Читать книгу Pirate of the Pacific: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 9

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Doc Savage quitted the murky vicinity of the fountain. He ran six light, springy paces. His bronze form shot upward in a tremendous leap. His corded fingers grasped the sill of a window which was open several inches. The window slid up. Doc slipped inside.

The whole thing had taken no more than a dozen ticks of the clock.

The drawbridge door opened. A group of half-caste Mongols skulked into the court, weapons bared for action.

The slant-eyed men poked about in the shrubbery until convinced Doc was not there. They tried the courtyard doors, and discovered them all locked.

“The bronze devil has gotten away!” one singsonged in his native tongue.

“That is impossible,” replied the leader gravely. “Our lowly eyes beheld him upon the wall even as we arrived. He dropped inside.” The man scowled at the high rear wall. “I marvel that the neck of the troublemaker was not broken.”

“Then, oh mighty Liang-Sun Chi, he must have entered the house.”

Liang-Sun Chi bent a bilious stare on the two sections of the residence.

“Is the bronze devil a magician, that he can go through locked doors and windows—for we left them all locked when we departed this afternoon.”

“Only on the ground floor were they left locked, oh lord,” answered the other. He pointed. “See! There is one second-floor window open.”

The aperture the Mongol indicated was the identical window through which Doc Savage had entered. And Doc now stood in the darkened room behind, listening to the talk. He understood the language—it was one of scores he could handle as fluently as he spoke English.

“No kangaroo could leap that high, much less a man!” snorted Liang-Sun Chi. “But we will search this place well. It is said that the greatest mysteries have the simplest explanations. Perhaps we left a door open this afternoon.”

He produced keys, unlocked one of the doors, and waved his men in. They entered cautiously, jabbing flashlight beams ahead.

Doc retreated from the window out of which he had been watching. He passed soundlessly through a door into a corridor. At the second step, his toe was stopped by a heavy object.

A flashlight came out of his pocket. It tossed a beam that was hardly more than a white thread.

The body of a man lay on the corridor floor. A sword slash had cleaved into his heart.

The flash ray disclosed other details about the murder victim. He was an elderly man, at least sixty. He wore plum-colored knee breeches, white stockings, a braided coat with long tails, a powdered white wig—a very flashy butler’s livery.

Doc examined more closely. The flunky had been dead several hours at least.

The Orientals were making considerable noise downstairs. Draperies ripped as they were torn down. Moving furniture grated on waxed floors.

“My sons, it is a wise man who gets all his troubles in front of him,” called their leader, Liang-Sun Chi. “Search the basement.”

Liang-Sun seemed to be something of a philosopher.

Working with silence and speed, Doc searched the upper floors. He found this side of the castle contained only servant quarters, gymnasium, indoor swimming pool, billiard rooms, and a few guest chambers.

Back at the open window, he glanced down. One of the guards left in the court stood directly below.

Doc returned to the second-floor corridor. At one end of this he had noted a suit of armor. The metal plates of the gear were supported on an iron framework. Inside the helmet was mounted a papier-mâché cast of a face. This did not differ greatly in color from Doc’s tanned features.

There was no sound as Doc dislodged the armor from its pedestal. He carried it to the open window. It weighed fully a hundred pounds.

He tossed it down on the Mongol guard. The fellow was knocked cold and battered to the ground. The armor clanked loudly on the court tiles.

Men poured into the court. Yelling excitedly, they pounced on the armor. They thought Doc was inside.

None of them heard a window at the opposite end of the building lift, or saw a mighty bronze figure that flitted, silent as a great bat, across the court to the other house.

They speared swords into cracks in the armor. Chopping furiously, one half-caste got the helmet severed.

They saw they had been fooled.

“We are but dumb dogs!” Liang-Sun squawked. “We have brought shame to our ancestors! Continue the search!”

