Читать книгу The Deadly Dwarf: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 4

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When Ethel’s Mama blew up, she shook the earth in more ways than one.

Ethel’s Mama was on Fan Coral Island in the South Pacific when the lid came off. But probably the first man to discover what had happened was a professor in the laboratory of Yale University in New Haven, Connecticut, U. S. A. He happened to be watching the seismograph. What he failed to realize was that he had noted something momentous, something that was going to stand the world on its collective ear.

Ethel’s Mama was a volcano. On the maps she was tagged Mount Ettilusamauma, but it was easier to say Ethel’s Mama. An earthquake apparently started Ethel’s Mama off. That was what fooled everybody. It looked like an ordinary earthquake. The Yale seismograph registered the shake at two hours and eleven minutes and forty seconds past noon, Eastern Daylight Saving Time.

The Yale professors said there had been a central earth disturbance about ten thousand miles distant.

A few newspapers carried a paragraph or two.

Then the palm tree landed on the Fan Coral resident governor’s house. It happened in the night. It was a big palm tree. Afterward the resident governor’s house was not worth rebuilding. The resident governor himself was out on a rum-and-lime spree, or there would have been a vacancy on his country’s political pay roll.

How a two-ton palm tree came to be sailing around in the night sky over Fan Coral Island was a question. It was not scorched, so it was not some morsel ejected by Ethel’s Mama.

A newspaper reporter who had foolishly quit his job to write a book was on Fan Coral Island at the time. Otherwise the world might never have heard about the palm. The erstwhile journalist sought needed spare change by cabling, or radioing, volcano yarns to every news agency which would take the stuff collect.

The lone newshawk had unwittingly discovered a gold mine.

The uphill landslides were next. When the Fan Coral journalist radioed the story about the avalanches that slid uphill, three of his newspapers radioed right back that they wanted no more of his stuff. They thought he was a goof who was drawing on a not-too-sage imagination.

But it was just what the misjudged journalist said it was. Patches of rock and earth came loose and slid uphill. They were not very big patches. The strips were probably fifty feet wide.

The next night it rained coconuts. And there was no cyclone which could have picked them up and dropped them on Fan Coral City.

Newspapermen from various parts of the Pacific began to drift toward Fan Coral Island by airplane and boat.

A fine yacht named the Fifth Wind turned up in Fan Coral harbor. It belonged to a man named Cadwiller Olden, the crew of the craft said. No one had ever heard of Cadwiller Olden. The cables carried a color story which mentioned the yacht. No one dreamed how important that was going to be.

Ethel’s Mama was getting interesting.

Five days after Ethel’s Mama started erupting, Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks turned up at Yale and asked for the seismograph records. He came near not getting them.

“Ham” Brooks was a Harvard product, admittedly one of the most astute lawyers Harvard had ever turned out, and proud of his Alma Mater. He therefore had no use for Yale, and had said so publicly on occasion.

Marley Brooks, called “Ham,” would have been designated as a dude thirty years ago. As it was, the newspapers called him America’s best-dressed man. He always carried an innocent-looking black cane.

“But Doc Savage wants the records of the seismograph of the Mount Ettilusamauma eruption,” Ham explained.

Doc Savage! That made it different, admitted the Yale officials, who conceivably had heard of Clark Savage, Jr., better known as Doc Savage, the man whom the newspapers called the “Mental Marvel,” the “Scientific Genius,” the “Muscular Midas,” the “Man of Mystery,” and other things.

“Doc does not wish newspaper publicity.” Ham reminded the Yale officials.

Of course, of course. No newspaper publicity. But some one let the cat out, and the afternoon papers carried it.

Newspaper reporters were lying for Ham at Grand Central Station. Those who did not know Ham by sight had been told to look for a very dapper gentleman who would be accompanied by a very remarkable pet ape named Chemistry.

Ham gave them the slip. He did not have his pet ape along, anyway. Ham had suspected some one would slip. Consequently he got off at the station before Grand Central and waved down a taxi.

