"046 (B052) - The Vanisher (1936-12) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"So you're beginning to learn the truth!" she gasped.
Doc studied her. His flake gold eyes were compelling, alive. "What you know would help us a great deal."
The girl moistened her lips. She had been hard-boiled, brittle, in her dealings with them so far. Her character had seemed more that of a man than the softer nature of a woman.
But her brazen exterior was a shell, a shell that cracked now and permitted a glimpse of an inner soul that was terror.
"I can't double-cross them now!" she said suddenly, wildly. "I can't!"
Monk and Ham both saw now that the girl was scared stiff.
Monk said gently, "You know Doc's reputation, don't you?"
She said nothing.
"You're in a jam," the homely chemist continued. "And you're looking at a bunch of guys who make a specialty of jams. If anybody can get you out of trouble, we can."
The girl parted her lips to speak.
"If talking will get you in bad with that humpback, better keep your trap shut, sister," said their other prisoner, who had unnoticed, recovered from his senselessness.
"Don't worry," the girl said, grimly. "I was going to tell them I can't talk!"
Chapter 8. SIGMUND HOPPEL
MONK reached down, took the man prisoner by the throat and squeezed. The fellow gargled, floundered, beat Monk and beat the floor with his fists.
"His Adam's apple feels funny when it goes up and down against the palm of my hand," Monk chuckled.
When the man's face was purple, and he had all but stopped breathing, Monk released him. Doc pulled the sedan into a patch of woodland and stopped. There were no houses in sight.
Ham took the young woman's arm at a nod from Doc.
"This probably will not be anything for a lady to see," the dapper lawyer told her. "You wouldn't want to be kept awake nights."
"You don't know—what I already have on my mind," Sandy Yell said jerkily. But she followed the dapper Ham away from the car.
Doc leaned over the prisoner. The fellow did not look as if he viewed the future any too brightly. He rolled his eyes toward Monk.
The simian chemist was not a vision to inspire cheer, for Monk was registering his fiercest visage. Monk, who was at heart a peaceful enough soul got a lift out of using his fearsome appearance to inspire terror in the heart of an enemy.
"Jules R. McGinnis is your name," Doc said. "You are one of the twenty convicts who vanished from the penitentiary."
"You're mistaken!" the pale man growled.
"The prison official furnished your pictures and record," Doc reminded.
The man glowered at them. He drew a deep breath of resignation.
"All right," he said. "So what?"
Doc said, "You were at one time employed by an insurance company of which a man named Sigmund Hoppel is president."
"It's still—so what?" the man snapped.
"Sigmund Hoppel was the name furnished by the donor of the pipe organ which was not in the box car in the prison yard."
McGinnis grinned thinly, fiercely. "Ain't that funny now?"
Doc asked, "How were you gotten out of the penitentiary?"
"We went into that box car," said the other.
"Then what happened?"
The man was silent for a long moment. "Believe it or not, we all went to sleep in the box car after that humpba—after we took some stuff out of a bottle. We woke up in that wine cellar."
Monk snorted, said, "What a story!"
Doc asked, "What is behind this mystery?"
"Think I'd tell you?" the man asked sarcastically.
"Yep," interposed Monk. "And here's a sample of the reason why."
Monk took the man's throat again, and began to squeeze.
Results were immediate. The man became purple-faced, and foam flecks appeared on his lips. His eyes protruded. He looked as if he were dying, and became quite rigid.
MONK released McGinnis hastily.
"Blazes!" gulped the homely chemist. "I didn't squeeze 'im hard enough to cause nothin' like that!"
Doc Savage whipped back to examine the man. McGinnis seemed to be having some sort of a seizure, an attack which was obviously not caused by Monk's mild strangulation.
"We'll rush him to the laboratory," Doc said crisply.
Immediately they drove toward the heart of the city of New York, where Doc maintained a headquarters which had as a part of its equipment a laboratory which, for completeness, was equalled by few others. The prisoner was talking freely now.
It was not the talk of a healthy man, but the ramblings of an unconscious mind. Not all of the words were understandable.
"Organization—not guilty—organization framed me," the man mumbled. "—head bookkeeper—wasn't sure what it was all about—had a suspicion—"
He fell silent for a time.
"Catch all that he says," warned Doc. "This man was head bookkeeper for the company which employed him. He was accused of embezzlement and convicted."
McGinnis continued his rambling, "—suspicion— went to wrong man—didn't know—"