Читать книгу The Black Spot - Kenneth Robeson - Страница 5

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CLARK SAVAGE, JR., was the inconspicuous lettering in bronze. This was set on the metal door. Doc Savage's headquarters occupied the eighty-sixth floor of a towering mass of glittering metal and stone. This was one of Manhattan's greatest skyscrapers.

An elevator came up. The car made a slight hissing noise. This elevator was Doc's private car. It traveled with greater speed than the wind.

An uncouth figure stepped forth. The man's motion could only be described as ambling. Hairy hands trailed below the knees of short legs. Fat ears and the low forehead were covered with stiff reddish bristles.

The man himself might have been a huge trained ape. His broad nose sniffed. In front of the door bearing the sign, he paused to listen.

Doc's five staunch companions had formed this habit of caution. This was why they continued to survive almost incredible dangers.

The apelike individual was "Monk." The world of chemistry knew him as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. He was one of the world's leading industrial chemists. But to his companions and to his friends he was just Monk.

Monk entered Doc's reception room. Some of the world's most hunted and most dangerous criminals had been received there. In this room had been formed campaigns of adventure reaching into the uttermost parts of the world.

Sometimes a telephone message started Doc Savage and his five men upon quests strange and wide. But none had ever been stranger than that already recorded in the voice of Patricia Savage on the dictaphone record of the telephone.

Monk perceived such a record had been made. It was a rule that the first man to arrive would take the message. Usually this would then await the coming of Doc Savage.

But at the first words pouring into his furry ear, Monk twisted his ugly face into an even uglier grimace. The apelike chemist sensed danger. This apparently threatened Pat Savage. Monk's regard for Doc's beautiful cousin stirred an immediate deep emotion.

"Dang everything!" he muttered. "Some day she's goin' to get in a jam she won't get out of! An' Doc ain't even in town!"

But Doc Savage was in Manhattan. At that moment he was moving toward his headquarters. But Monk was not aware of this. He did not know where to reach the remarkable man of bronze.

"All over some buzzard of a millionaire!" piped Monk, shifting the recording needle and listening again to the bumping disruption of the circuit at the end. "An' somebody's grabbed Pat!"

He had heard the slapping commotion when the phone at the Vandersleeve mansion had been snatched from Pat's hand.

Monk thumbed through a directory of Westchester County. The location of the Vandersleeve estate was easily established. Monk went into one of the back rooms. When he returned, there was a bulge under one arm. He was equipped with an automatic superfiring pistol and various other defensive devices.

Monk then called a certain exclusive apartment residence club in upper Manhattan. The voice replying was acidly sharp with sleep and annoyance.

"I'd know that monkey squeal in any zoo!" it snapped. "And anybody else would have too many brains to wake up a man in the middle of the night. Now I'm going back to bed!"

"Listen, you slobberin' mouthpiece!" squeaked Monk. "Pat's gone an' got herself in a jam! It's a murder, four of 'em! They got Pat an'--"

At the exclusive club end of the telephone wire Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, known as "Ham" to his companions and friends, cut into Monk's rather jumbled words.

"How did you know she was grabbed, you raving ape?" he said, as he cooled down. "You don't know if she was murdered because she was grabbed? It doesn't make sense! How do you know that?"

"If you'd shut up long enough to listen!" howled Monk. "I know she ain't been murdered because she told me, an' I think she was only grabbed!"

Ham let out a sarcastic groan at his end of the wire.

"You stay right there, you lunatic, until I come over!" he directed. "I'll be there in ten minutes! Don't go, please, and try and keep cool!"

Though it was after midnight, Ham was a picture of what the well-dressed man should wear, when he arrived at Doc's headquarters. The dapper, waspish-figured lawyer was considered a veritable Beau Brummell.

He waved a thin black cane as if he first of all intended to pound some coherency into Monk's hard skull.

"Now, you ugly insect, what's this all about?" he demanded. "If you've let anything happen to Pat, I'll poke this thing right through your hairy neck!"

Ham's cane was the sheath for a sword blade of the finest steel. He swung the cane menacingly. Monk clenched his knobs of fists.

"You quit talkin' long enough an' I'll tell you what it's all about!" he squawked. "It's one of them Westchester millionaires has been bumped off, an' Pat is there, so--"

"So we'll get going, and right now!" interrupted Ham.