While the Mongols pushed the murderous hunt a few yards away, Doc Savage scrutinized the other half of the vast mansion. He found no traces of Juan Mindoro, or Scott S. Osborn. In the library, however, he noted the floor cords had been wrenched from some of the reading lamps. Evidently these had served to bind prisoners.

Doc was now certain the Orientals had visited the castle some hours earlier. They had slain the butler. Probably they had made off with Juan Mindoro and Scott S. Osborn.

The Mongols finished with the other side of the house. They entered the room below Doc.

“It is said the lowly fly is never caught napping because he has eyes that see in all directions,” Liang-Sun singsonged. “You will do well to imitate the fly, my sons. Should this bronze devil escape, some of us may lose our heads.”

The flowery speech enlightened Doc on an important point. These Mongols and half-castes were serving some master—a master who wielded the power of life and death over them.

Their chief might be one of the pair who had listened in on the talk in Doc’s office with the microphone-carrying pigeon, or the gist of the conversation might have been relayed to him. It was certain the talk the Mongols had overheard had brought them to Scott S. Osborn’s home—for Doc had said he was coming here.

Two slant-eyed men mounted the stairs.

Doc located a light switch, clicked it. The fixtures remained dark. Doc recalled the wires torn from the reading lamps—fuses must have been blown when that was done.

The pair coming up the stairs exchanged whining whispers.

“Cold worms of fear are crawling up and down the spine of this insignificant person,” one complained. “We have made many inquiries about Doc Savage, since we were so fortunate as to learn Juan Mindoro had appealed to him for help. We heard everywhere that Doc Savage was a mighty fighter. Aie! But no one told us he was a ghost. He must be lurking in this place, yet we have heard no sound and saw no one——”

“Swallow thy tongue, fool!” growled the other. “Only cowards talk of fear!”

“You are wrong. Only an idiot thinks not of danger——”

The Orientals had reached the top of the stairs. Now, without another word, one slowly lowered to his hands and knees. A moment later, he slouched prone on the hall carpet.

The second man eyed him foolishly. His lips writhed apart, showing teeth stained black from chewing betel nut. He seemed to be trying to cry out. Then he piled in a silent heap on the floor.

A giant, ghostly bronze figure, Doc Savage loomed over the pair. His fingers explored their clothing. He found nothing to indicate who their leader might be.

Both men snored as though asleep.

Doc retreated noiselessly down the second-floor corridor.

Liang-Sun droned words up from below. Receiving no answer from his two men, he mounted the stairs, flanked by three guardsmen and a machine gunner.

The outburst of cries as the two unconscious men were found sounded like the clamor that comes when a hawk flies into a flock of guineas.

A whispered consultation followed. Doc could not catch the words. The Orientals retreated to the lower floor, apparently to consider the situation.

“What manner of thing could have overcome our brothers?” Liang-Sun repeated over and over.

Suddenly, at the opposite end of the house, came a terrific uproar. Furniture overturned. Men gasped, cackled profanity.

“The bronze devil! He is here!” a man sang excitedly.

There was a loud clatter as the Mongols made for the noise.

Doc was puzzled. But it was too good a chance to pass up. He eased down a rear stairway, intent on quitting the place.

The stairs he chose let him into the lower floor library, a room walled with bookcases and floored with rich rugs.

The moment he stepped into it, he knew he had made a mistake. A dozen shadowy, slant-eyed men flung upon him.

The noise at the other end of the house had been a trick to draw him down from upstairs.

The first leaping Mongol seemed to meet a bronze wall in mid-air. He was hurled back, and was impaled on the blunt sword of one who followed.

A second slant-eyed man got an open-handed slap that turned him over in the air like a Fourth-of-July pinwheel. Another found himself grasped about the chest. He shrieked, and the piercing shrillness of his voice was punctuated with the dull crack of breaking ribs.

The Mongols had not expected an easy fight. But they had not dreamed it would be like this. The giant bronze man moved with a speed that defied the eye. Sword slashes, delivered point-blank, sliced thin air. And when they did lay their hands on him, it was as if they had grasped living steel.

