Читать книгу Spook Hole: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 6

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Doc Savage, man of miracles and mystery, replied nothing. That was a peculiar habit he had, puzzling to strangers, but familiar to those who knew the bronze giant.

He was a character of international note, this man of bronze. He had done things which had startled the world. He had also done things even more startling, of which the world knew nothing. He was a man with a profession probably as unique as any one had ever followed. His profession was trouble. Other people’s trouble.

Doc Savage’s profession was helping others out of trouble, when in doing so, he was righting wrongs. He had been trained from childhood—until he was a remarkable combination of mental genius and physical strength—for his profession. Pursuit of it carried him to the ends of the earth.

Doc Savage was assisted by a group of five aides almost as unusual as himself. It was two of these who were in the car with him now.

Saying nothing, the bronze man drew from a pocket a telegram, which he unfolded. It was a local message, marked by the date line as having been sent here in New York City. It read:

SUGGEST WHALING SHIP HARPOON MIGHT INTEREST YOU STOP BETTER BE CAREFUL

There was no signature.

One of the other two men leaned forward. He was hardly taller than a half grown boy, but he would have weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds, and the hairs on his wrists were like rusty finishing nails.

He spoke, and his voice was very small and almost ridiculously like that of a child.

“We checked on that message while you were investigating the boat, Doc,” he said. “A one-armed man seems to have sent it.”

“No other information, Monk?” Doc queried.

“Nope,” said the individual who bore more resemblance to a bull gorilla than to the human tribe.

“Monk” was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, whose accomplishments as an industrial chemist were known in many parts of the world.

The third occupant of the car leaned forward, resting his sharp chin on the thin black cane which he carried. He was a lean man with the large, mobile mouth of one given much to oratory, and his attire—full evening garb—was absolutely faultless.

“What did you learn on the Harpoon, Doc?” he questioned.

“I met a one-armed man,” Doc said. “He really had two arms, however.”

The man with the cane frowned. “I fail to understand.”

“Disguise, Ham,” Doc told him. “Possibly he was the one who sent that rather puzzling telegram. Possibly not.”

“Ham” shifted his chin on his cane. He was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, conceded by many to be the most astute lawyer Harvard ever turned out, and he looked the part.

“And what about the Harpoon,” he queried.

The bronze man shook his head slowly. “Something queer is underfoot there. It concerns some one named Braski, a man called old Hezemiah Law, and a place designated as Spook Hole. There also seems to be something involved worth some millions of dollars.”

“That’s vague,” said small-voiced Monk.

“It was all very puzzling,” Doc agreed. “I hoped to hear more, but a sailor came along the passage while I was listening and discovered me. Where is Johnny?”

“Eh?” Monk blinked.

“Johnny,” Doc said. “Where is he?”

“Oh.” Monk waved an arm vaguely. “He went over to help you look around. Guess he missed you. He’ll be back soon, probably.”

Doc Savage got out of the car. His movements were fast without seeming unduly so.

“We had better look into that,” he said. “Things seem to be tense around that whaling ship.”

The bronze man opened a compartment in the car. The machine seemed to be fitted with innumerable such recesses. The device which he brought out had somewhat the appearance of a small, old-fashioned magic lantern—one of the type which projected pictures from a postcard to a screen.

The large base obviously contained a strong battery. Doc switched it on. As far as the eyes were concerned, nothing happened. It did not project light.

Doc turned the lantern affair on the damp ground. Where nothing visible had been before, small, glowing patches appeared. The spots were something over two inches across and glowed like pale phosphorous, or smears of the stuff off of radium watch dials.

It was noticeable that where Doc Savage and the other two stepped, they left the round, glowing marks. Close examination would have shown that the heels of their shoes were not leather, but of a porous fibre impregnated with some chemical compound.

“Johnny started off this way,” Monk said, and pointed.

They followed the marks left by “Johnny’s” heels. None of the trio commented on the phenomena of the glowing tracks, for it was not strange to them.

The lantern was one projecting ultra-violet, or so-called “black light,” and was not so intricate that it could not have been understood readily by the average electrical experimenter.

The composition of the shoe heels was more complex, being a compound developed by Monk, the master chemist, working with Doc Savage. It was simply a blending of certain of those chemical substances which fluoresce, or glow, when exposed to ultra-violet light—a property not especially remarkable, being shared by a substance as common as vaseline.

Johnny’s tracks were spaced in a manner which showed he was a long-legged man indeed, and they progressed, after some meandering, to the vicinity of the warehouse where Doc Savage had left the bound form of the man who was pretending to have only one arm.

