Читать книгу Merchants of Disaster: A Doc Savage Adventure - Harold A. Davis - Страница 6

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Word of the army’s conclusion reached the press. It increased the clamor in the newspapers.

Pacifist organizations claimed the army deliberately was trying to cover up a blunder that had cost the lives of two hundred men. They charged officers had allowed men to walk into a new and deadly gas without adequate safeguards.

Militarists were just as far on the other side of the fence. They charged that enemies of foreign powers had operated a death machine, one that paralyzed the lungs, killing American soldiers wantonly. Had the United States gone to war with all the countries accused, she would have been fighting more than half the world.

Scientists were interviewed. They gave as their solemn opinion the statement that the soldiers could not have been killed, that it was impossible for them to have suffocated in the manner described, and that, as a matter of scientific fact, they could not be dead.

A mass funeral was scheduled for the soldiers just the same.

And special orders went to all army posts calling for extra precautions. No one knew where the terror might strike next.

The affair attracted attention in other countries also, particularly those countries whose leaders made threatening speeches and pompous declarations about “our rights.”

Strangely, those leaders quieted for the time. Intelligence departments of the various nations were instructed to get busy and learn just what had caused the mysterious deaths.

Doc Savage’s fame was world-wide. Word was sent down the line to keep an eye on the bronze man and his aids.

Those who received the orders tried to do just this. Certain secretive individuals suddenly manifested great interest in office space at the building where Doc had his quarters. The investigators were disappointed. Doc’s offices were deserted.

An effort was made to pick up the trail either of the bronze man or of his five skilled aids. For a time, this also proved in vain.

Then came a rumor of strange visitors arriving in Washington. The investigators rushed there, sought trace of those strange visitors.

Two of those who came to the capital did not appear mysterious at all, nor did they seem to be courting secrecy.

In fact, they attracted much attention.

They came in a battered car. It rattled and clattered exceedingly and was covered with signs indicating it had once been the property of some college youth.

“Blondes and brunettes enter at their own risk,” read a sign on one sagging door. “Redheads should know better.”

The present occupants of the car did not seem interested in female companions of any kind. And certainly none of Washington’s attractive stenographers showed any heart interest in them.

The driver was a slender man, clad in garments that would have been the despair even of a junk dealer. They were tattered and torn, as was an ancient felt hat that shaded a dirty face. His companion was no better dressed. He had the build and expression of a gorilla—not a pleasant, agreeable gorilla, but one in a bad mood.

The third occupant of the ancient wreck alone appeared presentable, and he was not human. While bearing a remarkable resemblance to the gorillalike man, this one was without doubt an ape. A bright red hat was on his head, while he squirmed uncomfortably in a vivid green sweater.

At a crowded corner the clattering car drew up to the curb and came to a stop. Solemnly, the big man hunched his way to the sidewalk, flipping one end of a chain. The ape leaped out, a tin cup in his hand.

The slender man behind the wheel also slid to the sidewalk, producing a battered hand organ. Without a word he began turning the crank.

The strains of “The Sidewalks of New York” startled passers-by. The ape danced about clumsily, bowing and scraping, his red hat in one hand, the tin cup held in the other.

“What’s the second ape doin’ along, he ain’t even dancin’,” someone snickered in the crowd.

A crimson flush crept up the face of the gorillalike man. His companion appeared to be having difficulty in breathing. Several undignified snorts came from him, and he turned the crank of the hand organ more rapidly.

A burly, red-faced cop pushed his way through the giggling crowd.

“Come on! Get out of here,” he roared. “Yuh can’t block traffic this way!”

The gorilla-man looked up pleadingly, “Butta, officer,” he whined in a childlike voice, “we gotta makka da mon—”

The cop put big hands on his hips and glared. “Yuh oughta be dancin’ on the end of a chain yurself,” he said with heavy humor. “Yuh look more like a monk than the poor ape yuh’re usin’. Get along now, before I get mad and run yuh in.”

More choking sounds came from the slender man with the hand organ, but the music stopped. As the crowd’s chuckles grew to full-throated laughter, the two men and the ape got back in their car and drove off.

“Daggonit, Ham, this was your idea!” the gorilla-man piped. His small eyes, almost buried in gristle, glared indignantly at his companion.

The other gave up trying to suppress his mirth. He almost doubled up with laughter.

