Читать книгу The Living Fire Menace: A Doc Savage Adventure - Harold A. Davis - Страница 5

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William Harper Littlejohn, better known as “Johnny,” seldom showed excitement. Lean, with a half-starved look, with glasses hiding his eyes, he appeared like just what he was: a studious scientist, one of the world’s greatest geologists and archaeologists.

But he was excited now. With almost unseemly haste, for him, he signaled for the long-distance operator, barked with unaccustomed harshness:

“Get that number back, operator. Get it back at once. This is Doc Savage’s office speaking!”

Across the room a thin, lean man with yellow, unhealthy-appearing skin, lounged indolently in an easychair. He was pulling absently at an oversize ear.

Major Thomas J. Roberts appeared a physical weakling. Appearances were deceitful, even as his slouching pose was now. He tried to seem nonchalant; actually, he was afire with curiosity.

“What is it, Johnny, some nut?” he asked.

“Nut, nothing!” Johnny rapped.

Major Thomas J. Roberts, familiarly called “Long Tom,” sat up abruptly in his chair. The very fact that Johnny had failed to use his usual quota of big words was sufficient to tell him that something was in the air.

“That was Z-2,” Johnny explained rapidly. “He’s an undercover agent for the Department of Justice. I once knew him well, was in the army with him. He’s tripped across something big.”

Swiftly Johnny repeated the message the man known as Z-2 had given him.

“I wish Doc were here,” Long Tom muttered.

But Doc Savage was not near by. He was not even in the city, but was miles away, possibly thousands of miles away.

The telephone rang sharply. Johnny grabbed for it.

“I have your party back for you,” the operator said sweetly.

“Z-2?” Johnny demanded breathlessly. “What happened? What was that noise—”

“Naw,” came a half-frightened, choking voice. “T-this ain’t that guy who called himself Z-2. H-he ain’t here no more. H-he’s dead. T-this is Paul Smith, the filling-station attendant.”

Paul Smith’s pimply face was still white. He’d witnessed something he knew he’d remember until he died—something that had horrified, yet fascinated him.

“This guy, see,” he explained, as Johnny demanded details swiftly. “This guy he came in here all funny dressed. Hot as it is, he even had gloves on and had inner tire tubing wrapped around his feet for shoes.”

“Go on,” Johnny ordered crisply.

“His face was a funny red color, and his hand, too, when he took one glove off. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I know now he was awful scared.”

“I’ll take that for granted. What happened?” Johnny interrupted impatiently.

“W-why, this guy, he called for Doc Savage,” Paul Smith explained. “Somebody answered. He started to talk.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“He was awfully hot. He was wiping sweat off his face as he talked. And he really was shouting. He seemed awful worked up.”

“I know.” Johnny’s voice became very resigned. “But tell me in words of one syllable, what happened?”

Paul Smith wet dry lips with the tip of his tongue.

“He—he blew up!” he shouted. “H-he just became a sheet of fire!”

There was silence for a moment.

“How did it happen?” Johnny asked softly.

“I—I don’t know.” Paul Smith was frankly sobbing now. “It—it was just as if a sheet of lightning hit him, or something. He—he just became one big flash of fire, like I said. He—he shriveled and burned, and the odor of his flesh, it—ah—”

“And there was nothing near him, no one close but you?”

“N-no one,” Paul Smith whimpered. “It—it just happened. I—I couldn’t’a’ done it. No one could. I-it seemed as if the flame came from within, not from outside him anywhere. No one but I was near him, anyway.”

Paul Smith thought he told the truth. He never had seen the beautiful face of the girl that had been near the half-opened window.

Long Tom was an electrical genius. He shook his head when Johnny suggested there might have been something about the telephone that caused a short circuit or electrical discharge that could have killed Z-2.

“Impossible,” he said flatly. “That could not have happened under any circumstances.”

“But something did,” Johnny reflected softly.

“What could a government man have been doing in a small desert town like Sandrit?” Long Tom puzzled aloud. “It had to be something big, but whoever heard of a living fire? And what was he trying to warn us about? How could we be in danger?”

Johnny shook his head. He was equally puzzled.

Long Tom and Johnny would have been even more puzzled just then if they could have heard and seen what was going on in a lavish suite at a big hotel not many blocks away.

Three men were there. One was pacing nervously up and down the room. He was a tall man, and very thin. He looked almost like a scarecrow. His face was a peculiar cherry-red. Petrod Yardoff was not well known in the United States. In some European countries he was too well known. Many strange stories had been linked with his name.

Lounging across from Yardoff was a long, husky man, with the steely, unblinking eyes of a snake. Those eyes and the gun he always carried had earned him the nickname “Stinger.” Stinger Salvatore was well known in the United States. Many strange tales had been linked with his name, too, but none had ever been proved in court.