Doc Savage was in his remarkable headquarters library and laboratory on the eighty-sixth floor of the city’s most impressive skyscraper when Ham entered. Doc had been working with chemicals and wore a rubber smock which hid everything but the fact that he was a giant bronze man with amazing sinews in his hands and neck. He also had a pair of strange flake-gold eyes which had an almost compelling power.

Ham was surprised at the speed with which Doc Savage went to work on the seismograph records. The bronze man used calipers and magnifying glasses on the curves. Then he consulted various instruments of his own and did some mathematical calculations.

Ham was even more startled when he heard Doc Savage make a small, almost inaudible trilling sound, a weird, exotic note which the bronze giant made only in moments of intense mental stress, or in surprise.

“What’s up, Doc?” Ham demanded.

The bronze man said absently, “The majority of scientists have always believed it impossible for such a thing to exist. Yet the behavior of that volcano shows that it does exist.”

“Eh?” Ham said. “I don’t understand.”

“Ham,” the bronze giant stated, “the world does not know about it yet, but mankind is up against something pretty terrible.”

“You mean that volcano?” asked the puzzled Ham.

“Something in the heart of the earth, under that volcano,” Doc Savage explained. “The thing has lain there, its presence unknown to scientists. The eruption of the volcano apparently disturbed it, and it would appear that the thing has worked up toward the crater of the volcano with the lava. In a short time it will be out of the volcano, unless my opinion is wrong.”

Ham rubbed his jaw. “You talk like this was important.”

The bronze man did not answer immediately. When he did, he spoke slowly and grimly.

“It is more than important,” he said. “It may well be the most terrible calamity ever loosened on the human race.”

Ham swallowed. “But w-what is it, Doc?”

The bronze man considered.

“We will call it Repel,” he said. “My opinion is that that is what the rest of the world will call it when it becomes known.”

“But that does not explain what it is,” Ham reminded.

“I am going to wait until I have made a closer examination on Fan Coral Island before venturing any exact description of Repel,” the bronze man said. “We will leave immediately. Get the men together, Ham. And have them take plenty of fighting equipment.”

“Fighting——”

“Supermachine pistols and mercy bullets, gas and gas masks,” Doc directed. “And the rest of the stuff we usually take.”

Two hours later Doc Savage’s huge tri-motored amphibian plane was in the air, headed for San Francisco. The ship was streamlined, and could easily hop the Pacific on one fuel load. Doc mapped the course—San Francisco to Hawaii to Tahiti to Fan Coral Island.

With Doc Savage in the plane was Ham and his other four assistants. These were Colonel John “Renny” Renwick, an engineer; Major Thomas J. “Long Tom” Roberts, electrical wizard; William Harper “Johnny” Littlejohn, archæologist and geologist; and Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett “Monk” Mayfair, a chemist, who had his pet pig, Habeas Corpus, with him.

All five assistants were curious about the reason for their hurried flight to Fan Coral Island, and particularly curious about the reason for taking so many weapons.

Ham asked, “Are you figuring we’ll have some trouble, Doc?”

“We have got to keep the thing coming out of that volcano from falling into the wrong hands,” Doc Savage said quietly.

“Is it that bad?”

“It would be almost impossible to estimate the terrible possibilities of Repel,” the bronze man stated.

He ran the plane’s motors with the throttles wide open.

The next development that followed the strange eruption of Ethel’s Mama occurred in Shanghai, China. Shanghai boasts of a newspaper printed in English.

A man sat in a Shanghai bar and read this newspaper. He was a lean and fit-looking fellow. And he was very interested in the accounts of Ethel’s Mama. He also watched the bar.

Soon another lean and fit-looking man drifted into the bar and ordered a drink. The two men were very much alike in build and face. But the new arrival had hair which was white on top, but black at the temples. He also had a square of adhesive tape stuck over the back of his right hand and another on the palm.

The first man joined the second. They had recently met, their casual remarks revealed. After a while the first man suggested trying a second bar which he knew about. The other agreed, and they left.

