"039 (B073) - The Seven Agate Devils (1936-05) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Monk suggested, "I'd better run our bus in the alley and get it out of sight. Some crook might annex the tires."
"Very well," Doc Savage agreed.
The bronze man and Ham alighted in front of the Western Building, and Doc said, "We will wait here for you."
Monk drove into the alley and discovered a small court recessed into the rear of the office building. Provided, probably, for the loading and unloading of trucks.
Monk drove into this, turned off the ignition, and got out.
Monk's small eyes were sharp, and walking much in the paths of danger had given him an almost animal alertness. This accounted now for his observing of something suspicious.
The something was a man who had popped his head around the corner of a door which opened on the little freight court. The fellow had obviously been watching Monk, and he jerked back suddenly.
Monk scowled, taking a moment to make up his mind. He was in a suspicious mood after the events at the airport, so he dashed for the doorway.
The man he had discovered, ran. His feet made noise in a passage. Monk charged after him. The rapidity with which he gained on his quarry surprised even himself.
The fleeing man was short, but very fat. He was not built for fast movement. Somehow, he resembled a gorged buzzard trying to get started in flight. He even flapped his arms in a way that carried out that impression.
The fleeing man was running past open doors, the rooms beyond which were darkened. Monk kept on his trail, centering all attention on catching him. That was a mistake.
A chair swung out of a darkened doorway and broke itself to bits on Monk's nubbin of a skull. Monk put his head down, turned a perfect somersault, landed flat on his back, and did not move.
MONK was not entirely senseless, but the effect was about the same. He could not see very well, and there was no strength in his body for resistance. He felt hands half drag, half walk him down the passage. They were going back the way they had come.
The homely chemist heard the rumble of sliding doors, then caught that distinctive gasoline-and-oil odor which garages have. He got his eyes open, and bright light made his eyeballs ache. This slight pain seemed to help dissolve the mists in his head.
He felt something making new pain against his side, looked down and saw a gun.
The man who held the gun was big, had a heavy-featured, brutal face. He looked like a man who would use the gun.
"Who the devil is this ape?" he demanded.
"He's Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, commonly called Monk," said a new voice. "One of Doc Savage's men."
Monk twisted to scowl at the speaker. The fellow made interesting inspection. He was a well-built man, who would have been handsome but for one thing—the lower part of his face.
The lower portion of his face was loose and rubbery. The folds of it lay in gullied lines.
"What're we gonna do with him?" pondered the gun-wielder aloud. "There's too much involved in this, and too many men have died already, to let one guy mess the works."
"Savage isn't wise to what it's all about," growled the man whose lower face was like rubber. "We will give this fellow the same thing we were giving the other one."
Mention of another victim caused Monk to peer around again.
The room was a ground floor garage, rather large, and the ceiling was supported by a number of pillars—heavy girders of steel encased in a covering of concrete.
To one pillar, a man was tied. The manner in which the fellow's head sagged down on his chest indicated he was senseless. A rope, passed around the man and the pillar many times, held him erect. The fellow had dark and very baggy clothing, and rather gray hair.
A vicious jab from the gun took Monk's attention away from the other prisoner.
"Over by that post!" directed the heavily built thug.
Monk was never loath to fight. He made a grab at the gun, but he was too dazed. He missed it, and the thug promptly employed it to crack him over the head. Dazed, Monk was rushed over to the same post to which the other man was tied. A wadded handkerchief was used for a gag.
Monk was jerked around so that his back was to the post, and they began to tie him.
Monk was mad, but not too greatly worried. Doc Savage was close. These men would surely say something—at least ask questions before they did anything drastic. Doc would come to investigate before long.
A moment later, Monk came to the chilly conclusion that he had been too optimistic. The men finished tying him. They went to the back of the garage, got into a car. They started the engine.
"Everything set?" asked the man behind the wheel.
"Everything set," agreed the man with the hybrid face.
THE car started forward. It came fast. Monk experienced exactly such a feeling as would result were the contents of an ice water cooler emptied down his back.
The automobile was going to smash not only himself, but the other prisoner!
It was a clumsy way of doing murder. Also, it was a grimly reasonable one. The bodies could be dumped beside a road somewhere and, when found, they would look as if they had been victims of a hit-and-run driver.
Monk twisted, squirmed. He tried to jump up, and he tried to sink down. But the ropes held him. He tried shutting his eyes. That did not work. He had to look, somehow. The front of the car seemed to get bigger and bigger.
Came the rescue. It was not exactly in the proverbial nick of time. It had been necessary for the dramatics to reach this crucial point before the thing could be executed properly.
Doc Savage was inside the garage, behind one of the pillars. And it was necessary for the car to come abreast before he could act without being discovered. He moved now, his form a bronze blur as he leaped.
Both feet thumped the forward edge of the front wheel on the left side. The impact knocked both front wheels almost as far to the right as they would go, steering wheel spinning in the hands of the man who held it.
Rubber screamed. The car swerved. It hit the front of the garage, the doors. The crash, the yells of the men inside, made explosive bedlam. The garage doors were fragile, and the car went on through into the loading areaway.
The driver could think fast. He straightened the wheel frantically, and skidded into the alley. Down came his foot on the accelerator, and the machine made much noise and departed rapidly.
Doc Savage ran to the town car Monk had parked. But the keys were not in it. Monk had taken the keys, had lost them sometime during the skirmish.
The two would-be killers and their car were gone before pursuit could be organized.
DOC SAVAGE came back to the pillar where Monk and his fellow victim were roped. Ham was unwinding the still-dazed chemist.
"What happened, Monk?" the lawyer asked.
"Saw a guy actin' funny," Monk growled. "I followed him, and him and his pals got me."
"So I see," Ham said, dryly.
"The two guys were fixin' to kill this fellow here," Monk said, ignoring the sarcasm. "They must have thought I was wise, and wanted to get me out of the way."
Doc Savage's metallic fingers were plucking at the lashings which upheld the baggy-suited, gray-haired man beside Monk. The cords were half-inch cotton rope, and the knots were very difficult to untie. Doc Savage simply broke them, his cabled bronze hands accomplishing this somewhat amazing feat without much apparent difficulty.