What had occurred was easily read. Johnny had heard some sound made by the bound man; possibly the fellow had beaten his heels against the floor.

“So Johnny turned him loose,” Doc said dryly.

Monk chuckled. “Won’t Johnny’s face be red. For once, I’ll bet he can’t think of a big word.”

“Johnny” was William Harper Littlejohn, a gentleman who had once held the chair of natural science research in a university which went in for deep learning rather than athletics. He was another member of Doc Savage’s group of five assistants.

“Let’s see where he went,” Ham suggested.

Johnny’s glowing prints were thick about the spot where the bound man had been released, but they finally led off through a side door. Soft mud outside still retained tracks, and these indicated that Johnny and the man he had freed were together.

The prints led to an alley, and in the dark recesses of the latter, mute evidence reposed. Doc Savage found it first and pointed it out.

Bits of thin, broken glass. Scuff marks on the concrete pavement.

Monk picked up the fragments of glass and inspected them, expression and manner remindful of a monkey examining a flea found upon its person.

“Johnny’s monocle,” he said. “Here’s where he got what good Samaritans usually get. The fake one-armed guy crowned him.”

“But where is Johnny?” Ham snapped.

That, it developed, was to be a mystery. Johnny’s fiery trail ended in the alley.

“Knocked senseless and carried off,” Monk hazarded.

Doc Savage issued quick orders.

“You two continue looking for Johnny,” he directed. “Be careful.”

Monk, as hurriedly as possible, demanded, “What’re you gonna do, Doc?”

Then Monk made a disappointed grimace. He had not been quite soon enough with his question. Doc Savage was already gone, swallowed up, wraithlike, by the darkness. There was no sound to show the direction he had taken.

Monk sighed, grumbled, “I got a notion to get my pet pig Habeas. He’s better’n a bloodhound.”

The dapper Ham put out a sharp jaw. “That hog is useless, and you know it.”

“You overdressed shyster!” Monk growled indignantly. “I’m gonna call my laboratory and have my secretary bring Habeas down.”

They moved off in the darkness, insulting each other in a low, vehement fashion that would have led a stranger to think they were on the point of blows.

It was perpetually thus with Monk and Ham. Nobody could recall one having addressed a civil word to the other. Yet, conversely enough, they were as attached to each other as two men could be, each having risked his life on several occasions to save the other.

Habeas Corpus was Monk’s pet pig, a porker of grotesque appearance and somewhat astounding intellect. Habeas was also the dapper Ham’s pet hate.

Although wrangling, the two men were keeping a sharp look-out for some sign of Johnny. It was Monk who heard a small, foreign sound. He yanked Ham to a stop with more force than was necessary.

“You missing link!” Ham gritted.

“Sh-h-h!” Monk admonished. “I think somebody is ahead of us!”

A new and totally strange voice spoke up from the darkness to their rear.

“There’s somebody behind you,” it said. “Turn around and have a look!”

Monk and Ham spun—not around, but to the sides, diving in opposite directions. They moved with the perfect coördination of men who had been in trouble before. Their separation was on the principle that two fires were harder to fight than one.

Back of them, a man swore, just as a flashlight came on. The one who cursed had no doubt intended to illuminate them with the flash.

“Quick!” the fellow barked. “Don’t let them get away!”

It was suddenly apparent that numerous men were in the surrounding darkness. Monk bumped some one. He swung a furry fist. It landed solidly.

The one who had been hit skidded backward, feet making slitherings on the wet pavement, then fell down.

Over on the other side, Ham gave the handle of his immaculate black cane a twist. It separated, and from the dark shaft came a lean sword blade, the tip of which was coated with a chemical concoction, compounded by Doc Savage, which would produce abrupt unconsciousness once it entered a wound.

Ham flirted the blade about. He did it gently, his object to wound slightly rather than to wreak great damage.

A man came hard against Ham’s back. The dapper lawyer tried to get his sword cane around, failed, was knocked off his feet. The attacker fell atop him, missing the chemical-coated blade by luck.

They were in a narrow alleyway, and it was suddenly full of quiet fight sounds—quiet until Monk began to roar and bellow as he always did when in combat. But he was not noisy for long. His roars muffled abruptly, as if a man had sat on his face. Soon after, silence came.

“Tie them,” said the man who had spoken first.

Monk gulped a faint question past the hand which was over his mouth.

“You birds off the Harpoon?” he asked.

The leader of their captors laughed harshly, said in a glad voice, “We got a break, gang. They must be two sailors off the Harpoon.”

