Читать книгу Merchants of Disaster: A Doc Savage Adventure - Harold A. Davis - Страница 8

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The Secret Service man recovered rapidly. He was surprised at the ease with which Doc Savage carried him.

The bronze man had not waited for a crowd to gather. With his companion in his arms, he left the scene rapidly, found a cab.

“S-somebody tried to kill you,” the Secret Service man gulped when his voice returned.

Doc’s eyes were pools of whirling gold, but he did not reply. The statement was hardly one that needed a reply.

“B-but how was it done?” the other pursued. “T-there wasn’t any smell of gas, there wasn’t anything that seemed to be wrong—but suddenly I felt myself going out like a light.”

Doc shook his head. “Whatever it is, it does not work instantly,” he said. “That enabled us to escape.”

He offered no other explanation when he talked with the secretary of war.

“I had hoped your presence here would not be known,” the secretary said wearily. “The immediate attempt on your life show we are up against extremely clever and resourceful men, who have an excellent intelligence system.”

“You believe you face a widespread plot?” Doc asked.

The secretary’s face became old. “I do not know. That is the trouble. There have been strange rumors—very strange rumors. And some strange things have happened, as well.”

The bronze man looked his question.

“I don’t know that there is a connection between the rumors and the merciless murder of so many of our soldiers,” the war secretary went on. “But I am inclined to believe there is.”

He paused, then continued. “Briefly, what we have heard is this: Underground information has reached us that a new death weapon has been perfected, one that it is impossible to guard against, and one that would be capable of wiping out both armed forces and civilians, in case of war.”

“The experience at the army proving ground would seem to bear out the existence of such a weapon,” Doc agreed.

The secretary nodded. “Exactly, and we do not know yet what that weapon was, or how those soldiers were killed. We know only that they are dead. Our men are at work, but we want you to help also. We must find out what that weapon is, why it was used, and what is behind it all.”

“My men and I will do our best,” Doc Savage said simply.

A slow smile broke over the secretary’s face, then he sobered. “I knew you would. And I know you have faced formidable opponents before. This time, I am afraid you are faced by a more deadly and clever enemy than at any time in the past.”

The war secretary’s features flushed, his face became heated. “Spies are at work. That we know. Who they are working for, or why, I cannot tell. Valuable secrets have been stolen. Whether this is their work, also, or not, I do not—”

He broke off suddenly. The door of his office swung open, the Secret Service man who had been with Doc in the car rushed in. His eyes were wide with excitement.

“We’ve found the fake chauffeur,” he blurted.

The secretary swung in his chair, a protest over the interruption unuttered.

“He was slumped in a doorway not a block from the scene of the accident,” the other rushed on. “He was dead. He had been stabbed through the heart.”

An exclamation of disappointment came from the secretary.

“A glove, a woman’s gray glove, lay almost under his body,” the Secret Service man added grimly.

Doc Savage’s gold-flaked eyes glinted strangely.

“Was he still wearing his wrist watch?” he asked.

The Secret Service man’s jaw dropped. “W-why no,” he said blankly.

The war secretary jerked erect in his chair. “There may be a connection, at that. There may be a connection,” he muttered.

Doc Savage glanced at him, “Yes?” he prompted.

“We always get thousands of tips, usually false ones, in every crime or tragedy,” the secretary explained rather abashed.

“This one probably is worthless also. But a lawyer, a patent attorney, by the name of Les Quinan, was killed the other day. He, also, was killed by a knife. After the newspapers printed the story of the affair at the proving ground, and told of the strange lights observers saw, Quinan’s secretary telephoned. Quinan also had seen some strange lights, she said. She thought there might be some connection, but—”

He shrugged, and his face became weary again.

Doc Savage and the Secret Service man said nothing. There had been strange lights also, in the rear of the auto just before the Federal man became unconscious.

The bronze man had entered the capitol building in the guise of a senator. He was without disguise when he left.

Apparently he believed there was no longer need to attempt secrecy, since his presence must already be known to those he was opposing.

He saw no one who appeared to be interested in his movements. But then, the two most vitally interested were considerable distance away.

One was the tall, distinguished-looking man with cold, black eyes, who had driven the knife into Les Quinan’s heart. His companion was shorter and heavier, and despite the fact that he was no older than the tall man, he wore a short, black goatee.

The goatee bobbed as he spoke. “I don’t like this, Leon,” he said anxiously. “That bronze devil is bad medicine. Perhaps it would be better if we got out while we can.”

Leon Spardoso’s black eyes became even harder. “We cannot leave yet, Holst. Had you forgotten?” he asked silkily. “Besides, who would suspect Leon Spardoso or Grant Holst? Just remember who we are supposed to be.” He laughed, as if at some secret joke.

