Читать книгу Murder Melody: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lawrence Donovan - Страница 10

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Doc Savage ran the amphibian pontoon on a shelving beach. The ground still quivered as he led Johnny and Monk toward the highway. Huge boulders bounded and boomed in Capilano Canyon.

A woman screamed. She was crawling from the wrecked automobile. A man with a limp, dangling arm was trying to pull her from one of the crushed doors.

The bronze man was quickly beside the man with the broken arm, giving him assistance. This help was invaluable. Doc’s bronzed and corded hands simply grasped the metal sides of the shattered doorway. His muscles flexed without apparent strain.

The door of the smashed car was torn loose. Doc lifted the woman to her feet. He saw there was another man in the automobile. The bronze man knew it was useless to bring him out until an ambulance could arrive.

Above the echoing fall of rocks boomed an explosion. It was repeated with sharp concussion. Doc whirled, and led his men swiftly toward the shore of The Narrows. He made for the place where the fishermen’s boats had been whipped from their moorings.

In The Narrows a long blue vessel was tossing about. The British ensign, the Union Jack, flowed from its flagstaff. A bright brass one-pounder was mounted on its foredeck. The slim-snouted cannon spouted and boomed again. The shot skipped into the middle of The Narrows.

“Canadian coast guard,” announced Doc. “The shots are by way of informing us explanations of our plane are in order.”

They did not have long to wait. Officers of the coast guard boat had seen the landing of the amphibian plane. They had seen the bodies of men floating in the air. Then the bodies had mysteriously disappeared.

A small boat was dancing toward shore. Upright in the bow was a man of short stature. Insignia on his arm and cap marked him as an officer. When he stepped out he was belligerent, and possessed a cockney accent.

“H’I s’y, you chaps!” he hailed Doc and the others. “Wot th’ bloomin’ blyzes you Yankees think you’re doin’? Fillin’ the h’air with floatin’ blighters an’ shykin’ h’up everything around! H’I’m arrestin’ you blokes h’in the nyme of the king!”

Though he was impressed with his own importance and more than a little shaken and puzzled by the recent happenings, the cockney officer had one long look at Doc Savage. Apparently he was impressed in another way. The bronze man’s flaky gold eyes were fixed upon the cockney’s pale blue orbs.

“H’I’m meanin’ as ’ow you’ve got some explynin’ to do,” the bantam officer sputtered in a greatly modulated tone. “H’even h’if you are Doc Savage ’isself, some’ns gotta tyke the blyme for——”

“I am Doc Savage,” stated the bronze man calmly. “I assure you we shall be able to explain to the proper authorities. We know as little as you of the phenomenon you have just witnessed. Perhaps you saw more than we have.”

“Doc Savage ’isself,” repeated the cockney officer. “H’I can see that’s ’oo you h’are. H’an’ H’I’m h’only a doin’ my juty, sir. H’if you s’y as ’ow you’ll be reportin’ what you’ve seen, H’I’ll tyke h’it as a gryte favor.”

“I shall report to the nearest police inspector shortly,” said Doc. “If you saw nothing, we can add little to your account.”

“H’I thought h’as ’ow H’I seen dead men tumblin’ from the plyne, sir,” replied the cockney. “They cyme fallin’ h’unnatural h’outta the ’eavens. H’if they was livin’ ’umans they’d ’ave no chance h’among them whirlpools h’in The Narrows. Your plyne was the h’only one h’as was h’up, sir.”

Doc made no comment on this doubtless vaguely taken observation of the much-subdued coast guard officer, except to thank him for his courtesy.

“Yessiree!” proffered one of the several dripping salmon fishermen. “The whole middle of them danged Narrows reared right up! Then the bottom poked clear to the top of the water between my boat and another one. Y’ can see where there was a whole chunk tore out of the bar. It was the bottom moved clear out into the bay!”

“And you saw some men in the air?” suggested Doc.

The wet fisherman grinned sheepishly.

“I wasn’t wantin’ to admit that right off, mister,” he explained. “The fish wasn’t hittin’ so good an’ it was cold, so I had almost reached the bottom of a crock of Scotch. I’m dog-goned glad somebody else mentioned them. ’Cause I’d have sworn I saw some dead men floatin’ around in the air. An’ then they went right down into that boil, after the quake or whatever it was.”

Doc led his men swiftly back to the broken highway. An ambulance and two constables from the Provincial Police headquarters on the North Shore had arrived. One of the constables immediately accosted the bronze man.

