"054 (B089) - Ost (The Magic Island) (1937-08) - Lester Dent" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

"Was that one with them?" he asked.
"Nope. Not unless he went out one of the other doors. They do sometimes, you know. Don't make no difference to me. Everybody pays in advance here."
The proprietor seemed all right. He could not have any Chesterfield manners and run a place like this.
Doc mounted the stairs quickly. Ben Brasken was ensconced in a room which he had secured all for himsell by paying for the three beds it contained. Or Ben Brasken's companions had paid for the room, rather.
Doc gained the door, listened outside it. He remained there for a long time. There was no sound of anything living within the room. Doc turned the knob. The door was unlocked. The bronze man went in.
Ben Brasken was there.
Doc backed out of the room and called his men. They gathered around the bronze man and looked at Ben Brasken. The looks they directed at Ben Brasken were short, and afterward they looked everywhere but at Ben Brasken.
"This makes it tough," Renny rumbled grimly, "unless Monk and Ham turned up something in New York."
Johnny drew a sheet over Ben Brasken to shut off the sight. For Ben Brasken's head had been practically cut off.
Chapter IX. THE STOLEN AIRSHIP
MONK and Ham, who had been left behind in New York City to do various things, were quarreling. This would have surprised no one who knew them. Rather, it would have been a surprise if they had not been squabbling.
"You'll let me examine that nickel," Ham was saying, "or I'll separate you from your epidermis!"
"That nickel," Monk grumbled, "was a perfectly ordinary nickel!"
This was a falsehood. The nickel had two heads. Monk had just used it to flimflam Ham into going out to get their morning ration of coffee and doughnuts.
"You mistake of nature!" Ham gritted. "We're going to match over again!"
"Any more argument out of you," Monk stated, "and I'll pop you so hard your spirit will have a heck of a time locating your body again!"
They were in Doc Savage's waterfront hangar, a large brick building on the Hudson River which masqueraded as a warehouse. A sign on the front said, "Hidalgo Trading Company." The building was actually a giant, almost bombproof, surrounded by burglar alarms, and held a number of planes, ranging from small single-seater true-gyros to huge transport ships. Moreover, there was a small and unusual submarine, some surface boats, including a diminutive but fast yacht.
The most interesting object, however, was probably the small demountable dirigible which Doc Savage had lately acquired, an all-metal craft which was not large, but which was the only one of its kind inexistence.
It had only two motors, and one small cabin, enclosed within the gas bag. It had a high speed, and was small enough that it could be used to land men in a jungle, for instance, simply by tossing out a grappling hook which would snag a treetop. Moreover, it was stout enough that it could stand a good deal of banging around without damage.
Monk and Ham were watching this dirigible in particular. Kit Merrimore had wanted to buy it.
Monk picked up an envelope, took some papers out, and shuffled through them elaborately.
"I wonder if we'd better telegraph this stuff to Doc?" he pondered aloud. "He wanted information, whatever we could pick up, about a man named Martin Space."
Ham glared at Monk, tapping a toe indignantly.
"Are you gonna get that coffee and sinkers, you fashion plate shyster?" Monk demanded.
"Let me see that nickel!" Ham commanded.
"You'll see stars if you don't get going," Monk said.
A shrill buzzer whined out. It was connected with a button at the door.
Monk went to a device of mirrors by which they could view the vicinity of the door.
"Blazes!" he squeaked. "It's that girl, Kit Merrimore!"
Ham gasped, "She's been hurt!"
THE girl was draped against the door, hanging to the huge handle. She was pale. Her garments were torn. Her right sleeve from the shoulder down was soaked with red.
Monk gasped, "She may be dying!" and started for the door.
"Wait a minute, nickelwits!" Ham snapped.
"Huh?"
"This may be a trick. The hangar here is literally a fortress, and they may know it."
"Yeah," Monk paused. "I'll take a good look around."
He used a pair of binoculars on the wide, almost deserted water-front street. This was Sunday, and there was not much traffic.
"Nobody in sight," Monk decided.
"Be careful," Ham warned.
"Sure."
Monk was careful. He got a boat hook, opened the door a bare crack. The girl was now a limp heap on the grimy pavement outside.
Monk hooked the boat hook in the belt of her sport frock, and gingerly hauled her inside without exposing himself.
Ham stood back, in the meantime, his supermachine pistol held ready.
"Just like you to shoot a woman!" Monk sneered at him.
"These wouldn't damage her," Ham snapped. "They're mercy bullets. Only make her unconscious."
"She's that now," Monk told him.
Having closed the door and fastened it, the homely chemist growled, "We'd better rush her to a hospital," and bent over the young woman."
With his pocketknife, Monk opened the young woman's sleeve from wrist to shoulder.
He stared. His mouth fell open.
"Huh!" he exploded. "She's not hurt!"