Читать книгу Resurrection Day: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 5

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Senator Gustall Moab Funston was one of the judges.

The judges met in Washington, in the senate office building, using the suite of Senator Funston. It was a night session. It was supposed to be secret, but the corridors outside crawled with newspapermen. The janitors next morning were to cart out barrels of used photographic flashlight bulbs.

The door opened about two o’clock in the morning, and the judges filed out.

“Sorry, gentlemen,” Senator Funston told the besieging newshawks. “The announcement of the individual to be brought back to life will be made one week from to-day.”

“But why not now?”

“That date was the one decided upon to make the announcement.”

“But why?”

Senator Funston didn’t reply to that because he couldn’t think of a really good answer. They had just done it that way for no good reason except that announcements generally had a date.

“Is the one to be brought back to life an inventor?”

“I’m sorry. I will not answer that.”

“There’s a report you selected Thomas A. Edison.”

Senator Funston kept his silence.

“Is it a woman?”

“I’m sorry, gentlemen.”

“Is it George Washington?”

Silence.

“Abraham Lincoln?”

More silence.

“Rudolph Valentino?”

Even more silence.

“How about the Sphinx?” a newspaper writer asked, dryly.

Senator Funston gave them the big, hearty laugh he had perfected for use on his constituents, permitted himself to be photographed both with and without his five-gallon hat—he was a senator from Wyoming—and then excused himself and went home.

Instead of staying at a hotel, Senator Funston occupied, all alone, an apartment on southwest Delaware Avenue. A Negro woman came in, did the cooking and went home in the evenings, usually about nine. Named “Orchid” Jones, she had been recently hired.

Senator Funston came in, took his key out of the lock, put it into his pocket, then looked in surprise at the dark mound of shadow in the chair by the window.

“Why, Orchid!” he said. “Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

“It ain’t Orchid,” said the shadowy form. “But it’s liable to be lilies if you don’t coöperate.”

The voice sounded like a bulldog with a bone when another bulldog comes close, so Senator Funston put his hands up beside his big hat and stood where he was.

“For the moment, my nocturnal fellow, you are lucky,” he said, heavily. “I carry, as a habit, a goodly bit of money with me always. You are not welcome to it, but it is in a chamois money belt around my waist.”

“How much?” asked the shadowy other.

“Twelve hundred dollars.”

“Poultry provender,” said the other. “Keep it.”

Senator Funston tried to wet his lips, but his tongue was as dry as a rope, for this was not so good. Moreover, he had caught sight of the weapon his murky visitor was holding, and he didn’t like the looks of it. To all appearances, it was some kind of a water pistol.

“The liquid in this thing”—the visitor moved the water pistol slightly—“will kill you instantly. It throws a liquid gas sometimes used in warfare. The muzzle aperture is closed by a tiny bit of wax, but when I press the discharge slide, or trigger——”

He left it unfinished.

“What do you want?”

“The answer to a question,” said the other.

Senator Funston, an observing solon, had perceived by now that the unwelcome person wore a dark-blue suit little different from thousands of others being worn in Washington that night. The face was completely encased in a remarkably black and enveloping mask, while black gloves were on the hands.

“Ahem,” coughed Senator Funston. “Let’s have it.”

“The name of the man or woman Doc Savage is going to bring back to life.”

“Nothing doing!”

“I’m not fooling!”

“Neither am I!”

“Then we’re wasting our time talking!”

The masked man stood up, calmly extended his water pistol, and it was instantly evident he was going to shoot—or squirt.

“Wait!” croaked Senator Funston. “I’m a fool to resist you!”

“Of course.”

“There’s a slip in my pocket, a slip of paper bearing a name.”

The masked man came over and got it. He was not as tall nor as burly as Senator Funston, and at close range he smelled a little like a flower shop. He looked at the paper.

“I’ll be damned!” he said. “Turn around and let me tie your hands behind you.”