“You’re Doc Savage,” he stated, his keen Scottish blue eyes straying over the bronze man’s magnificent physique. “The inspector has been phoned you were here with one of your planes, sir. He asked me to request you to accompany us to his office.”

Doc walked a little way up the canyon as the victims were being removed from the wrecked automobile. Johnny accompanied him. In many places portions of the steep cliffs had been torn loose. Small avalanches had fallen.

The highway they had just left had been badly split. Fissures had opened at several places.

“What is your opinion, Johnny?” Doc inquired.

The scholarly geologist shook his head slowly, as if he disliked admitting he was puzzled.

“Nothing less than an earthquake could have done all of that damage,” he observed. “But I still say no geological fault occurs in this region. The disturbance is purely local. I can only explain it by the theory that some powerful force has caused convolutions of the quartz and silica deposits to be found anywhere in a mountainous region. We have met with something like that before.”

“Yes, Johnny,” said Doc. “The earth-shaker in Chile. That was caused by application of electrical power. In this case, there seems no evidence of the phenomenon being identical. I would judge these quakes come from a different source.”

As they were en route to the North Shore Provincial Police headquarters, the bronze man stopped to use a telephone. When he returned to the constables’ car his flaky gold eyes were stirring whirlpools.

“As I thought,” he remarked to Johnny. “The University of British Columbia seismograph recorded something, but this time the geologists are having an argument. One believes the disturbance was the result of an explosion.”

“Maybe them dead man blowed up,” suggested Monk.

“They were subject to unknown forces,” said Johnny. “But I would scarcely believe these included violent combustibility.”

“Any supposition might be right or wrong as yet,” stated Doc. “We know only that some powerful new force is at work. Those controlling it desire to destroy us. To-night we start north over the mountains.”

As the bronze man volunteered no additional information, Monk and Johnny were silent. But both knew Doc Savage had come to some definite conclusion regarding the mystery, which he would divulge only when he obtained complete proof.

The Provincial Police car was being driven by the constable with the Scottish blue eyes. His own and his companion’s admiration for the famous Doc Savage had been apparent in their attitude from the first. Not that Canadian policemen are ever discourteous, but these men were distinctly respectful in tone.

The police car glided into the environs of North Vancouver. A sudden crackling came from the car’s radio. It was but one of many radios that at the moment recorded the same mysterious message. That is, the message was inexplicable to every one but Doc Savage and his men.

The remarkable part of the communication was that the wave on which it came seemed capable of cutting through all other kilocycle lengths. The constable driving slowed the car with an exclamation. After a few seconds of sputtering and ominous crackings, the speaker produced a liquid, husky voice:

“Clark Savage—Zoro—Benicia Island—warn ships—watch Aleutians—Lanta will——”

Then there came a little choking scream. The harsher voices of men cut into the mysterious broadcast. The police radio cracked as if every tube had been shattered. One of the constables muttered in amazement and pulled open the shutter of the radio.

The final cracking had not been deceptive. Every tube had gone out of commission. Radio owners throughout the whole area were in high indignation over the same occurrence.

“Apparently our flute-blowing friends have not drowned,” remarked Doc.

“I thought you knew nothing of all this crazy stuff this morning,” accused the blue-eyed constable.

“You know now almost exactly as much as myself,” stated the bronze man quietly. “I shall gladly talk it over with the inspector.”

Talking it over with the Provincial Police inspector proved to be far more complicated than it had appeared. This official proved to be one of those Scotchmen with one-way ideas. Moreover, as Doc and his men entered the sparsely furnished office the inspector was burring his R’s and profanely walking around a table.

Nevertheless, he calmed down to extend his hand and say in his broad accent he was very pleased to meet Doc Savage in person. He also mentioned having heard of several of the bronze adventurer’s exploits.

This over, he switched abruptly to an object occupying the middle of the long table.

“An’ noo, Meester-r Savage, dinna ye ken this?” he burred.

This was obviously a container composed of a glassy surfaced metal. Doc and Johnny instantly identified the substance as similar to the strange alloy in the flutes of the silvery faced men they had encountered in Stanley Park.

“I know nothing of it,” replied Doc quietly. “I see my name inscribed across the end, that is all. It appears to have been cut or etched into the metal. How did it come here?”

“Ye’d be askin’,” barked the inspector shrewdly. “An’ ye’re sur-r-r-e ye wud na ha’ seen it afor-re noo?”