Rolls of black adhesive tape were produced and many turns taken about the wrists of Monk and Ham. They were not gagged.

“Let out a bleat, and you’ll get muffled in a way you won’t like,” the man advised them.

Monk strained against the binding. His physical strength was tremendous. He did not free his hands from the swathing bundle of tape.

The chief of the captors stepped back, and the flashlight he was holding chanced to illuminate his own person.

He was a lean man with almost incredibly black hair on his head, brows, chin and wrists. His eyes were round and brilliant. He made Monk think of a black tomcat.

“Yeah, they’re sailors off the Harpoon,” he decided again.

“What makes you think that, Braski?” one of his party queried.

Braski changed position. He handled himself like the black cat he resembled.

“Didn’t they ask us if we were off the Harpoon?” he demanded. “They hoped we were some of their pals.”

Monk growled, “You guys have made a mistake!”

Braski laughed. It was not a nice sound.

“Where’s Spook Hole?” he asked.

“That place again?” Monk shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, but you probably wouldn’t believe that.”

Braski stepped forward and calmly inserted a thumb in Monk’s left eye. It was a cruel thing to do, and Monk writhed and groaned while four men wrestled him down.

“Where is Spook Hole?” Braski repeated.

“Blast you!” Monk snarled. “I don’t know!”

Ham next received the eye treatment.

“I have no idea where Spook Hole is or what it is!” he gritted in an agonized voice.

“Maybe they don’t know,” suggested a man.

“Captain Wapp does know,” Braski said dryly. “We’ll go ask him. We’ve got to get him out of the way, anyhow. The double-crosser!”

“What about the girl?” the man asked.

“We’ll get her if we can’t nab Captain Wapp,” grunted Braski. “I’m almost sure Wapp is holding her so we couldn’t find her and learn from her where this Spook Hole is.”

The other looked dubious, queried, “How’ll we get aboard? They’ll have guards posted all over that whaling ship.”

Braski laughed again, unpleasantly, and kicked Monk’s shins briskly.

“Maybe they got a password or something,” he said. “Our two pals, here, will know it. They’ll get us through—if they know what’s good for ’em.”

Monk growled, “Brother, you’re steaming up a mess for yourself. We ain’t off the Harpoon.”

Braski said, “Don’t lie to me!” and poked Monk’s eye with a thumb.

They moved in the direction of the Harpoon. There seemed to be nearly a dozen men in the party, and all were armed.

The flood lamps along the rail of the Harpoon had been turned off, but a single bulb made fitful glow above the gangway. Two men lounged there. They wore no weapons visibly, but their manner of keeping hands close to their raincoat pockets was understood by a close observer.

Braski’s party and their prisoners stopped well back in the darkness and conferred.

Monk, finding himself close to Ham, whispered, “This is a pickle. We’re supposed to give a password, or get shot. And we don’t know any password. Maybe we oughta tell ’em we’re part of Doc Savage’s crowd.”

“No!” Ham breathed emphatically. “They haven’t mentioned a thing to indicate they know that Doc is involved. We had best keep still about that. Might make it easier for Doc to work.”

“Just the same——” Monk fell silent. He was thinking of various past occasions when a connection with Doc Savage had been the equal of a death sentence. Doc was automatically the mortal enemy of all who were outside of the law.

Braski stuck his black goatee out at them and grated, “What are you two whispering about?”

“The weather,” Monk told him. “It looks like somebody is gonna get rained on plenty.”

“Two clever boys, eh?” Braski snarled. “All right, do your stuff. Walk up to those two watchmen and get us aboard. And if you fail, you’ll be the first to get shot.”

Monk wailed, “Listen! I wouldn’t try this!”

“Get moving,” Braski directed.

“Our hands are tied,” Monk pointed out.

“We’ll fix that,” Braski said, and proceeded to cut their hands free of the tape. “Now, put on your show.”

They were urged toward the Harpoon gangway. Monk was in the lead, simply because a gun muzzle happened to gouge more firmly against his back. The gangway vibrated under their feet. The two watchmen became alert and put their hands in their raincoat pockets.

“Make it good!” Braski hissed into Monk’s ear.

Monk pumped out his chest, strode boldly toward the first watchman and said, “Where’s Captain Wapp. We got something important for him.”

The watchman, to Monk’s astonishment, grinned widely and said, “You’re the captain’s friend, ain’t you? We been expectin’ you and your crowd.”

“Uh-huh,” Monk muttered, then, as gun pressure hardened against his back, added hastily, “Sure! We’re friends of everybody!”

The watchmen stepped back, and one of them called loudly down a passage, “Here’s the captain’s friends.”