Shortly afterward, the ancient car drew up at the rear of one of Washington’s best hotels. The two men and the ape vanished through a rear entrance. They seemed to have been expected. At least an overdressed flunky, while eying them with disapproval, led the way to a suite of rooms.

The slender man dived toward a pile of suitcases already there, gave a sigh of pleasure as he extracted a suit that was the latest in fashion, and chose shirt, tie, socks and shoes to go with it.

Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, known as Ham to his friends, enjoyed the reputation of being one of the nation’s best-dressed men.

“If I’d only thought to get a picture of you in those rags!” his companion moaned.

Ham scowled, then smiled. “Yuh oughta be dancin’ on the end of a chain yourself,” he mimicked—then ducked a flying shoe.

Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, called Monk for quite obvious reasons, still was grumbling as he pulled the ape toward him.

“Come here, Chemistry,” he piped. “At least you can’t talk, and it might be better for a certain courtroom shyster I know if he was the same way.”

Two of Doc Savage’s aids had arrived in Washington—Ham, Harvard’s gift to the legal profession, and Monk, one of the world’s outstanding chemists.

Using their pet ape, Chemistry, as a prop, they believed they had staged their arrival rather cleverly.

In that, at least, they had company. A small man, who had been lounging near the hotel and had followed the wreck of a car to the rear, was smiling pleasantly.

There was nothing particularly distinguished about the appearance of the small man. There was only one odd thing about him, in fact, and that would have escaped casual attention.

The wrist watch he wore was unusually large. Just now he appeared busy winding that wrist watch.

At about the same time, another odd character was making his way toward the hotel.

Tall, a good six feet four, this man was dressed entirely in black. He wore a high, black silk hat, which made him appear over seven feet tall.

His features were thin, and bore a puritanical look. On his back was a sign. That sign read:

Join the Anti-Marriage Society.

As the tall man walked, he also spoke loudly.

“What causes all the trouble in the world, brother? I’ll tell you. It’s getting married. You give away your freedom. You give away your pay check. You take orders from two bosses. One on the job, the other at home. Join my anti-marriage society. Put pressure on your congressman. Get a law passed forbidding marriage. Then you’ll have prosperity. And that will make the country have more prosperity. Everyone will be happier.”

A few people turned their heads and grinned as the big man went by. Most people did not. Washington was accustomed to cranks of all kinds.

Several youths, however, did press forward and reach for one of the handbills the big man carried.

When they opened those handbills, they stared after the big man dumbly. The bills read:

“Why don’t you get married and settle down? You’ll never amount to anything until you do.”

Near the hotel Monk and Ham had entered the big man also turned toward the rear entrance. He tore the sign from his back and stopped talking.

To those who knew him, he bore a striking resemblance to Renny, the big engineer who had been in Doc’s office when the appeal for aid had come from Washington.

That was what the small man loitering near the hotel thought, also. Once again he seemed busy with his wrist watch.

William Harper Littlejohn and Major Thomas J. Roberts, the other two of Doc Savage’s band of adventurers, had been in Mexico when they had received the sudden call from the bronze man, telling them to get to Washington at once, and to camouflage their entry.

Littlejohn, known as Johnny, was the archæologist of the group. Major Roberts, called Long Tom, was the electrical expert.

Johnny had been investigating some new Mayan ruins, just uncovered. Long Tom had been called for consultation on a big power project.

They didn’t know the weird schemes being used by their friends to get into Washington. But they did have ideas of their own.

Fast planes furnished their transportation. And as they neared Washington they put their own plan into operation. They both became ill.

It wasn’t hard to make the stewardess on the airliner believe they were sick, even if she was a trained nurse.

Long Tom appeared to be a physical weakling. Not very tall, his normal appearance was that of an undersized, anæmic individual. That impression was very deceptive, as those who had been unfortunate enough to tangle with him could have certified. But for the present he was glad he did look that way.

Johnny also did not appear overly strong. Glasses gave him a studious appearance, while his tall, lean figure appeared half starved.

Malaria, the scourge of the tropics, seemingly got both of them at the same time. First they would be burning up with fever, then they would be shivering with acute cold, so that the stewardess was borrowing coats from other passengers to pile over them.

The artificial fever was induced by swallowing a pill or so—one of a type perfected by Doc Savage, which his men always carried when going where they were in danger of malaria. The artificial fever always proved effective in burning up the germs of the real disease. Chills were produced by other medicine which slowed their hearts.