He was close to a window. What looked like a small piece of chalk was in his hand. He inscribed a few words on the glass. But the words did not show. They would only be revealed by a fluorescent ray. Doc would look for the message when he arrived.

The verbal feud between Ham and Monk verged almost to the point of physical combat, before they were downstairs and speeding from Doc's private garage in the basement of the skyscraper. Monk drove an ordinary-appearing roadster. It belied its appearance, being a bulletproof car with a motor of super-power.

On the main highway in the Westchester hills location they sought, numerous cars passed the roadster. These were headed toward Manhattan. Subdued guests from the Vandersleeve "gangster party" were going home. They were both sober and silent.

Ham and Monk found themselves blocked at the Vandersleeve entrance gate.

Half a dozen scowling State policemen opposed their entrance.

"What do you want?" demanded one. "There isn't anybody here from town. They've all gone. Who are you?"

Captain Graves trotted down the driveway. His square face poked into the roadster.

"Huh!" he grunted. "More of Doc Savage's crowd, eh? Ham an' Monk. Well, what are you doing here?"

"We've come to find Patricia Savage and take her home," said Ham.

"You're too late," announced the captain.

"Too late!" Monk's voice quavered. "You mean she's been--"

"She's been nothing!" rapped Captain Graves. "She left here with a smart, red-headed cameraman. How'd you know she was here?"

Ham dug a sharp elbow into Monk's ribs. The shrewd lawyer deemed it wise not to reveal the fact that Pat had used a telephone.

"We were to call and take Miss Savage home," said Ham. "Mind telling us what caused all the excitement?"

Captain Graves continued to view them with suspicion. But he told them briefly of the murders.

"There's nothing we can do here," Ham confided to Monk. "We'll have to find Doc."

ABOUT this time Doc Savage paused in the middle of his luxurious front office. Standing alone, he was an amazing figure of bronze. He was well above six feet in height. His weight scaled over two hundred pounds, but he was so symmetrically proportioned he resembled a carved statue.

All of the bronze man's senses were reading what might have recently transpired within these walls. Doc possessed no occult sense. But the acuteness of highly trained normal senses made him seem magical to others. And even before the bronze giant had placed the telephone to his ear, the space around him was filled with a tuneless trilling like the running of a musical scale.

Doc's lips did not move. Perhaps he was unconscious of the melodious emanation. It seemed to come from his whole immense body. It was the trilling that came in the presence of danger or when he was concentrating deeply. A glance had revealed to him that two of his men had been in the headquarters only a few minutes before.

And he knew they had departed hastily.

Before Doc had finished receiving Patricia Savage's message, he was aware another phone message had been recorded. He permitted the dictaphone record to continue.

"This is James Mathers speaking," came this second message. "I am in extreme danger and dare not come to you. Will you come to my upper Fifth Avenue penthouse apartment as soon as you receive this? The hour makes no difference. I shall wait here. It is a matter of life and death. I may not even be alive when you arrive. If anything has happened, find out about the black spot."

Doc replaced the phone and went into the laboratory. He returned with a square black box. No visible light played from its black lens. But when it was pointed at the window glass, bluish words glowed plainly:

Doc:

Monk and I got Pat's message. We have gone there. We will get in touch with you on the radio.

HAM.

Doc erased the invisible writing.

The short-wave radio receiver in the laboratory was buzzing. The set, especially designed by Doc, would receive from and broadcast to any of his cars. The roadster occupied by Ham and Monk was so equipped.

Ham's voice was speaking.

"Pat apparently is all right. She has left the Vandersleeve residence with a cameraman called Red Mahoney. He is employed by the Future Pictures Corporation on news-reels. We are on our way to headquarters."

"You will await me here," instructed the bronze man. "On no condition are you to leave until I return. Pat probably will come here. Do not permit her to leave."

Though he had been extremely concerned over Pat's safety, the bronze man had been deeply considering the murder of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve. His extensive knowledge of financial affairs in the world's greatest city brought him to a quick conclusion.

He thumbed rapidly through a thick book. This was a compilation of Wall Street reports. They went back for several years. Yes, his memory had been faultless. Vandersleeve and James Mathers, the wealthy broker, had once been associates. They had been in partnership in several large real estate transactions.