“Bring them to the cabin,” called a voice.

They entered the passage, one watchman leading the way. They progressed some two feet. A door clanked shut ahead. Another slammed behind. Their guide turned, and he had two guns out.

“You bums thought you were pullin’ something!” he snarled. “We know you, Braski! Drop them guns and elevate!”

“Is this gonna be a party!” Monk breathed, and leaped straight up with considerable violence.

There was a passage light overhead, protected by a wire cage. Monk jammed both hands against it, mashing the wire, breaking the glass bulb, cutting his hands a little.

It was the only light in their section of the corridor. Intense darkness clapped down.

Bedlam erupted. A revolver made swift, ear-splitting noise. A man shrieked in agony. More guns whooped.

Monk slammed flat, reasoning that fewer bullets would find the floor regions. He groped for Ham’s ankle. A foot kicked him solidly in the face.

He grabbed it, knew by the smallness of the shoe and the spats encasing the ankle that Ham kicked him, and yanked Ham down, giving the ankle a twist by way of reprisal.

A man fell on them. Monk grabbed his throat, felt warm wetness flood his hands and let go. The man had been shot in the neck and was already dead.

Monk barked loud words in a dialect which would have been intelligible to not more than a dozen men in the so-called civilized world.

It was the tongue of ancient Maya, a language Doc Savage and his men had learned on one of their numerous adventuring jaunts, and which they now used to communicate with each other when not wishing to be understood by outsiders.

Monk had simply advised Ham that he intended seeking the other end of the room.

“Me, too,” Ham said in the Mayan tongue.

They scuttled along the wall and met at the other end of the passage. From the amount of shooting and yelling, it was obvious that large numbers of the Harpoon’s crew had rushed to the attack.

“Let’s let ’em fight it out,” Monk suggested in Mayan. “Think they’re coming in at a door over here. Let’s clear out that way.”

“One of the few good ideas you ever had,” Ham agreed in the same dialect.

They had little trouble locating the door. It was still dark, except for the flash of guns, an illumination by which little could be discerned. A sailor stumbled coming through the door and fell noisily.

Monk reached down, struck at the man’s temple, hit the floor by accident the first time, then corrected his aim and knocked the fellow trembling and senseless.

Monk shoved Ham through ungently, then eased outside himself. They flattened to one side.

“Get der bummers!” a voice was bellowing from down the corridor.

The speaker charged into view an instant later—a man so huge that he had to come sidewise through the bulkhead doors. Monk and Ham recognized him from Doc Savage’s description. Captain Wapp.

Gloom enwrapped the passage, and Captain Wapp charged past without observing Monk and Ham. Straight into the fray, the squat giant slammed.

“Git dot Braski!” he bawled. “His neck, we will twist!”

Monk listened to the turmoil they had escaped. Men howled, guns crashed, and strings of profanity joined the whole in a violent syncopation.

“When they thin each other out, I’ll go in and lick both crowds,” Monk chuckled.

The homely chemist had no idea that he was bragging. He might have been able to do it. He certainly thought he could. He got to feeling that way in a fight.

But his hope did not materialize. Braski and his men apparently broke through the other end of the passage, for the fight sounds receded with a rapidity that indicated men in flight.

“Shall we follow them?” Ham suggested.

“Heck, no,” Monk grunted. “Let’s look this ark over.”

All hands aboard the Harpoon must have been called to the fight, for Monk and Ham were not molested as they swung down the passage and up a companionway. They had no idea where they were going, having never been in closer contact with a whaling ship of this modern type than pictures in the Sunday newspapers. Shortly, they found themselves on deck. They looked over the rail.

Men were dashing madly down the gangplank. Captain Wapp stood under the gangway light and jumped up and down, waving his clasp knife which was also a pistol. He bellowed orders to his men.

“Braski and his crowd must have gotten away,” Monk said regretfully.

“His attempt to find where the mysterious Spook Hole is did not get him far,” Ham agreed dryly.

Monk moved along the deck. “Let’s see what luck we can have in that direction.”

The dark-haired Braski had permitted them to retain their flashlights, and they now employed these, opening doors and poking into the holds.

They found numerous tanks, boilers and other blubber processing machinery. The blubber “trying works,” this was, although they did not know the technical terminology. There was an odor present, ample and not exactly entrancing.

“Bet they don’t live down here,” Monk suggested wryly. “Let’s try the upper decks, and forward.”

They worked forward and up, getting away from the blubber vats, but not from the odor. Ham grimaced mightily and often. He was fastidious in senses as well as dress, and the physical aspects of the whaling ship did not appeal to him.

