"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 027 - The Secret in the Sky" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

“If I asked you to do something,” he queried, “would you do it?”

“Betcha boots!” replied the newsboy.

Doc Savage wrote a name and address on the card and said, “Go see that man,” then walked on, leaving
the boy puzzled.

The name and address the bronze man had written was that of an eye specialist whose particular forte
was afflictions such as the boy had.

More than one gaze followed Doc Savage along the street, for he was a giant of bronze with a face that
was remarkable in its regularity of feature and a body that was a thing of incredible muscular
development. His eyes attracted no little attention, too. They were like pools of flake-gold, stirred into
continuous motion by some invisible force.

He read the newspaper headlines, the galleys of type beneath, but there was nothing on his features to
show that he was perusing anything of importance.

The skyscraper which housed his headquarters was, in size and architecture, probably the most
impressive in New York City. A private high-speed elevator lifted him to the eighty-sixth floor. He
passed through a door that was plain, except for a name in small bronze letters:

CLARK SAVAGE Jr.

The reception room inside had large windows, deep leather chairs, a strange and rich inlaid table of great
size, and an impressive safe.

An automatic pistol lay on the floor. A pig, a shote with long legs and ears like boat sails, walked around
and around the gun; grunting in a displeased way.

A man sat in a chair. He was a very short man and the chair was huge and high and faced away from the
door, so that only red bristles which stuck up straight on top of the man's head could be seen.

The man in the chair said in a small, childlike voice, “Shoot off that gun, Habeas, or I'll tie knots in all
your legs.”

With an uncanny intelligence, the pig sat down, inserted a hoof inside the trigger guard, and the gun went
off with an ear-splitting report.

“Swell!” said the man in the chair, “Only you better stand, Habeas. Next time, the gun might be pointed
at your posterior and there might not be a blank in it.”

Doc Savage said, “Monk.”

“Uh-huh,” said the man in the chair. “Sure, Doc, what is it?”

“Willard Spanner was a friend of mine.”