"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 176 - Terror Wears No Shoes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

“You going to talk to Makaroff?” Monk asked thoughtfully.

“I doubt if it would be feasible to just walk in and have a chat with him.”

“I doubt it too,” Monk said. “Unless we took along a company of marines.”

“Has he contacted her yet?”

“Who knows.” Monk shrugged. “That babe seems to have more secret life around here than a ghost.
Nobody knows when she goest and whither she comest, half the time.”

“But she works with Makaroff.”

Monk hesitated, said, “That word work is susceptible to various meanings. She does business with him, I
hear. Profitable chunks of it.”

“Shady business?”

Monk shrugged. “She has been go-betweening for Moslems who are anxious to ease out of Hindu
territory with their property intact, so it would depend on whether you were a Hindu or not, how shady it
looked.”

Doc Savage dismissed the character of the woman Canta with a wry grin, and said more grimly, “This
fellow Makaroff is our last link to Long Tom Roberts. In his final report, Long Tom indicated he was
going to contact Makaroff.”

“I don't like the way you say final,” Monk muttered. And there was a silence for a time, during which
neither man looked at the other, nor looked at any other object with any pleasure. Then Monk blurted,
“By God! I wish we knew what Long Tom was working on!”

“That would be a help,” Doc admitted grimly. “Perhaps we can pry it out of Makaroff.”

“He'll deny anything.”

“Possibly not.”

“No, the guy was born with his head in the sand, like an ostrich. He hears nothing, sees nothing, says
nothing. It's chronic with him.”

“We might cure him of that ailment.”

“You'd better have a spare along when you try that,” Monk said dryly.

Monk left then, and Doc Savage watched him go uneasily, and was not relaxed at all until, some twenty
minutes later, the electric clock buzzed twice. Then he went over and, leaning above the clock, said,
“Well, we might as well get some sleep.” And the clock buzzed again, briefly in acknowledgment.

He stood for a while looking absently at the clock, wondering if anyone who had searched his room had
been clever enough to discover that the clock was a wired-radio transceiver—capable of communication
with any similar gadget plugged into the lighting system anywhere in the city. It might not, he reflected,