Senator Funston turned around. The other man hit him on the head with a blackjack, stepped over his senseless body, and walked out into the kitchen. The Negro woman, Orchid, was there, bound and gagged. The masked man walked on out.

He met lawyer Proudman Shaster on a near-by street, and got into the limousine with him. He had by now removed his mask, revealing his face.

It was General Ino.

“Do any good?” Proudman Shaster asked him.

“We’re all set,” said Ino.

“You’re not overlooking any bets?” the shyster lawyer asked uneasily.

“Not a bet.”

“What was the name?”

General Ino produced the slip he had taken from Senator Funston and let Proudman Shaster read the name on it.

“Thomas Jefferson, the great democrat!” exclaimed Proudman Shaster.

Senator Funston revived with a series of lusty groans, rolled over several times, got up, stumbled to his suitcase, and got a big single-action six-shooter, after which he went looking for his visitor.

A policeman found him wandering up and down Delaware Avenue with the gun and almost threw him into jail, after which Senator Funston stamped back to his apartment, into the kitchen for a drink, and found the poor Negro maid, Orchid.

When she was untied, Orchid said things that convinced Senator Funston that the lady of complexion had either been a truck driver or married to some one who was.

The masked man, it seemed, had simply walked in early in the evening, tied Orchid up, then waited.

Senator Funston went to a telephone and called Doc Savage, long-distance, in New York City. When the remarkable voice of the bronze man answered, the senator explained what had happened.

“But I was too slick for them,” he said. Then he turned his head and directed, “Quit that cussing, Orchid!”

Orchid was draped on a couch near the telephone, saying blistering things in a low tone. The Negro maid became quiet under the wintry eye of the senator.

Senator Funston told Doc Savage, “There was a slip of paper in my pocket bearing the name of the individual whom I, as a good and loyal party democrat, consider the greatest man, mortal man, who ever lived. That, of course, was Thomas Jefferson, founder of the democratic party.”

“I gather,” said Doc Savage, “that he was not the one chosen?”

“Correct. The chosen name will not be announced until the date named. The resurrected man will not be Thomas Jefferson. I was outvoted.”

“Thank you for this information,” Doc Savage said, quietly.

“That’s all right,” said Senator Funston. “I guess you know more about what it might mean and what to do about it than I do.”

That ended the conversation.

When Senator Funston had hung up, Orchid Jones got up off the couch, pulled a revolver out of a voluminous dress bosom, and started to point it at the solon. Only started. For Senator Funston was still mad, and the instant he saw the gun, he gave a wrathful leap, and the next instant, there was a fight.

Funston started a haymaker. It missed. A fist hit him in the eye. Another mashed his nose. Another, or the same one, loosened teeth. The senator snorted blood, teeth and cow-country profanity. He got hold of Orchid. Cloth tore, garments gave, came away; they proved to be padding.

“Hell!” roared Funston. “You ain’t a female!”

Chairs upset. Fists smacked. The men groaned, hissed, cursed. Clawing, Funston got more of Orchid’s clothing.

“A white man!” Funston gritted. “Damn my soul! I’ve been took in!”

He was going to be taken again, too. The white foe was too much for him. Younger, more skill, more strength. The old senator, who had dieted too long on cigars, beer and speeches, went down.

Orchid’s gun got in his eye.

“Whom has the committee selected for the resurrection?” Orchid asked, ugly-voiced.

Senator Funston was student enough of human nature to know when he saw threatened death, and he saw it now.

He gave a name—a one-word name.

Orchid seemed surprised.

“Who suggested that name?” Orchid demanded.

“Well, it was submitted by Doc Savage’s aid, the eminent archæologist and geologist, William Harper Littlejohn.”

“Yeah,” said Orchid, thoughtfully. “I don’t know. For a minute, I thought Doc Savage might have a smell of our plan.”

“I wish,” said Senator Funston, “that I had never heard of this thing.”

“You would have been better off,” Orchid agreed.

Orchid then used all six bullets from his revolver to splash the brains of Senator Funston thoroughly over the rug.