"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 049 - The Mental Wizard" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

Amber O’Neel came out of the jungle about the same time the notebook came out of the pocket.



THE meeting was an accident, in a sense. Amber O’Neel had not expected to meet his quarry so soon,
so he walked out boldly, feet making some swishing noises in the rank jungle weeds.

The aviator looked up, saw his enemy, dropped the notebook and grabbed at the automatic. The gun
banged the instant he got his hand on it.

By rights, Amber O’Neel should have died then. But the aviator was either a poor shot or very much out
of practice. He missed. O’Neel yipped like a dog just missed by a rock, and flashed his two guns.

Immediately, there was a great thundering of guns in the little glade in which the men had met. Both men
moved rapidly as they fired. Weeds were tall, bushes rank. Neither man was exactly sure where the
other was. Both guns went empty about the same time.

Neither man made a sound. Amber O’Neel, not proud of the shooting he had been doing, lay still and
strained his ears, guns ready.

The South American jungle is noted for its noisy birds. The shooting had stirred them up. Parrakeets
squawked raucously. Gaudy birds made squawking, whistling and moaning noises, and there was one
that sounded like a clear bell.

Amber O’Neel was so on edge that he failed to notice something that should have caught his attention.
One particular uproar of bird cries was receding. When O’Neel did notice this, he sprang erect and
cursed.

"The aviator guy’s runnin’ away!" he gritted.
He scrambled forward through the weeds and small bushes. Still uppermost in his mind was catching the
flier and making him tell where the strange girl—the girl with such weird powers—had come from, and
especially the source of her gold frock.

Anyway, it wouldn’t help the temper of the Colombian officials if the aviator came out of the jungle with
the story of the attack and the captured girl.



BUT Amber O’Neel saw the notebook. It lay where the flier had dropped it. The notebook covers were
a bright red, despite being worn, an eye-catching contrast against the green of the weeds.

Because he was a greedy devil who overlooked few bets, Amber O’Neel veered over to snatch up the
notebook. Naturally, he looked inside.

DAVID HUTTON, HIS DIARY.

Amber O’Neel spoke aloud to himself.

"That name," he said, "is damn familiar for some reason." Men alone a great deal of the time get the habit
of talking to themselves.