"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 164 - Death in Little Houses" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

up hill and down, follows a flat bluff overlooking the endless stretch of peaceful, motionless, tremendous
expanse of water.

A solitary cloud drifts across the sky. Beneath it, where sunshine is momentarily screened off, there is no
longer bright, shining emerald tints. That part of Lake Michigan turns gray, dull, leaden, a blotch upon the
clean blue-green that shimmers and sparkles as far as the eye can see. Like a quick, momentary frown
upon her otherwise serene and lovely face.

A frown, perhaps, that gives the vaguest hint of the various strange emotions lying deep beneath.

But today, this particular afternoon, Michigan was a lovely lady, her face as tranquil and serene as if she
were taking a siesta in the sunshine.

AN occasional car rolled along the North Shore highway, tires making slight gummy sounds on the hot
pavement as the machines whipped past, soon disappearing beyond some tree-canopied curve of road.

The cab driver said: “Nothing was wrong, was there, skipper?”

His passenger did not immediately answer.

He was a blond young man, the cab driver. But his face was not young. Prize fighting had aged it
somewhat. The nose was broad and flat, the cheek bones flat and wide, the lips fairly thick and heavy.
He was a stocky young man without much education, but intelligent enough that he had given up boxing
before his brain had been dulled by years of being knocked around in the prize ring.

Two things he was proud of. He owned his own hack, a presentable-looking black limousine. The other
was that he always gave his customers a little extra service. He was not just another dumb jitney driver.
You give the customer a little attention and he remembers it. With a good tip, usually.

The blond cab driver kept his eyes on the road ahead and said further: “I've been out to this Jamison
place once or twice before. We swing off just past Highland Park. That Daniel Jamison is pretty well
known, that's for sure.”

Still no answer from the rear seat. Sometimes it was hard to get them to talk, until the passengers saw
you were really trying to help them.

He pushed his cap back on his blond head. It was even warm driving. “The reason I wonder, mister,” he
continued, “is you ask me to drive you over there to Northwestern University when I pick you up at the
station in Evanston. Already I take some people over there to the lecture hall this afternoon. It's in the
papers about Daniel Jamison lecturing over there, that's how I know. They say engineers and scientists
are here from all over the country to hear him. He's some kind of authority—”

“Electronics engineer,” said his passenger.

“Yeah. That's it. Well, like I say, I wonder. I know you're on your way there to hear him because you go
to that same lecture hall. I'm sitting there waiting for a fare maybe back to the station when you come
right out again. First, you have me drive you to a drugstore where there's a phone booth. Now you are
going out here to where Daniel Jamison lives.”

His quick blue eyes went to the rear-view mirror and he grinned. “To be honest about it, skipper, you