"Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 179 - The Green Master" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robeson Kenneth)

It was interesting. The blonde, Monk concluded in amazement, didn't know how to hail a cab. A simple
matter like getting a cab—you stood on the sidewalk or in the street, whistled, whooped, waved an
arm—baffled the man.

“The silly dope!” Monk said, grinning.

The blond man had started a pursuit of Monk's cab afoot, running along the sidewalk. Now and then the
thin man sprang in the air like a dog seeking a rabbit in tall grass. His purpose, of course, was to keep
track of Monk's cab. Monk began to laugh.

“Something funny?” the cab driver asked. “Or you just feeling that way?”

“Search me,” Monk replied, and added, “I think this is as far as I'll go. Catch that stop light, and I'll get
out.”

“What the hell!”

“Don't let it worry you,” Monk told the astonished driver, and got out.

Feigning an unawareness of being followed, Monk sauntered west on Forty-sixth Street. He used a shop
window to assure himself he was still being trailed.

Monk summarized the situation. He did not know this man. He had no idea why he was being followed.
He was amused, but it might be nothing to be amused about.

Monk knew he had enemies. He was an associate of Doc Savage, and, therefore, automatically included
in Doc's troubles. The nature of Doc Savage's business guaranteed trouble. Doc Savage's profession—it
was not as much of a Galahad affair as it sounded—was righting wrongs and punishing offenders who
seemed to be untouched by the law. The profession was odd, and the results frequently unexpected. But
it hardly warranted the appearance of a tail of thin, blond screwballs.

Or did it? The unusual had a way of happening to Doc Savage. The nature of the man invited it. In almost
all ways, Doc Savage was remarkable; he was a more than passable combination of mental genius,
physical giant and scientific wizard. He applied his abilities to other people's business, when it was the
wrong kind of business. So the variety of people who had wished to kill him at one time or another was
odd and surprising; frequently they were the kind who would act on such a wish.

Monk walked along. Less easy of mind, he thumbed through his mind for the enemies most likely to be
on the currently active list. There were several candidates. None of them, however, fitted the present
rather bizarre situation. They would know how to get a cab on a New York street.

Halfway down the block, Monk found what he considered a satisfactorily private spot. He turned into an
office building doorway, waited, tightened his belt, tucked his necktie inside his shirt where it couldn't be
conveniently grasped and used for choking him, and when the long blonde came trotting along, Monk
reached out and got a double handful of throat.

He shook the man enough to cause some snapping together of teeth. There was less resistance than he
expected. “Brother,” said Monk, pausing to peer at his victim, “don't you resent this?”

“Not at all,” answered the other mildly.