Читать книгу The Men Who Smiled No More: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lawrence Donovan - Страница 7

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Doc Savage had failed to make contact with Monk. Though it was the middle of the night when Doc had called his cottage in the Shinnecock Hills on Long Island, the homely chemist was having troubles of his own.

Rather, the troubles rightly belonged to a pig. This representative of the porcine species was an Arabian hog, but he didn’t look it. No piney woods razor-back could have touched the hog, Habeas Corpus, when it came to looks.

Habeas Corpus was four long legs, two long ears and a pair of mean, but intelligent eyes. His body wasn’t much of anything but a repository for food. The hog’s appetite was enormous.

At the moment Doc Savage had called Monk’s cottage, there was considerable disturbance in the darkness of a swampy pond at the foot of a hill. Ducks were quacking in terror. Hundreds of ducks. They were scattered over more than two acres of muddy water.

Habeas Corpus had been having the time of his life since Monk had moved to the cottage on Shinnecock Point near Ponquogue. The pig had discovered the duck farm. It contained hundreds of the birds and they were easy prey.

“Dag-gonit!” squealed a voice in the darkness of the muddy duck pond. “Dang your measly hide, Habeas! You come outta among them ducks or I’m goin’ to turn you over to Ham! That’s what I’ll do to you!”

The squealing voice could have come only from Monk. Though he was covered with red hair as stiff as rusty finishing nails, and his weight was around two hundred and fifty pounds, Monk had the voice of a child. Also he had a low, sloping forehead, gristly eyebrows and arms that hung below his knees.

Standing in the muddy pond up to his waist, Monk was a horrific object. His threat to turn Habeas Corpus over to “Ham” might have been understood by the pig.

Ham was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, the brilliant legal light of Doc Savage’s group.

Ham’s pet hate was the pig, Habeas Corpus. Ham’s greatest ambition seemed to be to see the day when Habeas Corpus would be divided up into stringy pork chops.

Monk, in the pond, yelled again.

Habeas Corpus only grunted with delight. He had just snipped the head off another white duck.

A pair of long legs, without any body attached, seemed to come walking along the pond.

This was because a tall man was carrying an old-fashioned lantern. The oil light swung beside his legs and transformed them into gigantic shadows.

“Hey, you consarned thief!” he croaked harshly. “I hain’t tellin’ you ag’in! You git that thar hawg out’n thar, or I’m goin’ to fill his hide full o’ buckshot this time sure!”

“Dag-gonit!” squawked Monk, “I’m gettin’ him out if I can catch him! Don’t you do any shootin’ if you know what’s good for you! You hurt that hog an’ I’ll cut you up an’ feed you to your own danged ducks! How much you want this time?”

The man with the lantern held it before his face. The face had the appearance of a badly drawn cartoon. It was long and it dished in toward the middle. The chin stuck out to a point. The head was small and bobbed on a neck that might have been designed for a water turtle.

“Reckon I hain’t takin’ no less’n a tenspot this time,” drawled his twanging voice meanly. “You climb out’n there an’ pay up or I’m pepperin’ that blasted imitation of a pig!”

Monk slopped through the muddy pond. He grunted and fished out some money.

John Scroggins, the man who owned the ducks, got more than a tenspot. Habeas Corpus had poked his long snout closer, sticking up his ears. Monk saw his opportunity, dropped some bills and dived upon the pig. He secured the squealing shoat by one long ear and splashed back through the pond, toward his cottage.

“Dag-gone you, Habeas!” complained Monk. “This time he can keep his dead ducks, an’ from now on you’re stayin’ home!”

For more than a week, Monk had been buying ducks—the ducks that Habeas Corpus had killed. The pig did not care for duck meat. Neither did Monk, much. But his housekeeper, a worthy and economical woman, had insisted the ducks must not be wasted.

Monk had quit bringing the ducks home. Some he had buried. To-night he decided to end this duck business.

“You’re bein’ shut up, you dag-goned bunch of spareribs, an’ you ain’t gettin’ out again!” he promised Habeas Corpus.

The pig grunted companionably. He didn’t believe Monk. And the pig was smart. He had figured out ways of escaping from the pen Monk had contrived at this isolated cottage.

Monk ambled along awkwardly, still dragging Habeas Corpus by one ear. If the homely chemist had been informed the elusive pig had been captured by strange hands earlier in the night and later released, he would not have believed it. Yet this was true.

Habeas Corpus had been snared in the darkness. Shadowy figures had seemed to give special attention to the pig’s ears. Perhaps they knew of Monk’s favorite hold.

The spot Monk had selected for chemical experiments in the Shinnecock Hills was ideal. Few spots within a hundred miles of Manhattan were less populated.

The Shinnecock Hills were a series of rolling eminence covered with stunted trees. They lay on the narrow neck of land separating Great Peconic Bay from the Atlantic Ocean. The main highway of these hills passed on into Southampton, a millionaires’ summer resort. From there, it went on to the famous Montauk Point.

