"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 052 - The Land of Fear" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

by the sound of city traffic, the mournful toots of tugboats. The policeman stepped forward and spoke
gruffly.

"Here, you! Where do you think you’re going?"

The men stopped, faces suddenly white. Only the girl seemed able to speak, and her voice was little
more than a whisper—a soft whisper of slurring consonants.

"We—we want to see Doc Savage," she said.

The policeman’s air of harshness dropped from him, and his voice was one of deep respect as he
answered, "An’ shure, miss, that won’t be hard to do. Just get a taxi, an’—"

The policeman stopped. His audience had vanished, had slipped by him so quickly that he was surprised
to find them gone.

A frown crossed his Irish face. Half irritated, he walked down the wharf and addressed the first mate.

The S. S. Gentina’s officer shook his head. "You know as much about ‘em as I do, copper. They kept
to their cabins most of the way across. Seemed to be afraid of their shadows, almost. That girl’s a looker
though, ain’t she? Comes from Genlee, somewhere in Africa, though I’ll be blasted if I know where it is."

The policeman scowled and turned back. Then he shrugged. The girl had said they wanted to see Doc
Savage. That was a good sign.



THE taxi darted under elevated tracks, missed a truck by an eyelash and halted with shrieking brakes at
a red light, barely averting a collision with a car ahead. No words of caution came from the rear seat. The
driver was annoyed, vaguely. Usually when he drove, strangers to the city held their breaths and looked
alarmed.

Then, although the driver listened closely, he heard nothing that was being said by his fares. Accustomed
as he was to eavesdropping, he was balked.

"You really think this Doc Savage can help us?" one of the men passengers asked. His head was bowed,
his attitude that of resignation. The others barely stirred. It was as if the question had been asked many
times in recent days, as if question and answer were merely part of an accustomed routine.

"He—he’s got to, Richard!" the girl breathed. Her round face was flushed; her small hands opened and
closed convulsively.

"And he will, Virginia," the second man said, His voice was intended to be reassuring, but there was no
mistaking the undercurrent of doubt and worry.

"He must," the girl said simply. Her round face was framed by black curls that fell to her chin; her lips
were soft, but there was more than a hint of determination in her fear-clouded eyes. A cape was about
her shoulders, despite the warmth of the day—a cape that enhanced the ruffled sleeves, the wide, flaring
skirt of her gown.
The strained faces of the men tightened as she glanced at them. One, the smaller of the two, had the