The man who had been reading the paper steered the course into a deserted street. He stopped.

“Listen,” he said, “you are Snowball Eagan, a newspaper writer, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” agreed the man with the white scalp lock and the taped right hand. “But what——”

“And you’re headed for Fan Coral Island, to cover the eruption of Ethel’s Mama, aren’t you?” asked the second.

“That’s right.”

“We’re about the same build.”

“So what?”

“If I was to dye my hair white on top and put a piece of tape on my right hand I’d look like you.”

“Listen here,” snapped newspaperman “Snowball” Eagan, “what are you driving at? Who are you, anyway? You haven’t told me your name, and I saw you duck when you saw a cop coming.”

“I’m one of the most dangerous international criminals alive,” the other man said calmly. “The Shanghai police are watching every road, steamship, railroad and airplane leaving Shanghai. I cannot get out of the city. My pal, Bert, got out. He was lucky. He is now on Fan Coral Island, and I’ve got to get there. The only way of getting there that I can see is to take your place. You newspapermen have a plane chartered which is leaving tonight for Fan Coral Island. The other newspapermen don’t know you very well, and I could easily get by as you.”

Snowball Eagan, the newshawk, exploded, “But what is there on Fan Coral Island for a crook like you?”

“If that volcano has coughed up what I think it has, it will make a guy like me just about able to run things in this world,” the international criminal said grimly.

“You’re crazy to tell me this,” snapped Snowball Eagan, “because I’m not going to change places with you! You can’t bribe me!”

“I wasn’t going to bribe you,” the other said.

With which he whipped up a knife and cut the unfortunate journalist’s throat as neatly as could be.

The newspaper plane left Shanghai that night and carried the fake Snowball Eagan.

Counting Doc Savage’s group, that made two parties interested in what Ethel’s Mama was coughing up. And both were headed for the spot by plane.

The false Snowball Eagan, having the shorter distance to go, arrived first.

The world did not know when Doc Savage arrived. He brought his big plane in at night, planted it in a little cove on the opposite side of the island, and he and his five men did not make their presence known. They did not want to attract a lot of attention because Doc Savage disliked newspaper notoriety.

On the day following the arrival of Doc Savage’s plane on Fan Coral Island, a very tall and wonderfully bony man walked down the street in Fan Coral City and had a narrow escape.

A chunk of lava the size of a football came sizzling down from the sky. It exploded with a loud report on the sidewalk beside the bony gentleman. The latter jumped into the nearest door with the alacrity of a rabbit which had been shot at.

“I’ll be superamalgamated!” the bony man gasped. “A comminatory indubitably examplifying perrorative incidentation.”

A newspaper writer in a near-by store overheard this and grabbed excitedly at an arm of a companion writer. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes,” said the other writer. “And I could hear it again and still not know what he said.”

This other writer was lean and fit-looking enough to fill the public conception of a tiger hunter. There were two other remarkable things about him: His hair was black at the temples and white on top, exactly reversing the usual order. A two-inch square of white adhesive tape was stuck on the back of his right hand and another square on the palm. He had introduced himself as Snowball Eagan from Shanghai, and some of the other newshawks had heard of him.

The first writer said, “Nobody ever understands that tall drink of water unless they’ve got a late dictionary and plenty of time to look up the words.”

“You know him?” asked Snowball Eagan.

“No. But there can’t be any mistake. He uses the words and looks the part. He’s William Harper Littlejohn.”

Snowball Eagan patted the piece of adhesive tape on the back of his right hand gently. “So what?”

“Good night! Don’t you know? Littlejohn, or Johnny, as they call him, is one of Doc Savage’s five assistants.”

Snowball Eagan suddenly looked very interested.

“Savage!” he exclaimed. “You mean the American they call the man of bronze?”

“The gentleman of mystery himself. This chap Johnny is one of five aids who work with Doc Savage. Johnny is a top archæologist and geologist, and Savage’s other aids are all experts in some line. But the bronze lad himself is better than any one of them at his own profession.”

