"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 023 - The Mystic Mullah" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

who had come in out of the foggy night.

“Damned if I like this,” he said in a tone which showed he wanted to talk to relieve his mind.

The deckhand, who knew that tone, let his boss talk without interruption.

“Damned if I like it,”' repeated the skipper. “I get a radio to go out to the Atlantic Queen, that new liner
that's fog-bound, and take off a passenger. I get out there, and, by golly, if it ain't three passengers, and
two of 'em the queerest-lookin' ducks you ever saw! Take that one who was just in here.”

“I'd rather take him than the other man,” said the deckhand in a queer tone.

The skipper scowled. “Whatcha mean?”

“I mean that the other duck has a knife as long as your arm up his sleeve,” said the deckhand. “I just saw
it. He's standin' outside the door of your cabin. Looks like he's guardin' the girl.”

“The girl!” The skipper sighed. “Now she's what I call a nifty number. She's white, too. Wonder what
she's doin' with these two funny-lookin' buzzards?”

The skipper was not a bad judge of femininity. The girl was a “nifty number.” In fact, she would have put
a movie casting director up on his toes.

She was tall, with dark hair and lashes that were altogether delectable. But there was something else
about her. She was businesslike, capable. Her person radiated efficiency.

Her clothing was thoroughly modern, and so was the blue automatic which she held in her hand as the
door opened.

The hook-nosed Khan Shar looked at the gun and smiled as if it might have been a cocktail the young
woman intended offering him.

“I do not feel there is danger,” he said. “We have not heard of the Mystic Mullah since our caravan left
the Gobi.”

The girl kept the gun in her hands. “A thousand lives depend on what we are doing,” she said dryly. “If
you want to be dramatic, you can put the figure higher.”

The Khan's dark face drained of its color, giving him a stark, agonized look.

“You could put the figure higher—and not be dramatic,” he said thickly.

Neither spoke again, for the tugboat engine had changed its regular pulse and was running slowly; it
accelerated, then pounded, as if the craft were backing. Shouts rang out, and scraping sounds on deck
indicated ropes dragging. There was a bump, rather violent, then lesser bumps and the tug heeled so that
the Khan put out a hand to steady himself. There were four large rings, each with a big jewel, on his
fingers.

“I trust we have tied to a secluded dock,” said the Khan.