Читать книгу The Men Who Smiled No More: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lawrence Donovan - Страница 4

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Simon Stevens was a hearty, roaring, rollicking man. His many millions had never made him smug or dignified. When he laughed, his big body rocked with his humor. And he nearly always was laughing.

Not that he wasn’t shrewd. No man, regardless of how often or heartily he laughed, could have acquired Simon Stevens’s fortune without being canny and shrewd. Nor could any man without a full supply of the keenest brains have been head of the World Waterways Shipping Corporation.

Simon Stevens had been president and controlling stockholder of the World Waterways line for more than twenty-five years.

And no matter how serious the directors’ meeting, Simon Stevens could, and did, take time out to regale his associates with the latest in funny stories. The World Waterways directors could afford to listen to these stories, for the past years had not affected the shipping line’s splendid profits.

To-day, Simon Stevens had not told a single story. When the directors convened, their president was less hearty, less good-humored than usual. He was smoking one of the fat cigars which had been so adroitly changed in his upper pocket. One of the directors quickly noted the millionaire’s apparent absent-mindedness.

Simon Stevens’s deep voice had not roared once with laughter since he had entered the third-floor room where the directors met. For once, the shipping line president appeared to be somewhat preoccupied.

When he entered the board room, he sat down immediately in a big chair at the side. He stared reflectively at his feet. They were, like all of Simon Stevens, ample.

And the millionaire’s shoes had been newly shined. For it had been Simon Stevens who had sat on the white stone coping of the park fence. It was he who had left the generous cigar in the grimy hand of Smiling Tony Talliano.

This directors’ meeting was more important than usual. Recently, the affairs of the World Waterways line had reached somewhat of a crisis. Some Oriental freight contracts had been cancelled because of trouble in China. European affairs had disturbed shipments to the Mediterranean.

Simon Stevens sat, rather somberly for him, looking at his newly polished shoes. It was disturbing. The eleven other directors, or at least ten of them, felt that the crisis might be more serious than they imagined. If so, why hadn’t Simon Stevens roared his way into the room as customary?

The eleventh director observed the president of the board more closely than the others.

For this director was Doc Savage. The man of bronze held some stock in the World Waterways, as he did in many other enterprises. This was especially useful to the noted adventurer. For the World Waterways line owned a small group of islands in the South Pacific.

These were the Domyn Islands. Doc Savage’s interest, as usual, was humanitarian. In his many encounters with criminals, the man of bronze caused them to be treated at his sanitarium in up-State New York. Doc’s vast surgical knowledge had developed a minor operation on the brain which caused criminally warped minds to heal.

After becoming good citizens, with their criminal careers forgotten, many of these former criminals were left without homes or occupations. The Domyn Islands had become a haven of refuge for the rehabilitation of these men. There they had been given well paid employment in the nitrate mines.

Doc Savage did not often attend meetings of directors. His time was nearly always engaged in some enterprise of much more excitement and danger. Yet in this apparently prosaic meeting of shipping line directors was to arise a situation of the most astounding consequences.

Doc Savage must have felt this, for he took up his position beside an open window. From this place, he could look directly down upon the tracks and platform of an elevated railway station.

One of the lesser directors coughed apologetically.

“Mr. President,” he offered, “I expect we ought to get underway and have it over with. All of us know why we are here.”

“Yes,” replied Simon Stevens, “we know why we are here.”

His voice fell oddly flat, without expression. Indeed, one might have said he was merely a curious bystander without great interest in the proceedings.

The one who had spoken prefaced his next remarks with another cough.

“The idea seems to be that we will save ourselves from heavy losses by retiring about half the ships of the freight fleets,” he said. “Our dividends probably will be reduced somewhat. But we can carry on and still show a profit.”

“Yes,” said another director, “that’s the general idea. It’s much better than attempting to maintain the whole organization at a loss. We are lucky in having the Domyn Islands. The big boost in nitrate prices brought on by national armaments ought to keep our net operations about up to the usual figures.”

Simon Stevens said nothing.

A director pulled them over the embarrassing lull.

“Well, then I suppose all of us here favor the retirement of as many of the ships as necessary?” he suggested. “Then perhaps we should concentrate on the operation of the Domyn Islands. I would favor doubling our output, or employing more men there.”

Doc Savage spoke for the first time. He was watching Simon Stevens closely.

“I had hoped that might happen,” said the man of bronze. “As usual, I would like to pass my own dividends to help place more men at work in the islands.”

Simon Stevens lifted his eyes to meet the flaky gold orbs of Doc Savage. Doc noted then that the millionaire’s face seemed wholly lacking in expression.

Simon Stevens spoke. His words were drawn from some deep well of effort. But his tone was colorless. His announcement was to strike into that luxurious directors’ room, like a bolt of lightning. He was about to blast a shipping line organization that had been foremost in its earnings over a period of three generations.

Yet his speech was calm, most casual.

“The Domyn Islands?” he said. “Oh, yes. I just now recalled. I sold the Domyn Islands yesterday.”

For a full thirty seconds, Doc Savage could clearly hear the ticking of watches in the room. There was one deep, indrawn breath for ten pairs of lungs. At the end of the half minute came the released gasp of all the directors.

“Sold the islands?” spoke one, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.

“Fifty per cent of all our stock is wrapped up in the islands!” ventured another. “It’s never been mentioned—never even proposed. You couldn’t have done anything like that! This board wouldn’t stand for it!”