The pilot of their plane radioed ahead so that an ambulance was waiting. Faces covered, well wrapped up and on stretchers, the two were carried from the plane as soon as it landed.

The ambulance raced toward a hospital, a young interne seated beside his two “patients.”

The interne went to sleep. He never did understand just why or how. Long Tom and Johnny could have told him, but they had vanished before the interne came to.

A small capsule containing a quick acting anæsthetic had put the interne out of the way. Then they dodged from the ambulance, and called a taxicab.

Not long afterward, they also reached the rear entrance of the hotel where Monk, Ham and Renny had preceded them.

A joyful reunion was held in the suite of rooms reserved for them. It was about this time that a bellhop entered with a big pitcher of ice water. No one could remember ordering the ice water, but they accepted it as just another evidence of the excellent service given by the hotel.

Before the bellhop left, he made a quick tour of the room, apparently dusting off the furniture. The bellhop was small, with a thin face. The only unusual thing about him was the oversized wrist watch he wore.

Doc’s disguised entrance to Washington was far less spectacular than that of his aids. He came by train.

But even his aids would have had difficulty in recognizing him.

Among the bronze man’s friends was a certain senator from the West. This senator had found Washington dull, was on a fishing trip.

But apparently he was returning now. At least a man who looked just like him was on the train. That was a tribute to Doc Savage’s remarkable skill in impersonating others.

When the train reached Washington, the “senator” left swiftly. He seemed to be expected.

Several newspaper reporters who started forward to ask questions found their way blocked by quiet-appearing men who nevertheless seemed to have much authority.

The “senator” was ushered toward a waiting car. The reporters noticed that it was the war secretary’s car.

There was some speculation as to just what important bill was being planned that had brought the senator back.

Besides the reporters, only one other person seemed interested in the arrival of the “senator.” That person received more than her share of attention from passers-by.

Even in a city with many beautiful girls, she was outstanding. Small, petite, dressed modishly in gray, she was standing where she could watch passengers leave the train. A small hat was perched on blond, curly hair that hung in ringlets around her ears. The merest wisp of a veil failed to conceal large blue eyes. Her hands twisted a small handkerchief.

As the “senator” moved from the station, an escort about him, she turned, trailed discreetly behind. Her eyes had narrowed slightly, seemed to gleam with sudden emotion.

A chauffeur opened the door, bowed politely as the “senator” stepped inside the official car. All but one of the Secret Service men who had formed the escort turned away. The remaining guard got into the auto with Doc Savage.

The chauffeur slid behind the wheel, speeded the car away expertly. The window was closed between the rear compartment and the driver’s seat.

A strange, trilling sound came from the “senator”—the sound Doc Savage made when surprised.

Tiny, strange-colored sparks flashed in the rear seat of the car suddenly. The Secret Service man gasped, grabbed his throat as if choked.

Doc Savage reached out, sought to open a door. The door was locked. The chauffeur looked over his shoulder. There was a mocking grin on his face. He wore a large, oversized wrist watch.

The Secret Service man pawed weakly for his gun. “T-that isn’t the regular chauffeur,” he managed.

Blam!

The gun in his hand blasted loudly. Tiny lines appeared on the glass between the two seats, but that was all. The Federal man tried to rise, then he slumped.

Doc Savage’s movements appeared slow, but that was only because of his remarkable muscular co-ordination. In reality, he was working at lightning speed.

A small weapon came to his hand. He turned it on the lock in the door.

There was a terrific crash as an explosive bullet struck that lock. The door was practically blasted open.

A shrill shout came from the chauffeur. The mocking grin disappeared to be replaced by a look of desperation. A big truck was coming toward them. Deliberately, the chauffeur speeded up, then swung the car directly in front of the onrushing truck. At the last moment he leaped. He dodged from sight swiftly.

The weight of the truck spun the smaller car over on its side, crashed it along the pavement to smash with great force against still another machine. The overturned car folded up like an accordion. It would have been impossible for anyone to have remained in it and lived.

Doc Savage wasn’t in it. Even as the chauffeur had jumped, the bronze man had grabbed the limp body of the Secret Service man and leaped to the street.

While sound of the crash still was echoing, a taxi speeded past. A girl was in the rear seat of the cab, a small girl, dressed in gray. A veil half hid her eyes. A peculiar expression was on her face.