A thin smile broke the broad features of his bulkier companion. Grant Holst’s goatee wagged with satisfaction. “Right, and that was my idea. But Doc Savage escaped that blundering fool we put on the job—”

Leon Spardoso’s black eyes flashed. “But the blundering fool did not escape my knife. And you know what happened at the hotel.”

Grant Holst did not answer in words. His round, seemingly good-natured face changed. For an instant it showed the merciless gloating of one who took pleasure in killing.

At almost the same moment, Doc Savage was entering the hotel. He did not stop at the desk. He went direct to the elevators. If he noticed the small, thin man who watched from behind a newspaper, he gave no sign.

The small, thin man disappeared a moment later. That, probably, was because he had caught sight of the two men who slipped into the hotel after Doc Savage.

One of the two was the Secret Service man who had been with Doc earlier. The second was another guard. The war secretary was taking every precaution he could. He wanted Doc protected. For despite the excellence of his own intelligence workers, the secretary was pinning his hopes on Doc Savage and his men. Doc never failed to inspire such confidence.

Near the suite of rooms that had been engaged for his men, Doc Savage paused for an instant.

His features did not change expression, but a queer light flashed in his gold-flecked eyes, his nostrils twitched slightly.

The next moment and he had bounded forward, turned the doorknob.

The door was locked, but Doc hardly seemed to pause. His weight shifted slightly, then his tremendous muscles tensed, and he shot forward, his shoulder striking just above the doorknob. The door popped open.

The bronze man’s queer, trilling sound filled the air.

Inside the room were several limp, apparently lifeless bodies.

A faint acrid odor was in the air. It was this odor which had attracted Doc’s attention as he neared the rooms. His keen sense of smell had caught a scent that the average person would not have noticed.

For a moment the bronze man stood perfectly still, his eyes photographing the scene.

Monk and Ham evidently had just finished taking a shower. They had collapsed, wearing only their shorts. Beside them, one hairy arm outstretched, as if he had fallen while trying to aid his idols, was Chemistry.

Renny was stretched full length, face down on the floor. He undoubtedly had been making for the door when stricken. Long Tom was draped over a radiator by a window. He had been trying to get that window up.

Johnny’s anemic-appearing frame was slumped in a chair. A glass of water had spilled from his hand.

Doc thrust a small tablet into his mouth, then moved forward. The tablet was one of his own devising. It furnished oxygen, made it unnecessary to breath outside air. And from the faint odor in the room, it seemed apparent that gas of some kind had been used.

But the bronze man first inspected the pitcher of water on the table. Poison could be the answer, although it seemed unlikely that all five of his aids would drink and be overcome at the same time.

Then he did a strange thing. He leaped to a writing desk that had been placed close to one of the windows. Sunlight streamed in on that desk.

His arms a blur of motion, he whipped several large blotters from the desk, sped to the bathroom. A moment later came the sound of running water.

Almost at once, the bronze man was back in the room. He grabbed Monk’s huge, hairy arm first, felt for a pulse. There was none.

For nearly the first time in his life, Doc Savage showed emotion. A flash of pain flickered in his gold-flecked eyes.

Doc Savage had risked his own life many times. He knew that sometime he must forfeit that life. But always he tried to protect his aids, even at the risk of his own life.

This time his men had been struck down while he had been away. They seemingly were dead.

The bronze man was recognized in medical circles as one of the world’s greatest physicians. At some time during each year, he slipped away to the Fortress of Solitude, where alone, and far from civilization, he studied the latest in medical science, and perfected technique of his own.

His knowledge on the subject was boundless. And he was using all of that knowledge now.

His aids had been gassed. That had been apparent when he had seen faint vapor arising from the blotting paper. A poisonous powder of some kind had been brushed on that paper. As the sun’s heat beat down, the heat had transformed the powder into gas.

By placing the blotting paper under water, Doc had stopped the poisonous fumes. But he needed to do far more than that.

No oxygen tanks were available, but he did have a supply of the oxygen tablets. He placed several of these in the mouth of each victim. Then his hands flashed to the equipment kit he carried about his body, under his clothes.

Shots of adrenalin started hearts to beating faintly. But the lung muscles were paralyzed, the men were not breathing.

Doc’s long fingers flicked with lightning speed. Another medicine vial came from his equipment kit, a syringe was filled.

The needle point of the syringe sped in and out of limp flesh as each man and Chemistry received a shot in turn. The drug was similar to that released by glands when a man is under the stimulus of intense fear or excitement—the fluid that makes giants of individuals ordinarily weak, the strongest muscle-stimulant known.

Seconds later, the soft sound of breathing filled the air.

Long Tom, although the weakest-appearing of the group, was the first to recover. “I was in the bedroom and didn’t come in until I heard loud bumps,” he explained. “Then I rushed out and the stuff caught me.”

“An extraordinary phenomena of imbecility on the part of semieducated individuals whose perception powers suffered a lapse,” Johnny gasped.

“He means we were dumb not to have been suspicious of that bellhop,” Monk piped weakly. Monk spoke with difficulty.

