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

He was very secretive. Since it was early in the night, sailors were still moving about, those who had not gone ashore. The searcher dodged these expertly. Altogether, he was quiet enough to have done a first-class spook job in haunting a house.
In a little-used compartment back of the anchor chain locker near the bow of the boat, he came across something that seemed to interest him. The niche was a gloomy one, closed by a hatch, and apparently not used at all.
The place was littered with empty cans. The searcher examined the cans closely. Tomatoes, corn, beans, mostly. Most of them bore grimy finger prints.
Some of the cans had been opened only a few days ago. Others had been emptied less recently. This difference, while it was not quite as plain as print, could be discerned by close inspection.
It was evident that some one had lived in the cubicle, eating out of the cans for an interval that might have been three weeks.
There were certain other signs to indicate whoever this was had been completely a hermit, had not left the place at all.
Judging from the signs, the hermit had entered the place about a month previously and had remained there until about a week ago.
This was the period during which Ben Brasken had been missing.
THE dark, one-eyed giant now produced two articles from his pockets. One item was a pocket finger-print set, such as police detectives sometimes carry. The other object was a copy, or rather the page itself, from the hospital records made out when Ben Brasken was committed. It bore Ben Brasken's finger prints.
A few seconds, and the mysterious sailor was comparing the finger prints on the emptied food cans with those of Ben Brasken.
They were the same. Ben Brasken, then, had been the hermit.
The food cans were not the only interesting objects. In moving them aside—there was rather a litter of them—the hunter found four steel hacksaw blades, two files, a brace containing a metal-boring bit, and two or three bolts. There was also a slab of rusty iron, three inches or so thick, more than a foot wide, and a little longer than wide.
The hacksaw blade teeth were almost worn away, the two files had seen much service, and the bit's cutting edges were chipped and rounded. Rectangular pieces had been sawed out of the iron. Two of them.
Under a pile of tin cans was an oblong iron block equipped with a handle, an exact duplicate of the block Ben Brasken had been carrying when they found him apparently climbing aboard the Benny Boston. The key, he had called it.
It would seem that the blocks had been made here. And Ben Brasken had spent the time on the job which he claimed he had expended in visiting Ost.
The big, one-eyed prowler seemed satisfied with what had been found, but was thorough enough to go over the rest of the old steamer. He did not devote much time to anything else that he found.
He carried the flatiron-shaped block equipped with a handle when he went on deck.
IT was fabulously dark outside, almost as black as it had been in the smelly innards of the ship. The big hunter moved with feline quiet toward the hawser by which he had come aboard.
Out on the bay, a pair of tugs began blasting their whistles at each other. The echoes bounced back from warehouses and buildings until there was a gobbling uproar.
This accounted for the pigeon-egg eyed sailor bumping into another prowler on deck before he discovered his presence.
There was no preliminary word exchanged. The other marauder hit the big sailor with a fist. The fist hit the large one's chest with a sound as if a big jungle drum had been thumped.
The two sprang upon each other. Both seemed fully confident of an immediate victory. They strained, grunted, and clothing tore. They tripped, went to the deck.
Their fighting styles were vastly different. The big, dark fellow used fist science. The other felt about with snaky fingers, twisting a joint here, punching a nerve center there. Jujutsu. Skilled, too.
Suddenly, the giant with the pigeon-egg eye commenced to demonstrate that he also knew jujutsu. He was, indeed, the other's master at the tricky joint-cracking, nerve-punishing science. His foe emitted a sudden squall of pain, after which he could barely move.
The beam of the big sailor's flashlight licked over the gasping assailant.
The fellow was a rather large and almost round Chinaman who was about the color of homemade butter.
Had Doc Savage's two aids been present, they would have recognized him as the same Celestial who had driven pretty Kit Merrimore's town car in New York City.
A sharp shout came from amidships. Running feet pounded. The fight had drawn attention.
Chapter V. THE PHANTOM CELESTIAL
THE globular Oriental had the cunning of his race. He lay quiet until he had enough strength to emit a yell that would have raised the dead.
"He tly kill me!" he squawled. "Help poor Chinaman!"
The footsteps approached with the rattle of a hailstorm coming across a tin roof. The crew of the Benny Boston. Some of them had hurricane lanterns.
They did the natural thing. They decided to grab both strangers and ask questions afterward. The Chinaman was a stranger, certain enough.
"Who's the laundryman?" a sailor barked, and that proved that.
The dark giant with the strange eye tried to pick the Oriental up and get over the side with him, but the Celestial kicked and used his hands. He was really a master of his jujutsu. He managed to delay the business of carrying him away.
Two sailors leaped upon the dark marauder. They were promptly flung backward.
The Oriental sank to the deck and moaned, "He fella bleak mine leg!"
It was clever strategy. The sailors gave him no attention, but flocked upon the big, dark fellow. As soon as no one was looking at him, the Celestial bobbed up and disappeared down the hawser to the gloomy shore.
The Benny Boston sailors were tough lads who knew all about fighting, or thought they did. After they had been mixing with the big, dark fellow for a few seconds, they began to conclude there were things they didn't know.
Men suddenly found themselves on deck, paralyzed, and not knowing in the least just what had happened to them. Those who got hold of the foe frequently thought some one had introduced iron bars the size of arms and legs in the fight.
The hurricane lanterns became smashed, one by one, and the mкlйe went on in the darkness. Captain Smooth came running from his cabin, carrying a long, heavy boat hook. With this shillalah, he poked and whacked, until someone kicked most of the skin off his right shin.
The fight became less violent. One man scrambled clear, struck several matches and managed to relight what was left of one of the hurricane lanterns.
They saw then why the fight was less violent. They were only scrapping each other. Their foe, the big tartar with the queer eye, had faded away, probably overboard.
Captain Smooth hopped around on one foot, nursing his peeled shin, and began to say things which, remarkably it seemed, did not melt the surrounding ironwork.
One sailor backed hastily to the rear of the group and examined the toe of his shoe. He hurriedly brushed off some bunches of the skipper's hide which were sticking to the toe. The hide somewhat resembled the kind of ostrich leather they make purses out of.
THE big, dark, strange-eyed sailor was not only ashore; he had reached the street which ran beyond the piers. A small coupй was a hundred yards away, and still gathering speed.
It is, of course, impossible for a man to outrun any respectable kind of an automobile in a test of speed, but the big sailor very nearly succeeded.
The Celestial in the car saw him barely in time, stepped on the gas, and got away. The car motor had a carbon knock, but that didn't hurt.
The big, dark sailor stopped. He had just covered two hundred yards at a clip that would have taken the breath of a professional sprint timer. Yet his breath was not coming with undue speed.
He went back to the pier, listened, learned the sailors off the Benny Boston were ashore searching. He paid no attention, but entered the pier shed silently. Once, he could have reached out and taken the cigarette off the lips of a searching Benny Boston deckhand.