"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 160 - Colors For Murder" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

“Oh, yes!” she gasped. “Yes, I want to talk. You must help me, you must. I want to get hold of a man
named Doc Savage. Can you help me?”

“Help you? Certainly.” He took her arm. “We'll be glad to.” He tugged gently at her arm and got her
moving. “Savage, you say? I've heard of Mr. Savage.” Politely, he reached ahead of her and used his
hand to start a revolving door turning for her. “We have a very short walk,” he said. “Your baggage? If
you've any baggage, I should be glad to have someone take care of it. “

“No baggage,” she said.

The smile came to his lips, his eyes. This was good. No baggage. And he was getting her outside. The
idea was to walk her past the parking lot, and Buck and Ed would appear to help. Buck and Ed already
had rented a car; there was an agency at the air terminal which did a car rental business, so it had not
been difficult. They'd already had the car rented when South's plane arrived, they'd explained.

The immediate plan was to kill her then and there, if necessary. Or, and this would be better, get her in
the car and take her somewhere else and do it.
Occupied with satisfaction, he hardly noticed two airline captains pass him, look directly at him, and fail
to speak. This incident, two fairly important airline employees not speaking to him, seemed unimportant,
but it instantly wrecked his scheme. Because Della Nelson saw it and it affected her fears like a lighted
match dropped in an open bucket of gasoline.



SHE didn't scream. She tried. The sound that came out was only cramped breath, a shocking hiss of a
sound.

She was only a few feet from the revolving door. Wheeling wildly, she dived for the door. South grabbed
at her, but missed. His face was still sweet, but now in a nasty way.

What the hell had happened, South wondered in flashes. What tipped her? The airline pilots? Oh, sure!
The pilots, that was it. He'd told her he was vice-president of the airline, and two pilots would certainly
know and speak to the vice-president of their airline. His damned ego—what the devil difference
whether he was a vice-president or not. He should have presented himself as a minor clerk.

All this was in and out of his head in flashes. He lunged and stamped down a foot in the path of the
revolving door, stopping it. The girl, shoving madly and helplessly against the door, screamed again. This
time she made some noise, although not an alarming amount of it.

He drove a hand into his pocket. He didn't have a gun, because they frequently put you in jail when they
catch you carrying one of those. But he did have a penknife. The blade, an inch and three quarters of thin
steel, was ample if inserted in the temple, the base of the skull, or between two vertebrae in the spine.

He didn't get to use the knife, though. The girl wheeled and squeezed. He didn't think there was room for
that, but she made it out of the revolving door. She ran.

He said, “Here, you! Stop that!” His voice was heavy, unnatural.

He pursued her.