Doc smiled slightly, but said nothing. He ran one powerful bronze hand along the container’s surface. The vessel had the general shape of a miniature coffin or casket. A lid slid back in smooth grooves.

Doc was looking at the contents of the casket, but he gave no sign as to that.

Instead he said, “It is of solid metal, but I gather that it was picked up floating somewhere in the harbor.”

“Ye admit thot noo!” barked the inspector. “I we-r-re thinkin’ ye wud ken the same!”

“Merely supposition,” smiled the bronze man. “The metal shows it has been in water. It was one of your reasons for sending for me. And it is a metal that is so light it floats with probably less specific gravity than cork.”

The Scotch inspector nodded emphatically. His tight lips indicated he believed Doc had convicted himself of knowing all about the strange casket. But his manner showed clearly he had no conception whatever of what the casket contained.

Across the top of the container were etched only three words:

TO CLARK SAVAGE

The etching was in the same beautiful, flowing old style English script of the message written on gold leaf.

The inspector was talking rapidly. His R’s burred with the rapidity of a vocal machine gun mechanism. His theme was his disbelief in reports of men floating over the harbor and causing an earthquake.

Doc listened patiently as the inspector reached the accusation that he believed the bronze man to have been playing some kind of a trick with balloons shaped like humans. When the bronze man finally spoke, he ignored the excited words.

“Inspector, would you grant me a favor, one that will perhaps redound somewhat to your credit when some of this mystery has been cleared up?” he suggested.

The Scotchman cooled speedily. Something that might come his way was a horse of a more profitable color. There still was some suspicion in his voice, however, as he replied, “An’ thot I wud noo. A’ the same, ther-re wud be some question——”

Johnny had remained with Monk to one side, talking with the constable. Doc indicated to the inspector; it might be best to remove the small casket to an inner office. He motioned Johnny, Monk and the inspector to accompany him, then he closed the door.

“Johnny, I seem to have received a gift or a token of some considerable value, which I am planning to have the inspector here place in his own private safe for me until later,” said Doc. “Now will you have a look at what this vessel contains.”

Johnny had not before been close enough to peer into the casket. He walked over. Seldom did his serious, scholarly face betray surprise. But now his first words were almost gasped.

“Well I’ll be superamalgamated! It isn’t possible, Doc!”

Johnny was looking down at a clear, glasslike block nearly a foot in length and perhaps four inches square.

Doc’s reply was extraordinary.

“I fear very much it is exactly what you think it is, Johnny. Which may mean one of the greatest experiments that has engaged the world since the substance first was discovered has at last been successful.”

Johnny hardly seemed to be listening. He was bending over the casket closely, inspecting the glasslike block through his powerful magnifying monocle.

“It’s true, Doc,” he murmured in a low voice. He did not want the Scotch inspector to catch his words. “But I don’t believe it is artificial. It is even more astounding. The frayed grain indicates this has been separated, by some medium of which we know nothing, from a natural silicon dioxide strata deeper than man has ever penetrated. I would say some hitherto unknown mountain region has erupted this strata near the surface.”

Johnny spoke with the authority of a geologist who could not be deceived. Except for Doc Savage himself, Johnny was probably the greatest living student of geological formations. His authority on this was equalled only by his knowledge of archæology and the races and living forms of antiquity.

Stepping close to Doc, he said in hardly more than an awed whisper, “If this should ever become known, it would be disastrous. This block is in its natural state, as you’ve undoubtedly already judged. I see evidence of a bit of jasper in one corner. That means it has been removed from a deposit where carbon originally was combined with oxygen and other elements. It is grayish in character now because of its natural state. It might have been found in an area where chalcedony, flint and jasper are common. Why, faulty as it might be, it could still be cut into a diamond of many, many thousands of carats——”

“Howlin’ calamities!” squealed Monk. “You mean that’s a diamond? Then it would be worth——”

“The world’s finest collection of jewels wouldn’t be worth a dime a dozen, if this were known,” interrupted Johnny.

The Scotch inspector’s face had been red and white by turns.

“Ye’re intimatin’,” he gasped, “thot glass br-r-ick’s a dee-mun?”

His one-idea brain was struggling desperately with a computation of values.

“That is it, inspector,” said Doc quietly. “And that is why I am asking the favor of putting this away in your private vault and saying nothing. We must find its source. Possibly we may discover a plot to unbalance all the values of the world’s gems.”

The inspector readily gave his almost reverent promise that the brick of carbonate and its secret would be safe with him. Doc was sure he could depend upon this assurance.