“When I get my hands on that mug!” Renny sat up slowly, his huge, monstrosity of fists opening and closing to show what would happen when and if his wish were granted. “And we thought we were on guard, ready for anything—”

“What they’re trying to say, Doc,” Ham explained solemnly, “is that we got a little extra service on the part of a bellboy, who must have brought poison dope of some kind in here when he brought us ice water. If you hadn’t shown up when you did—”

“Did the bellhop wear a large wrist watch?” Doc Savage, interrupted.

Ham’s face mirrored bewilderment. “How did you know?” he barked.

Doc did not answer the question. Instead, he told of his conversation with the war secretary.

A childlike grin crossed Monk’s homely face. “Sounds good,” he chuckled. “There oughta be some fightin’ in this.”

“There won’t be any fighting, there’ll just be a massacre, if I can find that bellhop,” Renny said grimly. Sometimes the big engineer had a one-track mind. This was one of the times.

“You’re not interested in fighting, you half-witted relative of an ape,” Ham jibed. “You just think that girl Doc saw at the station and in the taxi may be involved in this, and want to find her.”

“Why, you—” Monk sputtered wordlessly. He did like to fight. In fact, he preferred a good battle to a good meal, but he had a weakness for pretty faces also, a weakness that had got him into trouble before.

“What do you want us to do, Doc?” Long Tom asked. The sallow-appearing electrical genius looked eager.

“Be aphonic,” Johnny rapped. The archæologist’s eyes glinted slyly.

“Be what?” roared Monk. The hairy chemist looked bewildered. Johnny’s habit of using big words often confused him.

“Just be silent,” Ham said wearily. “Of course a descendant of the jungles couldn’t be expected to understand plain English.”

“Why you animated cartoon of a law book—” Monk lumbered forward angrily, only to stop suddenly. Doc was speaking swiftly and concisely.

“Monk, you and Ham check with the police, then investigate on your own. Learn everything you can about the habits, past life and friends of Les Quinan.

“Renny, you and Johnny rent a plane and fly back to New York. Here is the equipment you are to get from the laboratory.”

“And I?” Long Tom asked anxiously.

“Go to the closest camera shop,” the bronze man said. “This is what you buy.” He explained tersely.

Long Tom looked bewildered. “And then?”

“Then we go to Les Quinan’s office,” Doc said softly, “to investigate the queer flashes he saw.”

The two Secret Service men trailed discreetly after Doc as he left the hotel. The bronze man did not appear to notice.

The small, thin man wearing the big wrist watch, stood across the street. He appeared cheerful. Then his face pictured amazement. Monk and Ham came out of the hotel, walked away. A moment later Long Tom, Renny and Johnny appeared. Renny and Johnny got a cab as Long Tom went down the street.

“It couldn’t be!” the little man gasped. He acted as if he were seeing ghosts. Then he grabbed his watch, appeared to wind it furiously. A moment later he hailed another cab, trailed the taxi carrying Johnny and Renny to the airport.

A policeman had been on duty outside Les Quinan’s office, presumably on the theory that a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.

The policeman had been recalled when detectives came to the conclusion that a disgruntled client from out of town had wielded a knife on the lawyer. Officially, they said an arrest was expected soon. Privately, they hoped the case would soon be forgotten. There were no clues that they could find.

Long Tom didn’t see much use in visiting the office, either. He saw less reason for the big package he carried. But he asked no questions as Doc joined him and they went to the office building.

The hallway to the office was clear. Doc moved swiftly, tried the door. A surprised expression crossed Long Tom’s pale features. The door was unlocked.

“What—” he started.

Doc held up one hand for silence. Without noise he was inside the office, Long Tom behind him.

The office had been well searched. Desk drawers were yanked out, papers were scattered from the filing cabinets.

The lean electrician’s mouth formed an “O.” Police undoubtedly had not been responsible for the disorder. Then Long Tom’s jaw dropped as he saw something else.

A closet door was faintly ajar. The door moved slightly.

Doc did not appear to see it. “I imagine our visit here will be fruitless,” the bronze man said loudly. One hand was jammed into his coat pocket.

The closet was a dozen feet from where Doc and Long Tom stood. If someone were hidden there with a gun, he could fire before either of the two could cross half the distance.

Doc half turned. One eyelid blinked rapidly. Long Tom did not change expression. Doc’s hand came out of his pocket casually. Something dropped, fell on the floor.

Thick smoke rolled upward, filled the room. Long Tom dodged to one side. Hidden by the smoke, Doc flashed across the room, yanked the closet door open.

Someone screamed loudly.

Long Tom chuckled in spite of himself. He went to the windows, opened them, allowing the smoke from the small bomb Doc had dropped to escape.

Held firmly in Doc’s powerful grip, was a small, exceedingly pretty girl. She was dressed entirely in gray, with blond curls encircling her face.