Simon Stevens must have heard. But he did not glance at his fellow directors. He was looking at his polished shoes. The shipping line president was entirely unaffected by the amazement of his colleagues.

Doc Savage spoke quietly.

“If the president wanted to sell the islands, it was not necessary to consult any of us,” he said. “A vote by the board is no more than a matter of form. Of course, this is a time when a handsome price would be offered. Several nations would like to have control of the nitrate supply.”

Simon Stevens looked at Doc Savage. Usually, the president’s jowls were shaking with some inward mirth when he wasn’t laughing aloud. But the big, rounded face now had assumed lines as stiff and hard as granite.

“Just thought of a good one,” he said unexpectedly, and without referring to his own momentous announcement. “Did you ever hear the one about——”

A pointless story rambled along aimlessly for several minutes. Afterward, a director couldn’t hold himself any longer.

“Well, if you sold the islands, chief, does it mean we are getting out of business temporarily?” he asked. “Our ships could only operate at a loss. There would be a melon of at least fifty millions to cut from the islands. What was the price?”

“I accepted half a million dollars for the whole outfit,” said the shipping line president. “I signed the sales contract at once. We now will vote on the sale of the Domyn Islands. All in favor say, ‘Aye.’ Those opposed, ‘No.’ ”

“No! No! No! No!!!” shouted ten directors.

Doc Savage was silent. He was watching Simon Stevens.

“The motion is carried,” said Simon Stevens, without raising his voice. “The Domyn Islands are sold.”

Ten amazed, unbelieving minority stockholders surged from their chairs. For the minute they forgot they were only holders of minority stock in the World Waterways Shipping Corporation. Forgot they were conservative, middle-aged business men. At this instant, they were a mob of ten, cursing, bitter men.

The director nearest to Simon Stevens was a tall man. He so far forgot himself as to brandish his fist under the president’s nose.

“You dirty double-crosser!” he shouted. “Nearly all I’ve got is wrapped up in World Waterways! You can’t sell me out!”

His fist whipped out. Simon Stevens was a bigger man, if he was an older one. The tall director’s knuckles rasped across the president’s bulging jowls.

No emotion whatever appeared in Simon Stevens’s countenance. His eyes, half hidden in rolling wrinkles of good-natured fat, remained as cold and unperturbed as those of some fish. Only his big hand went methodically to a heavy inkstand of carved silver beside him.

The hand went up with the inkstand. The thing weighed enough to have brained an ox. And the millionaire shipping line president was putting the weight of a beefy arm behind the swing. The tall director was off balance. The inkstand could not have missed his skull.

None could have told how Doc Savage had whipped across that room. The bronze giant had lifted to his toes. He was moving with incredible speed, as the inkstand went over Simon Stevens’s head. One immense bronze arm became a swiftly shooting steel piston.

The inkstand descended with a crash. The tall director went off his feet. His lanky body flew half the length of the room before he collapsed. But the blow that had caught him was delivered by Doc Savage’s fist. It was lucky for the director that Doc had picked out the tall man’s shoulder as a target.

Taking the full straight-arm from Doc Savage would not have been much of an improvement over being brained by a carved-silver inkstand.

Simon Stevens sat down. Even now, he showed no emotion. Instead of hurling a murderous inkstand, he rolled the fat cigar with his teeth, chewing its end calmly.

Doc Savage was looking directly into the man’s eyes. What he saw there was not pleasant.

But the bronze man said to the other directors, “Perhaps we should talk this over more calmly. I am convinced you will feel differently when we know more of the circumstances. Simon, no doubt, has not informed us of all to be told in connection with selling the Domyn Islands. I have as much interest as any of you. We will listen.”

The directors resumed their seats. Doc Savage returned to his chair beside the open window. For probably two minutes, there was the shuffling of men a bit ashamed of giving away to their emotions.

Doc was looking from the window. He saw a swarthy man with a shoe shiner’s box over his shoulder. Even at that distance, the fixed, horrible, death’s-head grin on the man’s face was clear to Doc. His eyes, like the rest of his senses, had been trained from childhood to excel those of other men.

Doc whipped his glance back to the face of Simon Stevens. The pair of faces—that of the multi-millionaire who apparently had just accomplished his own ruin, and that of an East Side shoe shiner—were strangely similar.

One of the directors made talk.

“Then, if I might inquire,” he said, with some sarcasm, “who has been lucky enough to buy the Domyn Islands for half a million? That’s hardly bird seed!”

Simon Stevens rubbed one hand over his big round chin. His voice indicated he hadn’t even an office boy’s interest in the fate of the Domyn Islands.

“I signed a contract of sale,” he said, casually, “but it’s funny I can’t recall offhand who I sold the islands to.”

Doc Savage heard these strange words. But he was looking down upon the platform of the elevated railway. The other directors let out amazed gasps for the second time that afternoon. The bronze man was gliding from the room toward the building corridor. He gave no word of explanation.

That announced itself through the open window. Piercing screams of women came from outside. A crowd on the elevated platform was roaring. The World Waterways directors crowded each other at the open window.

One man let out a choking oath. He pulled his eyes from the scene below. He had seen a man’s hand stick out from under the truck wheels of a train coach. The fingers of the hands were still writhing. They seemed to be reaching for something that might pull the victim from under the ruthless iron and steel.