The third of the group watched his companions with cynical amusement. Clement Hoskins was known to very few. He intended to remain that way. Huge, with a barrel-shaped body that was as big around as he was tall, Hoskins nevertheless gave the impression of rough, vicious strength.

“You have done good work so far, Stinger,” Petrod Yardoff said softly. “But one job remains. A tough job.”

Stinger shrugged slightly. He pulled a handkerchief from one sleeve, wiped his hands. “Spill it,” he said laconically.

“Would you like to cut in on a game that will pay off in millions?” Clement Hoskins queried sardonically.

Stinger Salvatore’s lounging frame came erect suddenly. “Millions?” he repeated slowly. “The job you’ve got for me must be a tough one!”

“A tough job, but worth it—if you consider the millions,” Hoskins grated. “But I wonder—I wonder if you’ve got nerve enough to tackle it?”

Stinger’s face reddened. “Spill it!” he snapped.

“We want six men—just six,” Clement Hoskins breathed.

The gangleader snorted contemptuously. “And I thought it was a tough job. How do you want ’em? Alive or—”

“Those six men,” Petrod Yardoff said gently, “are Doc Savage and his five aids.”

There was sudden silence in the room. Stinger’s face turned the shade of paste. “Doc Savage,” he muttered.

Stinger’s features became sober. “Friends of mine have tried to buck that bronze devil,” he said. “They’ve never been seen again. He’s poison.”

“Are you afraid?” Yardoff sneered.

The gangster looked at him with unwinking eyes. “Afraid? No,” he said softly. “Just careful.”

“Yet we will cut you in on a deal that’s going to pay off in millions,” Hoskins reminded.

Stinger took a deep breath. “Perhaps I’ll try it. If I really thought you guys had anything—”

“You have a bodyguard outside, haven’t you?” Yardoff interrupted.

“Why, yes. But what—” Stinger frankly showed his surprise.

“Call him in!”

Stinger hesitated for a moment. Something in Yardoff’s face decided him. He called, “Rudolph!”

A typical gunman shuffled into the room. In one hand was a short-barreled .38. “Trouble, boss?” he croaked.

“No trouble, no trouble at all,” Petrod Yardoff said. His lips split thinly as he walked forward, tall frame swaying. “We were merely talking about making a million dollars, and Stinger here seems a little reluctant. You wouldn’t be, now would you?”

“What?” The other’s pig eyes opened wide.

Stinger’s jaw dropped. He started to shout. Yardoff was stripping a glove from one hand. The glove was of transparent rubber. It had been practically invisible.

The words never came from the gangleader’s mouth.

Yardoff, still smiling, dropped his hand casually on Rudolph’s shoulder.

There was a sudden sheet of fire. The bodyguard jerked; his mouth opened, but he made no sound. The gun dropped from seared hand. He was dead before he hit the floor.

The odor of burned flesh filled the room.

“The living fire!” gasped Stinger.

Stinger’s features no longer were smooth and unruffled. They were drawn and taut. His fingers played nervously with the handkerchief in his sleeve.

Stinger had seen many men die. He wasn’t afraid of death—as long as it was some one else who was checking out.

Petrod Yardoff apparently had had nothing in his hand when he had placed it on the bodyguard’s shoulder. No one else in the room had made a move.

Yet the bodyguard showed every evidence of having died from a tremendous bolt of electricity—a bolt that had covered his entire body with flame. And Petrod Yardoff, touching him, had been unharmed!

Then the gangleader saw something that had escaped his attention before. There was a thin, transparent, practically invisible rubber mask covering Yardoff’s peculiar cherry-red features. His shoes were of rubber. Even the gray suit he wore was made of rubber.

Stinger had heard of the living-fire death, had heard it spoken of in awe-stricken tones in the underworld. It had been tied with whispers of a mysterious secret—a secret worth millions.

Petrod Yardoff opened a big trunk. Then he picked up the shriveled, burned form of the bodyguard, placed it in the trunk and locked the lid.

“Was the exhibition satisfactory?” he asked.

Stinger gulped. “Y-yes,” he agreed reluctantly.

“We’re waiting for your answer!” the barrel-shaped Clement Hoskins reminded sharply.

“Doc Savage is s-still tough medicine,” Stinger protested weakly.

Petrod Yardoff turned. Once again he started to strip a rubber glove from his hand. A merciless smile split his narrow face. He started to move forward, cat-like.

“No! No!” Stinger shrilled. His hand shot for a telephone. Still breathing swiftly, he made several calls in rapid succession.

“Doc Savage is out of town,” he reported at last, and there was no mistaking the relief in his voice. “The two they call Johnny and Long Tom are the only ones at his office, although I understand the other three aids are around.”