Doc lifted the phone. He got Mathers at once. The broker's voice was shaky. Plainly he had been awaiting Doc's arrival.

"I thought you would be on your way over here," said Mathers. "But I feel better knowing you got the message. Will you come to my penthouse as soon as possible? I can't tell you what it is, but an invisible danger is very close to me."

Doc judged James Mathers could not have heard of the Vandersleeve murder. The bronze man spoke calmly.

"Would the same danger be threatening Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve?"

The bronze man smiled a little at Mathers's hoarse gasp of surprise.

"How could you know about that? Well, yes--but where did you get this information about Vandersleeve? No one but myself could be aware of it."

"I shall join you in a few minutes at your apartment," said Doc.

He hung up the phone before Mathers could make a rejoinder. The note of amazement in Mathers's voice had been what the bronze man sought.

A CHILL after-midnight fog presaged the approach of dawn over upper Manhattan. The mist swathed the area of Central Park in gray, ghostlike clouds. The chill penetrated through open windows of a slate-gray apartment building which faced the park.

Doc Savage ascended the short stairway leading to the roof. The elevator service extended only to the top floor. The sprawling penthouse occupied by James Mathers had been erected several years after the main building had been completed.

Shaded light cast a pinkish illumination against the drifting fingers of fog. The bronze giant did not approach the penthouse entrance directly, though he was expected. Instead, he glided toward a low window of the lighted room.

This room was a sort of combined lounging room and library. It was occupied in the center by a huge desk. A secretary's typewriter stand stood to one side.

The bronze giant pressed close to the penthouse wall. From this position he studied the inner room for a minute or more. No one appeared. There was no evidence of Mathers's presence. The disarrangement of some papers on the desk drew Doc's gaze.

Apparently some documents had recently been torn and thrown into a wastebasket. Some scraps had fallen to the floor. Though the subdued illumination was reassuring, something in the emptiness and silence of the room gave it an ominous aspect.

Doc glided swiftly toward the entrance door. There he listened. As he pressed the button, he stepped to one side. But nothing happened. No footsteps sounded from inside. The man of bronze would have known if any one came near the door.

Doc rang once more. He waited only a few seconds. Then he tried the door. It yielded to his pressure. The man of bronze moved inside, closed the door and halted. No person was in the hallway. It had a dim light.

The flaky gold eyes became little whirlpools. Doc looked at the open door to Mathers's library. When he moved, he glided quickly into the room and waited.

The bronze giant did not speak or call out. He was somewhat puzzled, but he believed whoever might be in the penthouse was well aware that he had arrived.

A quick scrutiny failed to reveal the presence of James Mathers. Then Doc's eyes turned to the big desk. He picked out details quickly. A few words had been written on a paper in the typewriter.

Doc read this across the room.

Wait here for me, Doc Savage.

Will return in a few minutes.

Doc glided to the desk. With quick hands he overturned the wastebasket, scrutinizing each scrap of paper. A crumpled paper was at the bottom of the basket. Doc smoothed it out.

The paper contained only names. These were written one below another. Opposite each of these was a deep black spot. The spots were as round as a perfect circle. Only the bronze man's keen eyes could have detected the microscopic lines in the spots. He held a powerful magnifying lens briefly over each mark.

There were eight names on the paper. James Mathers and Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve were in the list. Doc instantly identified the other six names as those of men either now, or at one time, high up in the financial affairs of Wall Street.

The bronze giant suddenly ceased examination of the paper. To his ears had come a hissing sound, so faint no other man would have detected it. At the same moment Doc became aware of a slightly dizzy sensation as if he had suddenly become very tired.

Suddenly the room was filled with the rare exotic trilling. It was like a wind playing over wires or through the small aperture of a window. But all windows were tightly closed.

That faint hissing continued. The bronze giant weaved a little on his massive legs as he started toward an alcove covered by rich draperies. He swept the curtains aside.

A square metallic container was sitting on the floor. From it came the faint hissing sound. A ghostly blue light played over a small pipe projecting from the top of the box.

Doc caught it up. He was staggering as he reached a window. He smashed out the glass as he hurled the container onto the roof. Then he pulled fresh air into his lungs. Gas and ether under pressure had been burning in the box.