"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 123 - The Talking Devil" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

carpet was even deeper, the colors even richer, the furniture more extreme. The blonde at the desk
looked as if she had been manufactured with a magazine cover in mind.
“Mr. Ogden,” she told them, bells in her voice, “is expecting you.”

Then they walked into a log cabin. Or so it would have seemed, had not the big glass windows offered
views of some of the financial district's more impressive buildings. Everything was rustic, extremely rustic,
even to the logs blazing in the fieldstone fireplace and the two large dogs lying on the hearth. The dogs
lifted their heads and barked.

“I am Montague Ogden,” the man behind the desk said. He sounded as if he was accustomed to the
name meaning something.

He was smooth. That was the first impression you got of him. As smooth as a polished rock. He was
forty-five or fifty years old, well-preserved, and he was dressed in country tweeds and moccasins, so
that he blended with his log-cabin inner office.

The general effect of Montague Ogden was a little ridiculous. Unless, of course, you were impressed by
the obvious evidences of money.

There were conversational preliminaries, introductions mostly.

Then Montague Ogden got around to making what he evidently intended to be the outstanding statement
of the conference.

“I am a very wealthy man,” he said.



DOC SAVAGE, with just a trace of the general feeling of distaste that the overly flamboyant office
building, this office suite and the spectacle effect of the man himself had aroused, said, “At the moment
we are more interested in a man named Sam Joseph, who is said to be hearing a small statue of the devil
speak aloud to him.”

“Exactly,” said Montague Ogden. “Exactly.”

“I understand you can supply details.”

“Exactly,” said Montague Ogden. “I am a very wealthy man, and I want nothing spared to straighten out
poor Sam. Poor Sam is my office manager, my trusted employee. He is even, I may say, more than that.
He is the real working head, the manager, of my rather wide enterprises. I owe Sam a great deal. Sam is
paid an excellent salary, it is true, but his value to me extends far beyond that. Sam is . . . is-” He groped
for words, found them. “Sam is like a part of my own heart,” he finished.

Doc Savage asked quietly, “What do you mean by straightening out poor Sam?”

Montague Ogden blinked. He had blue eyes, very pale-blue eyes.

“Why, find out his trouble,” he said.

“Just what has happened?” Doc Savage asked patiently.