“Get them,” the thin man said. “They’ll do to start with.”

“Here are your instructions,” Clement Hoskins rasped. The barrel-shaped man spoke rapidly.

Stinger nodded, the color gradually returning to his face. Then he lifted the telephone receiver again, barked quick orders when he was connected with his number.

“Johnny and Long Tom first,” he concluded.

Johnny and Long Tom were unaware of their danger, but they were worried.

Long Tom turned away from the compact, short-wave set in one room of Doc’s suite of offices, a frown smearing his forehead.

“Can’t raise him,” he said shortly.

The tall geologist nodded, glanced at his watch. “I know he implicitly instructed us to make no effort to interfere with his meditations until after eight o’clock at night, but I agree with you, I wish he would reply.”

Long Tom rose to his feet, shrugged. Outside it was becoming dark.

“Let’s go,” he said shortly. “We’re due to meet Monk and Ham for dinner. Perhaps they can help us dope out what this is all about.”

A high-speed elevator dropped the two aids abruptly to the basement of the big building.

In the basement they moved without words to a big, closed car. A few moments later and they were out in traffic, heading rapidly downtown.

Both of Doc’s men were thinking of Z-2’s queer death, of the strange warning he had imparted. Long Tom drove automatically. Johnny sat hunched in the seat, eyes half closed behind his glasses.

Even had they been alert, it is doubtful that they would have known they were being followed. Traffic was heavy, and those trailing them knew their jobs.

The shadowers were in two cars. There were five in each automobile. Each of the men had a significant bulge under the left armpit. The drivers weaved in and out of traffic with the skill of cabmen.

Doc’s big car was always kept in sight.

Near Brooklyn Bridge, Long Tom swung toward the East River, angling back to strike South Street.

A little while later Long Tom swung off the smooth pavement of South Street, onto the cobblestone street that led to a sea-food tavern called Reefer’s. He noticed several cars parked near by, but that meant nothing at the time. Reefer’s was a popular place.

As Long Tom swung the big machine to the curb, he noticed several men alight from a car near by. One glance was all the electrical expert needed to recognize the type.

For just a moment Long Tom hesitated, his unhealthy-appearing face doubtful. Johnny was already getting out of the machine. Then Long Tom shut off the motor and opened the car door.

In that moment, the attackers struck.

Men seemed to erupt from dark doorways, from behind cars. A surging mass crashed into Long Tom and Johnny in the same instant, arms swinging, deadly blackjacks in hand.

Doc’s men should have gone down under that first rush.

They didn’t. Their attackers had been too anxious. They had massed too closely for their charge, got in each other’s way.

A bellowed shout came from Johnny. Long Tom tried to dive back into the car. Hands grabbed him, yanked him back into the street.

Then the fight was on.

Johnny, fists swinging, head low, plunged into the men bearing down on him like a long, lean dreadnought. Speed and the very unexpectedness of his hammer-like blows, carried him across the sidewalk to a wall. He whirled, back firm against boards, clenched knuckles cracking with dazzling speed.

Long Tom sprawled forward, almost went to his knees. Still doubled up, he hit like a charging football guard. Small, weakly as he appeared, he spun men in all directions, got clear for a moment.

A swinging blackjack caught the electrical wizard across one arm, almost paralyzed it. He did not hesitate, did not pause. Lifting one big thug from his feet with a right that came from his shoetops, he made a second dive for the car.

This time Long Tom got as far as the car door before a terrific blow caught him across the head. A shower of sparks seemed to flash before his eyes, but even as he fell he yanked a queer-shaped weapon from the car door pocket. He whirled, his finger tightening on the trigger.

There was a sound like a bullfiddle’s roar. Attackers tumbled limply.

The weapon was one of Doc’s own inventions. The “mercy” bullets if shot produced unconsciousness, not death; but it was as effective as a machine-gun.

Long Tom was still dazed from the blow on top of his head. He could hear Johnny battling desperately. He thought only of that. He should have jumped inside the car. It had bulletproof glass, was as impregnable as a tank. From there he could have rescued Johnny easily.

Instead, he darted around the rear of the car, weapon in hand.

A small man, a wicked grin on scarred features, reared up behind him, swung a blackjack coldly and efficiently.

Long Tom went down, sprawled awkwardly on the cobblestones.

Something resembling a moan came from Johnny’s tight lips. He went berserk. For a moment, his flaying fists beat back the men who crowded upon him. But he saw there was no hope. There were too many assailants.

“Help, Doc!” he bellowed instinctively.

A second later he, also, went down. A billy caught him squarely behind an ear.

Then the attackers suddenly froze.

Clear and cold came a voice. It was low, but it had a peculiar timbre, one that made it carry plain and distinctly. It was the voice of Doc Savage.

“I’ll soon be there,” Doc said.