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

When the car was abreast, she suddenly leaped onto the slow-moving machine, yanked open the door, and plunked herself upon the seat. She shoved out her hand hidden by the scarf.
"Drive on!" she gritted. "And if you want to absorb some lead, just make a move to call help!"
The driver did not react as he was supposed to do. He reached out and plucked the scarf away, revealing the girl's empty hand. When the girl gasped and tried to leap out of the machine, he seized her and held her.
The young woman now got a glimpse of the Tartar she had caught.
"Doc Savage!" she squeaked.
DOC SAVAGE drove on, saying nothing. The young woman made an effort to get out again, but the clamp of bronze fingers held her in the car. She discovered that the big man of metal had remarkable strength. His fingers upon her skin felt not unlike warm steel.
The young woman noted that the ignition wiring of the car was hanging down under the dashboard, as if it had been wrenched loose, then patched. She surmised that the car had been locked and that Doc Savage had appropriated it for his own use.
She noted also the round bullet hole over the bronze man's heart. She blinked at this almost unbelievingly. Then she reached over abruptly and shoved an extended forefinger into the hole.
"Oh!" she said. "Bulletproof vest!"
Doc Savage said nothing.
They rode in silence. The bronze man drove expertly, and was soon in the country, taking unfrequented roads, speeding up when they encountered other cars, but never fast enough to attract undue attention. His metallic features were expressionless, seemingly in repose, except for the life in his flake gold eyes.
"Cat got your tongue?" the girl asked.
Doc did not reply.
"How did you trail me?" the girl asked.
It seemed at first that Doc was still not going to reply.
"Through the hole in the gate that you made," he said. "The rest was a matter of keeping you in sight and not being seen."
The girl took off her hat. Her silver hair—it was not quite platinum—was quite abundant.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
"To meet one of my aides who will take charge of you," Doc Savage said.
"MONK" was human, although some people sometimes expressed doubts on that point. He weighed in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds. The hair on his head was about an inch long and as coarse as rusty shingle nails, and the hair on the rest of him was almost the same.
His full name was Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair occasionally. Ordinarily he had the voice of a small child; in a fight, he roared and squawled and whooped and bellowed like the bull ape he resembled; and he was one of the world's leading industrial chemists.
Monk was a millionaire with a penthouse laboratory near Wall Street, and he had a pet named Habeas Corpus, an Arabian hog with elephantine ears, a set of dog's legs and a snout built for inquiry. Habeas, the pet pig, had a mud wallow in the penthouse filled with scented mud, artificially sterilized each day.
Monk was also one of Doc Savage's five unusual assistants. Monk's great love was excitement, which was one of the reasons why he had associated himself with Doc—excitement and the bronze man were rather steady companions.
Monk stood beside a sedan parked on a country road. The sedan was innocent-looking, giving no hint that its body was made of armor plate, its glass bulletproof. Monk was absently picking Habeas, the pig, up by the ears, swinging him, and dropping him. Habeas liked this.
Next to excitement, Monk's hobby was pretty women. Despite his gorilla looks, he usually managed to do quite well for himself in this direction.
The homely chemist executed his best bow when the blond young woman got out of Doc Savage's car.
"What tree did you come out of?" the girl asked unkindly.
Monk gave her a big grin.
"Don't judge me by first impressions," he told her. Then, of Doc: "Who is she?"
"A young lady who tried to kill me," the bronze man explained.
"Didn't!" snapped the girl.
Doc Savage absently rested a finger on the bullet hole over his heart.
"That was a mistake!" the girl declared.
Monk snorted. "May I take time out for a laugh!"
The girl began to look indignant. "I guess I'm in this over my ears. But when that bullet was discharged, no one was more surprised than myself!"
"Want to tell us all about it?" Doc asked.
She nodded.
"I am a professional photographer and detective," she said. "This morning, a man called—"
"Isn't a photographer and a detective an unusual combination of professions?" Monk interposed.
"Well, I'm combining them!" snapped the girl. "I always did think photography and private detective work should go together. After all, you know, there is nothing like a few good photographs to produce as evidence in court."
"Continue with the story," Doc requested.
"THIS morning, a man called me for an appointment, and later appeared himself," she went on. "He said he wanted a picture of Doc Savage. He said Doc did not like him, and would have him thrown out of the prison if he saw him. He offered me fifty dollars to get the picture with his own camera. He insisted on his own camera, and since it was one of the most expensive miniatures, I did not object."
"You did not know it was a trick camera?" Monk jeered. "And you a professional photographer!"
"Believe it or not, the truth!" snapped the girl.
"The work on the camera was excellently done," Doc Savage said. "It would have fooled even an expert."
Monk eyed the bronze man. "You just telephoned me to meet you here, Doc. I ain't got no idea of what this is all about."
Doc Savage did not answer for so long that it seemed at first that he was not going to reply.
"The thing is still very much a mystery," he said at last.
"You think some one simply murdered those twenty convicts?" Monk questioned.
Doc did not answer that.