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

word.”

“Mistaken,” he said.

He stepped around Goltinger and went on and vanished somewhere.

“That's a hell of a way to treat a fellow American citizen!” Goltinger complained.




Chapter II
THE thing that now occurred to Goltinger shouldn't have happened to a dog. He said so himself just
before he received a punch in the stomach.

Goltinger headed for the bar. He felt that he'd been insulted, and that the condition would be abetted by a
drink, which would also be company for several he'd had already.

A strange voice at his elbow suggested, “Let's have a little detour, pal.”

Goltinger looked down at a short, wide, homely man who wore a considerable crop of shingle-nail hair
of rusted color. The stranger was so homely that he seemed a little ridiculous.

“Go away, beautiful,” said Goltinger.

“Never mind my looks,” said the other. “You and me are going into conference.”

“Go find a baby to frighten,” suggested Goltinger.

The short one laid a hand on Goltinger's arm and said, “Let's not debate it here in public.”

“Debate hell!” said Goltinger. “I been insulted. I been ignored by Doc Savage, a fellow American. By
God, the first good New York face I've seen in days, and he snotted me. It shouldn't happen to a dog,
the way he—”

The fist made some sound, but not much. Not enough for anyone to notice. Goltinger's mouth opened,
stayed open, and his knees buckled as his legs turned to spaghetti. But he stayed on his feet, held there
by the stocky man who was wearing the same amiable grin he'd worn all along. Goltinger was in fact
walked outdoors with his feet skating along the floor, and he was heaved into a waiting car. The homely
man got in also, forced Goltinger's mouth open, and popped a capsule into his mouth. Then he whacked
Goltinger's Adam's apple smartly so that Goltinger had to swallow.

Twelve hours and an odd number of minutes later, when Goltinger awakened, he made the
difficult-to-explain discovery that he was on a plane. A clipper. He looked out of a window. He saw
more water than he liked.

“Where the hell am I?” he blurted at his seat-mate.

The seat-mate, a slender young man with the air of a professional diplomat—dignity, a ready smile that
wasn't to be too much believed—touched Goltinger's arm and suggested, “Sit down and take it easy,