law what he believes they deserve.”

This information did not seem to set well with Stroam. Squeaking sounds of rage came from behind the curtain.

“If you are what Savage considers a wrongdoer, you’ll have trouble with the bronze man,” Mahal declared. “Doc Savage looks like a giant made out of bronze. And, sahib, you never saw such muscles!”

Stroam studied the contents of the envelope.

“There is a clipping here which says Doc Savage has some mysterious source of fabulous wealth.”

“He must have. He has built free hospitals which cost millions, and seems always to have plenty of money.”

“That is bad. Ben Lane may want financial aid from Doc Savage, as well as help in combating me.”

“Savage is a tough customer,” Mahal put forth.

“I like worthy foes!”

While Stroam continued reading, there was to be heard only the crinkling of the clippings and an occasional blare of an automobile horn from the street outside.

Stroam spoke finally, and his squeaking voice sounded slightly uneasy. “You are sure Doc Savage did not learn you were observing him?”

“Positive, sahib,” insisted Mahal.

“It is well. I do not want Savage put on his guard.”

Mahal detected a hidden meaning in this. “What do you mean?”

“I have already taken measures to dispose of this Doc Savage.”

“But how did you know where to locate him?”

“From your previous reports, my friend.”

Mahal shivered slightly. “I hope there is no slip, sahib. What are these measures you have taken?”

“That,” said Stroam sharply, “is my own affair.”