"072 (B059) - The Yellow Cloud (1939-02) - Evelyn Coulson" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

They were walking into the airport waiting room, and the girl was saying, "I hope that Doc Savage will interest himself in finding out what happened to my brother."
"You want Doc Savage to try to find your brother?" Monk asked.
"Oh, I do, I do!"
"I think Doc will help," Ham said.
"Oh, wonderful!" Brick Palmer exclaimed.
Her throat seemed full of relief.
"You see," Ham said, "a man named Renny was the first—"
He never did finish.
The previous Fourth of July, Monk had lighted a nickel firecracker and threw it, and the cracker hit a tree limb and bounced back and hit Monk on top of the head, exploding just as it struck. Ham had thought it very unpleasant.
Monk's head, now, felt the way it had when the firecracker exploded. He fell to the floor.
Part of the airport waiting-room floor, Monk noticed for the first time, had been freshly painted deep-red. It had been blocked off by stretching a twine string to which was clipped pieces of newspaper. Monk had broken the string when he fell, and it and the newspaper fragments had fallen in the fresh, deep-red paint, also.
Vaguely, he became aware of yelling.
"Help me, stupid!" Ham was howling.
Monk got his thinking reconnected. He'd been banged on the head. By a man—a very long and active man who had skin that was the color of a good English boot.
There were three other men, all active, but not the same color. They were lighter, one having a reddish face. They were closing in on Ham.
Ham had unsheathed his sword cane, danced into a corner. He stood poised in the fencing stance they had taught him at Harvard. He liked to perform with that sword cane, did Ham. He lunged, sent out the blade. A man yelped, dodged back. The man's elbow began leaking red.
"Only nicked me!" the man snarled triumphantly.
"
You think!" Ham gritted.
The tip of the sword cane was coated with a sticky chemical, and even a scratch from it would soon render a victim unconscious.
MONK got up and roared. He always roared when he fought. His ordinary voice was a childlike squeak, but his fighting voice was something that might have come out of the big horn on the front of the Queen Mary's forward funnel.
"Hell—gun 'em!" yelled the boot-colored man.
They must have been keeping their guns out of action because of the noise. But with Monk roaring, there could hardly be more noise.
The boot-colored man drew a thin-nosed pistol. He aimed at Ham. He shot Ham three times in the stomach. Ham sat down backward.
Monk hit the boot-colored man. Monk brought his fist from far back, and the man sailed across and thumped the wall, bounced like a rubber ball and fell.
The other men swung around with their guns.
Monk hated to mix any caution at all with his fights. But he could, when he had to. He took a precaution now.
Out of one pocket Monk snatched an egg-sized blob of metal. He pressed a lever on the thing. It popped, and spouted black smoke. The smoke spread, and almost instantaneously, the room was full of drawing-ink black.
Guns were crashing. But Monk was moving, and the bullets missed him.
"Get up an' fight, Ham!" he howled.
Monk went silent, came up on tiptoes, and made for the spot where he had last seen the girl. Abricketta Palmer wasn't there.
The boot-colored man began yelling.
"Get the girl and beat it!" he shouted, and added some profanity.
He sounded as if he had had enough fight.
Men began getting out of the airport waiting room. Monk felt around, slugged someone, and nearly got shot in the head. He became cautious, worked to the door and crept outside.
There was smoke outside now. There was yelling and confusion around the airport.
Monk crept out of the smoke, but dived back in again when the men began shooting at him. All four of the raiders were outdoors. They had the girl. Monk got back in the airport waiting room and listened to lead make holes in the walls. The waiting room was made of tiling, plastered, and the bullets breaking through sounded as if they were smashing pottery.
After a while, the shooting stopped, and an automobile left at high speed.
Monk dashed outdoors.
"Call the State troopers!" he yelled. "Have 'em get that car!"
LATER the night breeze blew the bomb smoke out of the waiting room. Monk walked in. His shoe soles made stick-stick sounds in the tacky paint.
Ham sat on the floor. He was taking off his clothes.
"Why didn't you get up and fight?" Monk asked.
Ham said thickly, "You were doing all right, weren't you?"
"They got away."
"Personally," Ham said, "I was glad to see them go."
Monk walked around and around Ham, examining him. He made tongue-clucking sympathy sounds.
"Hurt?" he asked.
"Listen," Ham snarled, "were you ever shot three times in the stomach?"
"You had on your bulletproof undershirt, didn't you?"