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

The girl had been looking at Habeas Corpus, the pet pig.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed.
"Eh?" Monk grunted.
The girl pointed at Habeas. "I can't make up my mind what it is!"
Monk gave her his oversize grin and said, "We're used to such cracks, Habeas and me."
"Did you collect the fifty dollars?" Doc asked.
"Half of it. I was to get the other half later."
Monk brightened. "Now, that's something! How were you to get the other half?"
"At Igor De Faust's hotel," replied the girl.
"Who's he?"
"The man who hired me," she said, pertly. "At least, that's what he said his name was."
"You have his address?"
"The Beaux Artiste Hotel."
Doc Savage said, "Come on."
They got in the sedan which Monk had driven to the spot. The sedan was one of a fleet of cars, all of special construction, maintained by Doc Savage. Doc drove.
Monk looked back and said casually, "I see a cloud of dust coming. Must be a car."
Doc got the sedan in motion. The engine made almost no noise and the heavy body and excellent springing made the car ride easily, lightly.
"Care to give us your name?" Doc Savage asked the young woman.
Her answer came without hesitation.
"Syrmanthe Yell," she said.
Monk, who was watching the road behind, laughed loudly over his shoulder.
"And you made cracks about my looks!" he snorted.
The car took a corner and swung in the direction of the city.
"If it's all the same, I'd prefer being called Sandy," said the young woman. "Sandy Yell."
"You're Syrmanthe to me," Monk told her.
The homely chemist continued to watch the rear. His interest sharpened. He jerked a hairy thumb.
"We're bein' followed, Doc!" he barked.
DOC SAVAGE glanced back. A coupй, lean and dark, was like a fleet hound upon their trail. The bronze man increased their speed. The coupй stuck.
The sedan heaved, rocked, in spite of its low slinging and excellent balance. Topping small rises in the road, it seemed to take entirely to the air for yards at a time. Monk craned his neck and saw where the speedometer needle stood.
"Ain't no stock car can go this fast!" he squeaked.
Doc Savage nodded. "That coupй is following us. We will stop and see what he wants."
Topping a ridge, the bronze man applied the brakes. Rubber wailed and the car swayed more madly while the passengers braced themselves against the deceleration. The machine stopped.
Monk dipped into an armpit holster and brought out a weapon resembling an oversize automatic pistol. It was a supermachine pistol perfected by Doc Savage, a weapon of remarkable compactness, firing bullets at a fabulous rate. It was charged with the type of slugs commonly known as "mercy bullets," missiles inducing unconsciousness, through a charge of drug contained in a harmless shell.
The coupй came over the hill, brakes went on, and it skidded. Almost broadside, the car came to a stop.
The man who got out had nice shoulders and not much waist. His face was long, his mouth the large one of an orator, and his forehead was high.
His clothing, however, was really something which made him hard to forget. His morning attire was impeccable, both for correctness and neatness. The creases in his trousers looked sharp enough to split paper.
He carried a black cane which managed to achieve the appearance of both plainness and richness.
"Ham!" Monk roared. "You overdressed shyster! You menace to the uprightness of the American bar! What's the idea of chasing us?"
"Monk, you accident of nature!" "Ham" said, grimly. "What's the idea of running away from me?"
The two glared at each other as if about to do mutual murder.
Monk and Ham were good, if strange, friends. Ham was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, one of the most astute lawyers Harvard had ever turned out. He was also one of Doc Savage's five aides.
Doc asked, "Ham, how did you happen to come here?"
Monk answered that. "I left him a note, Doc, telling him you wanted me to meet you out in the country, and that something seemed to be up."
"Is something up?" Ham demanded.
"I don't know," Monk said. "We're going to a place called the Beaux Artiste Hotel to interview a guy named Igor De Faust, to find out why he wanted Doc killed."
Chapter 6. OIL IN MEXICO
THE Beaux Artiste looked from a distance as if it might be a dump. Closer inspection showed the unexpected cleanliness of the front and the neatness of the doorman's uniform. The neighborhood was nothing to brag about.
Monk and Ham, when they came in sight of the hotel, were quarreling. They always quarreled. Ham had parked his coupй and was riding in the sedan.
"I'm going to whittle you down and see if there is any trace of a man under that hair and gristle!" Ham declared.
"Always picking on me!" Monk squeaked indignantly.