Monk’s cottage was situated on the point of land about half a mile below the duck farm. The big chemist followed a twisting, narrow path toward it. On the highest near-by hill was the only other house in that section. This was a rambling, barnlike structure. It was deserted. Its windows were closely shuttered.

The path Monk was following ascended a short distance toward the deserted house. Then it turned abruptly down the hill to the chemist’s cottage. Monk reached the highest point along the path.

Here Habeas Corpus suddenly came to life. His satisfied grunts changed to quick vicious squeals. He squirmed and his ear slipped from Monk’s hand.

Remarkably enough, Monk seemed to have relented in his purpose to make the pig a prisoner. The big chemist was standing still. He was staring up the hill at the deserted house. Brush crackled near by, but Monk apparently did not notice this.

Habeas Corpus rubbed his razorlike body against Monk’s legs.

No more than a minute later the pig, Habeas Corpus, was rushing down the hill. The hog was fleeing as if he had seen some porcine ghost. His long, thin legs carried him at surprising speed. He did not stop until he had pushed his long snout through the screen of the kitchen door at Monk’s cottage.

During Monk’s absence, two visitors had arrived from New York. One of these was a waspish figure of a man, with a keen, narrow face. This man was wearing the latest in spring togs turned out by Fifth Avenue. He was a picture of ease and sartorial elegance.

For Theodore Marley Brooks, or Ham, was noted for being a Beau Brummell. He always stayed about two jumps ahead of all that should be worn on Park Avenue.

The bronze-haired young woman with Ham might have been a beautiful model from some exclusive gown shop. Her hair resembled that of Doc Savage himself. And it was somewhat of a family trait, for the attractive young woman was no other than Patricia Savage, Doc’s cousin.

Known as Pat, she conducted an exclusive beauty salon and gymnasium on Park Avenue. Frequently she had joined with Doc and his companions in their adventure.

Pat and Ham were drawn to the screen door of the kitchen.

“You might have known it would be that cross between a polecat and a hog,” said Ham. “Hey! Get away from me before I trim off your ears!”

This threat was inspired by the peculiar actions of Habeas Corpus. Usually the pig kept a safe distance from the peppery lawyer. But now he acted as if he had suddenly found a friend. He rushed between Ham’s elegantly clad legs and rubbed against them.

Dried mud and duck feathers ornamented Ham’s trousers.

This ludicrous scene drew a low laugh of delight from Pat Savage.

Ham backed away suddenly. He did not want to swear before Pat. But he gritted his teeth and kicked violently at Habeas Corpus. The hog might be scared, but he was an expert at protecting his ribs. He dashed to one side, squealing. His bony body caught Ham’s foot. The lawyer sat down suddenly in a very undignified position.

But Pat Savage didn’t laugh. She was looking at Habeas Corpus. The pig had whirled around, facing the kitchen door. The stiff hairs on the back of his neck were standing straight up.

“Ham, something has happened to Monk,” announced Pat. “The pig is trying to tell us something. Be quiet! Somebody’s coming up the path!”

Slow, dragging feet were coming along the path. They sounded as if they belonged to a man who was very tired, or perhaps hurt. Ham and Pat could hear deep, whistling breaths.

Ham scrambled to his feet. Habeas Corpus backed clear over to the farthest wall. The pig’s eyes blinked and he shivered on his long legs. The man outside arrived at the screen door. The light struck across his woeful, disheveled figure.

Monk was hardly a handsome object at the best. Now he was literally caked with black mud. The coarse hair that looked like red fur around his ears and face was plastered with it. The small eyes under the low forehead looked straight ahead. Apparently he had rubbed some of the mud across his mouth.

Monk fumbled the door open. He entered without speaking. Then he stopped in the middle of the floor and looked at Pat Savage and Ham.

Ham looked at Monk and saw no visible evidence of physical injury.

“We couldn’t expect much more from you,” said Ham in a jeering voice. “Pat and I drop in to give you a pleasant surprise, and, as usual, you’re a fine mess. I always knew you were mostly ape, but I didn’t expect you to revert to the primitive and begin eating raw ducks.”

Monk’s furry hands and huge forearms were smeared with dried blood. Duck feathers clung to his clothes and the matted hair.

“Hello, Ham,” he said in his childlike voice. “Hello, Pat. I will call the housekeeper to show you to your rooms. Let me see, the housekeeper’s name is—I kind of forget, but I’ll call her.”

“Be yourself!” snapped Ham. “Don’t try to pull any crazy stuff, you big ape! Who could forget a name like Mrs. Malatkas! Whose ducks have you been stealing?”

“Yes, that’s her name,” repeated Monk in a cold, small voice. “Mrs. Malatkas. She keeps house for me and she wants to cook all the ducks, but I’m burying them. There are a lot more dead ones. I have to dig some holes for them.”

