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

the water? She probably would, and that would mean an autopsy, and so what?

There was nothing to worry about, probably. South shrugged vaguely, dismissing any doubts that might
be lurking about. There was even a little joker attached to the thing that would show up when they made
the autopsy, for the white pills really had been about forty per cent aspirin. The coating of acetylsalicylic
acid, which was plain old aspirin, was around the more lethal viscera of the pills. So the autopsy would
show aspirin, and the stewardess might think she hadn't unwittingly administered the poison. That was all
right with South. The stewardess was pretty.

South was not his name, but it was as good as any because for years he had not used his genuine name,
nor employed any one name for very long at a time. The airline trip was in a southerly direction, so he
had told them I. B. G. South. The I. B. G. part was for I Be Going. He was, in his skeleton-rattling way,
a humorist.

He was a rather lean man with a sweet face and large brown eyes and sensitive lips. He dressed very
carefully in a softly outdoorsy way, usually wearing autumnal hues. Of him, an average individual would
probably have said that he didn't look like a murderer. But a psychiatrist would have said quite the
contrary, that the man definitely had neurotic symptoms indicating he could be a murderer.

South glanced regretfully at Della Nelson. He would now have to figure out another way of killing her.

Chapter III
“MY telephone call,” said Della Nelson. “What about my telephone call? What happened to it?”

The First Officer had come back from the control compartment to investigate. He said, “I'm sorry, lady,”
and didn't seem to hear her. He was staring in horror at the body.

“I had a telephone—radiophone—call placed. To Doc Savage.”

“I'm sorry, lady,” the First Officer said. Jumping forward suddenly, he supported the stewardess with an
arm, demanding, “What's wrong?”

The stewardess, having suddenly remembered the aspirin incident, had lost much of her gay, healthy
color and some of her ability to hold herself upright. She was a registered nurse, as stewardesses on
many airlines still were, and she had realized she just possibly might be held responsible for administering
the aspirin. Or had it been aspirin? She didn't know why a suspicion that it hadn't been should hit her, but
it did, suddenly, horribly.

The First Officer said, “Take it easy, Anna,” and helped the stewardess aft, stepping over the mound of
fat body in the aisle. He came back presently and held the fat man's wrist, not happily, for a while.
“Dead,” he remarked loudly. “A heart attack, probably.” Twice when he was in the air force crewmen
had been killed in his bomber, and often he had helped take bodies out of other ships and so death, any
longer, did not touch him vitally. He addressed the passengers: “Will one of you men give me a hand?” A
man, or rather two men, did, and they took the body to the men's room, having approximately the
amount of trouble they would have had moving a piano.

Della Nelson waited. No one did anything about her radiophone call, apparently.

She was frightened, horribly frightened. The death of the fat man had made a large splash in the dark
pool of her fears. She did not at first realize why. Death was always shocking, but the effect of this was