Ham probed into a room and found spare harpoons, guns and the explosive cartridges used in the killing harpoons.

“Nothing here,” he decided.

Monk found another door, barred on the outside, but not locked.

“Wouldn’t be anyone in here, probably,” he grumbled, and unbarred the door and thrust his head and flashlight inside.

The next instant there was a sound such as a billiard ball might make if dropped on hard ground. Monk plopped down on all fours, shaking his head.

“I have a gun,” a woman’s voice said with brittle abruptness from within the room which had been locked. “I think I will use it.”

Ham poised, on the horns of a dilemma. He could not see the speaker.

“Careful,” Monk groaned from the floor. “She popped me with something, probably the gun she’s talkin’ about.”

“Use your left hands and be very careful and toss me your guns,” the feminine voice directed.

Monk and Ham hesitated.

“Haven’t got any,” Monk advised.

There was another pause. No one moved or said anything.

Still on the floor, Monk growled, “I don’t believe any woman would shoot me.” He got to his feet.

“You put a lot of reliance in your charms,” Ham told him. Ham still kept his arms up.

There was another silence.

“Come out of there, lady,” Monk suggested.

More waiting.

“I guess the bluff won’t work,” said the feminine voice.

The woman came out. She wore a disgusted, defeated and slightly frightened look. She carried no gun, but she did carry a flexible bludgeon, an affair which looked as if it were made of silken hose stuffed with something hard. With this she had probably felled Monk.

Monk frowned at her. Ordinarily, he would have turned on the amiable grin which made his homely features surprisingly pleasant to look upon. But his head still ached.

The young woman was not hard to frown at. She was neither unusually tall nor especially short, nor was her figure especially striking, although it left little to be wished for. But she had hair the tint of dark honey, and her skin was almost exactly the same color. Eyes, lips, nose, were exquisite. Taken altogether, she was striking without being gaudy in any respect.

Monk reached out abruptly and grasped the weapon she carried. She surrendered it contemptuously.

Monk examined it. Inside the silk hose was cloth, and in that, fragments of heavy china dishes broken in small bits—cup, saucer, a plate.

“Your friends evidently did not think I had anything to make a weapon,” she said dryly. “Do better, next time.”

“Friends?” Monk grinned. “You got us wrong, miss——” He waited. She did not supply a name.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You should know,” she snapped.

“Nix,” the homely chemist grinned. “We don’t belong on the Harpoon. In fact, if the crew found us, they’d probably have a scalping party.”

“Oh.” The girl frowned. Then her expression changed. She seemed to jump at a conclusion. “I am Nancy Law.”

“Nancy Law.” Monk squinted. “So what?”

“Didn’t Braski send you aboard to find me?” she countered.

Monk started to shake his head, but Ham interrupted hurriedly.

“You’re friendly to Braski, aren’t you?” asked the dapper lawyer.

“I’m the friend of anybody who will get me out of here,” the girl said vehemently.

“Then let’s get off of this boat,” Ham smiled.

They worked toward the upper deck and the rail, using much more caution now that the young woman was along.

Ham asked Nancy Law, “Why were they holding you?”

“To keep Braski from getting hold of me, I heard them say,” the girl replied. “But you should know that. Didn’t Braski tell you?”

“Indirectly, yes,” Ham said hastily.

They reached the deck, and under the pretense of looking over the ground, Ham drew Monk aside.

“We’ll let her think we’re Braski’s men,” the barrister whispered. “I think it’ll make it easier for us to find out what this is all about.”

“I don’t think the idea is so hot,” muttered Monk, whose policy was to disagree with Ham whenever possible.

Excitement around the Harpoon had died, although Captain Wapp, a grotesquely broad and squat figure, still stood in the light near the gangplank. From all appearances, the dark-haired Braski and his gang had made a complete escape.

Monk and Ham worked forward with the girl and reached a mooring line as thick as Monk’s ample leg. Monk went down this to the dock with simian ease. The girl came next, not having much difficulty, and Ham brought up the rear. It was as simple as that. They were not molested.

“Stands to reason they’ll have guards around,” Monk grunted. “Ham, you and me had better take a look.”

They moved off, but in separate directions. Reconnoitering took them not more than three or four minutes. Monk, for his part, found no one, and decided the way was clear, by a roundabout route, to escape.

He returned to the spot where he had left the girl. Ham was there. Monk peered into the murk.

“Where’s Nancy Law?” he demanded.

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Ham snapped.

“Huh?” Monk gulped.

“She cleared out,” Ham said. “Gave us the slip.”