"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 016 - The King Maker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

the way the man had shoved in ahead of the old lady.

“Doc Savage?” the silk-hatted one demanded imperiously.

“I'm Monk,” grunted the apish one. “I mean—I'm Andrew Blodgett Mayfair.”

His voice was tiny, childlike, a ludicrous tone for such a mountain of hair and gristle.

“Tell Doc Savage that Baron Damitru Mendl wishes to see him at once,” commanded the pompous man.

Monk did not seem impressed. He glanced past the silk hat, frock coat, and morning trousers to the shabby old lady.
“You wanta see Doc Savage, too?”

“Please, sir,” she quavered.

She appeared to be overawed by the magnificence of the office, with its sumptuously comfortable chairs, its
impressive safe, and a huge, finely inlaid table.

“Just a minute,” said Monk, tiny-voiced. He crossed to a door, opened it and stepped through, closing the panel
behind him.

He was in a great room, which held literally hundreds of huge bookcases. These were crammed with tomes.

Monk advanced. He stopped when he could see the bronze man.

This man of bronze occupied a chair under a reading lamp. The chair was massive, yet it seemed small, so Herculean
were the proportions of the man sitting in it.

The muscular development of the bronze man was something to arrest attention. Like great cables, sinews wrapped his
frame. Their size, and the way they seemed to flow like liquid metal, denoted a strength bordering on the superhuman.
These sinews, in repose, were not knotty, but were more like bundled piano wires on which a thin bronze skin had
been lacquered.

“Two persons to see you, Doc,” said Monk. “One is a guy in a silk hat who seems to think he's somebody. He shoved
in ahead of the other one, a kinda ragged-lookin' old lady.”

Doc Savage glanced up. This movement emphasized the most impressive thing about him—his eyes. The orbs might
have been pools of fine flake-gold. The gold flakes, appearing to be always in motion, caught little lights from the
reading lamp.

“The gentleman has bad manners, eh?” The bronze man's voice was pleasant and low, but obviously capable of great
volume and tonal change.

“You said it.”

“Use your own Judgment, Monk.”

Monk ambled back into the outer office, furry hands brushing his knees. He executed a polite bow in the direction of
the shabby, elderly woman.