“That’s hokum!” sniffed Snowball Eagan.

“Don’t kid yourself.”

“It’s just the old bushwa for publicity.”

“If you ever tried to interview the bronze man you’d know about how he goes for publicity. Just like a fish goes for the Sahara Desert.”

“A lot of gargle,” said Snowball Eagan. “Watch me interview this assistant of Doc Savage’s for a starter.”

The two scribes walked up to the bony word user and Snowball Eagan said, “Greetings, Professor Littlejohn. We are newspapermen. Will you tell us what you are doing here? Is Doc Savage with you? And if so, why?”

The bony gentleman frowned. His right hand fumbled absently at a ribbon which ran from his lapel to his upper coat pocket and almost drew into view a monocle, then stuffed it back hastily.

He said out of one side of his mouth, “Who yez mugs t’ink yer kiddin’? Gwan! Drag yer freight ’fore I pop yez one in de feed hole!”

With that the bony fellow shuffled off, keeping a wary eye on the black sky and its occasional lava rock hailstone.

Snowball Eagan scoffed at his companion. “An eminent archæologist and geologist, was he?”

The other journalist grinned sheepishly.

“Well—hell, everybody can make a mistake. Buy you a drink on this.”

They had a round of Fan Coral toddy, so-called. It was a local beverage. The newshawks had taken to claiming that a native had fallen down and broken a bottle of the Toddy on the side of Ethel’s Mama, hence the eruption.

Snowball Eagan broke away after a time. He walked around until he was sure he was alone. Then he turned up at a bungalow by itself on a closely clipped lawn. He did not enter. He stood under a window and whistled twice, one long and one short.

A muffled, worried voice said from inside, “For the love of mud! Has your disguise flopped so quick?”

“Pipe down, Bert,” Snowball Eagan said in a low tone. “Nobody is going to find me out. I used to be a newspaperman, and that makes it a cinch to put this across.”

“But what if they find the real Snowball Eagan’s body?”

“They won’t identify it if they do. The hair and the right hand are gone. I burned them. My hair is dyed like Eagan’s. And these patches on my hand are like those Eagan always wore over the bullet hole in his hand that never healed.”

“I didn’t like the idea of killing Eagan. These coppers here are tough babies to fool around with. You’d better watch your step!”

“What the hell! Eagan was just a newspaper bum headed over here. I had to skip Shanghai. The cops had me covered everywhere. And taking this Eagan’s place was my only sure-fire chance of getting here. It’s a good thing you got out of Shanghai before they got wise to us.”

“We’ve been over that before,” the voice inside said. “Have you decided how we’re gonna work this?”

“That’s what I came here about,” said the fake Snowball Eagan. “As you know, I’ve been a bit doubtful. I haven’t been plumb sure that volcano has coughed up what I think it has. But now I know.”

“How come?”

“Because the big time has gotten interested in it.”

“Big time? Whatcha mean?”

“Doc Savage. I just saw one of his helpers.”

No sound came from within the bungalow for such a long interval that Snowball Eagan leaned closer and said, “Well?”

“I wonder if you’ve gone crazy?” asked the one inside.

“Is a crack like that necessary?”

“Something is necessary to bring you back to your right mind. Don’t you know this Doc Savage’s reputation?”

The rascal calling himself Snowball snorted. “Scotland Yard has a rep, too. What did it get them?”

“The Yard is different. They’re just police. Doc Savage is—is—isn’t quite human. He has some incredible scientific disguises, from what I’ve heard. And he’s put in his life chasing crooks around. From what I hear, not many of them got away.”

Snowball started breathing through his nose. He was angry.

“Don’t give me an argument!” he gritted.

There was another long silence from inside. “All right.”

There was fear in the voice inside.

Snowball said, “We’re goin’ to work on this Doc Savage right away. If he’s down there after the same thing we’re after, we’ll have to do things about it.”

“And what do you think you’ll do?”

“I guess Doc Savage and his gang will have to wake up dead,” Snowball Eagan growled.