“Stop it, you hairy insect!” rapped out Ham. “What are you trying to do—scare Pat? What’s the matter with you?”

“Scare Pat?” repeated Monk. “You know I wouldn’t want to scare Pat.”

Ham started another sarcastic sentence. Pat interrupted him.

“Don’t Ham!” she commanded. “I believe Monk is sick or something has happened to him. What is it, Monk?”

“No, I’m not sick,” said Monk, without any emotion. “I think I’m hungry, but I don’t want to eat any more ducks. I’ll call Mrs.—— Funny, I can’t remember her name. She’s the housekeeper.”

Ham and Pat knew nothing of the weird, emotionless feelings that had come over the three men in New York, that had produced a state of utter lack of desire to do anything unless a forceful suggestion was made to them. Neither did they know that those men, because of their peculiar lack of emotions, could kill as easily as a wild animal and feel as little remorse.

Seemingly, Monk had been stricken with this same lack of feeling of emotions.

On the surface, Ham and Monk were the bitterest of enemies. But that was only verbal. Underneath, they were the greatest of friends. Ham stepped over to the chemist’s side. He ran one slender hand over Monk’s hairy head.

“Perhaps you got conked out there, Monk?” he suggested. “Did somebody knock you out? I don’t find any marks.”

“Why, nothing happened,” said Monk, without raising his voice. “I remember now. I paid for the dead ducks. Now I’ve got to bury them. Do you and Pat expect to stay—well—yes, I guess you wouldn’t want to go back to-night? It’s kind of late. I’d call the housekeeper, but somehow I can’t remember her name.”

Ham pulled Pat to one side.

“This looks serious,” he whispered. “I don’t think he’s putting on a show. Something queer has happened! Monk must have had some terrible shock out there. I’m going to have a look around. Maybe you had better call Mrs. Malatkas.”

Habeas Corpus had been standing rigidly in one corner. The pig looked as if he expected something to come through the door from the darkness. If Monk did not remember seeing anything out there in the blackness, Habeas Corpus evidently had seen something.

Whatever it was, the smart pig hadn’t liked it a bit.

Monk moved mechanically at Pat’s suggestion. He washed the dried blood and feathers from his hands and arms. Mrs. Malatkas responded to a summons. She came in, gabbling excitedly.

Ham walked over and picked up the slender black cane he always carried. This looked like only an added affectation on the part of the sartorially perfect lawyer. But it was much more practical.

The black cane concealed a razor-sharp blade of the finest steel. The point of this sword was tipped for several inches with a dark-colored chemical. A mere prick through the skin would make another man instantly unconscious.

“I think I’ll call Doc,” suggested Pat. “He ought to know about this. I haven’t seen him for several days. He must have been busy on something.”

Pat was clicking the receiver hook of the old-fashioned telephone of the summer cottage. In a few seconds she came back into the kitchen. Her attractive features were pale and her mouth was set in a worried line.

“Ham, we’re cut off!” she said excitedly. “The line hummed all right when I picked up the receiver. Then there was a man’s voice. It must be a country party line. The man said, ‘We’ve got the first one, and before we’re through this smart Doc Savage will learn he can’t——’ Then there was a ripping sound. The wire went dead. I jiggled the receiver, but I’ll bet the connection has been cut. Maybe some one heard me get on the line.”

Mrs. Malatkas was wringing her fat hands.

“Dot Yon Scroggins vass a bad man!” she gabbled hysterically. “His eye vass evil! Aboudt dose ducks he vass mad some awful! He’s no good, dot Yon Scroggins!”

Pat said, “But this must be something much more serious than a squabble over ducks. That voice on the phone wasn’t like that of a countryman who raises ducks. It sounded more like some man from the city. Do you suppose, Ham, he means Monk is the first one?”

Monk, having washed his hands, stood braced on his short legs. Though the big chemist was one of the homeliest men alive, yet he was one of the most intelligent. But now he seemed to have little or no interest in what was transpiring.

“Are you and Ham staying here a while?” he asked Pat, as if he hadn’t discussed that before. “Mrs.—well, the housekeeper here will show you to your rooms. She will get us something to eat. I’m hungry. Would you like a cold duck sandwich? I don’t like ducks.”

Ham said in an undertone to Pat.

“You’re right, this is serious. Some one has done something to Monk. And the idea is to get at Doc. I’m not informed myself on what Doc might be doing. There must be another phone in this duck man’s place. Anyway, he’ll probably let me use it.”

“Ham, perhaps he won’t,” said Pat. “It might be he’s the one was talking, after all.”

“Well, I’ll soon find out about that,” declared Ham, flourishing his cane. “You’d better take Monk’s superfirer, until I get back. I’ll hurry and——”

The pig, Habeas Corpus, interrupted his speech. The pig dashed between Ham’s legs and through the kitchen door into the night.