"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 032 - Dust of Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

The presence of the beggars was not strange, for tropical cities are commonly infested with mendicants.

But suddenly it was strange. It was sinister. It had a purpose.
One whining rogue, ragged and dirty as the rest, shuffled up, arms held loosely at his sides, bare feet scuffing
the dust of the unpaved street. Then, unexpectedly, his long arms were wrapped around Long Tom's slight
figure.

"Spy!" screamed the beggar. "He is a spy!"

The mob burst out in a roar. The suddenness with which it happened showed this all had been arranged.
Unclean hands closed upon Long Tom. There seemed to be dozens of them.

"Spy!" they shrieked. "Kill him!"

"Kill him!" a score echoed.

Then Long Tom—he who resembled an invalid—picked up the first beggar who had seized him. Using the
victim as a club, Long Tom bowled over fully half a dozen others. It was a feat the burliest wrestler would not
have blushed to recount.

In the next few seconds, Long Tom demonstrated some of the qualities which qualified him as an assistant to
that man whose name was legend to the far corners of the earth—Doc Savage. Long Tom used his fists at
first, and they landed with noises only slightly less than pistol shots.

A ring opened around Long Tom, in it the bodies of those who had become senseless. The mob roared,
circled the man whose mild appearance was so deceptive.

"Kill him!" it bawled. "A spy!"

Then they closed in, and many knives appeared. They tore a stoop from in front of a house, and hurled these
sizable rock fragments. Long Tom got one in the chest and it put him down.

Lying there, gasping, he drove hands into his pockets. They came out with small glass bulbs. He broke these
in the street, and they made wet splashes which vaporized away almost instantly. It was gas, odorless,
producing quick unconsciousness if breathed—a product of Doc Savage's inventive genius. Long Tom held his
breath so as not to get any of it. He got up and ran.

Into a door, Long Tom dived, not knowing where it led. He was lucky. It admitted into a patio, and he climbed
a palm tree to a roof, crossed that, got into another street, after which it was doubtful if a man in the mob
could have kept up with him. He could hear them yelling.

"Spy!" they screamed. "Kill him!"

"Whoever hatched that murder scheme," Long Tom grumbled as he ran, "was clever."



Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
ALCALA, CAPITAL of Santa Amoza, had the outward aspects of a backward city and a poor one. It was
neither. Santa Amoza was a country rich in natural resources—nitrates and oil among others—and before the