“He is not human!” wailed the man who had had his ribs broken.

More Orientals joined the fray. They blocked the doors. Flashlights came on. Time after time, light beams found the bronze giant, only to lose him.

A machine gun opened up, making a deafening gobble of sound in the room.

“Idiot!” Liang-Sun howled at the gunner. “Stop shooting! Do you want to kill us all?”

It was Liang-Sun who put a finish to the fray. He caught a momentary glimpse of Doc. The bronze man stood in the center of a large rug. Dropping swiftly, Liang-Sun seized the rug and yanked. Doc was brought down.

Liang-Sun flung the rug over Doc in a big fold.

“Are you snails that you cannot help me!” he squawled at his men.

A brisk twenty seconds followed—and they got Doc rolled up like a mummy in the rug. They brought tire chains from the garage and tied them securely about the rug.

Liang-Sun was proud of himself. He beat his chest with a fist.

“Single-handed, I did more than the rest of you dogs!” he boasted.

He plucked open one end of the rug roll and threw his flash beam inside.

He could see Doc’s face. The bronze features bore absolutely no expression. But the cold fierceness in the strange golden eyes made Liang-Sun drop the rug folds and stand up hastily.

“Half of you go outside, my sons,” he commanded. “Should any one be drawn here by sounds of the fighting, kill them. This house stands alone, and probably the sounds were not heard. But if any one comes, show them that curiosity is indeed a fatal disease.”

A part of the Orientals hurried out into the moon-bathed court.

“Watch the prisoner closely!” Liang-Sun directed the others. “If he should escape, I can promise there will be heads lopped off. I am going to call the master to see what he wants to do with the bronze devil.”

Liang-Sun strode through rooms, playing his flash beam about, until he located a telephone. He swept the instrument up with a flourish.

When the phone operator’s voice came, Liang-Sun spoke in English. He handled the language well enough, except that, Chinese fashion, he turned all the “R’s” into “L’s.”

“Give me numbel Ocean 0117,” he requested.

It was almost a minute before he got his party. He recognized the singsong voice at the other end of the wire. Without delay, he launched rapid words in his native tongue.

“We have secured the merchandise after which we came, oh lord,” he said. “We now have it rolled in a rug and bound securely. This lowly person wishes to know how you want it delivered.”

“In two pieces, dumb one!” rasped the voice in the receiver. “Cut the merchandise in two in the middle. Then you may leave it there. I have other work for you to do.”

“My understanding of your wishes is perfect. What is this other work?”

“The sugar importer, Scott S. Osborn, has a brother who lives up on Park Avenue. We are holding merchandise which this brother might be greatly interested in buying.”

“I understand, oh lord. No doubt, Scott S. Osborn’s brother will indeed want to purchase our merchandise.”

The two were speaking in vague terms, lest a phone operator be listening. But they understood each other perfectly. They had Scott S. Osborn prisoner, and were going to try to ransom him to his brother.

“This sale of merchandise is not extremely important,” continued the voice over the wire. “But since we are holding the goods, we might as well take a profit. You will visit the brother and seek the best price you can obtain.”

“I comprehend most clearly, oh lord. Exactly where does Scott S. Osborn’s brother live, that I may find him without trouble.”

“Get the address from the phone book, dumb one!”

“I shall do that.”

“Returning to the subject of the merchandise you have wrapped in the rug—you are perhaps aware there are five others of a similar pattern, although of lesser importance. We may find it desirable to seek them also. But I shall discuss that with you at a later time. Cut the goods you have in two pieces. Do so at once.”

Liang-Sun singsonged that he understood. He hung up the receiver, drew his sword, and swung into the room where Doc Savage had been captured.

The rolled rug had not moved. The slant-eyed guards sat about the room, lost in the shadows. But their flash beams blazed upon the rug.

Liang-Sun sprang forward, sword uplifted.

“Behold, dogs!” he shouted. “I will show you how a master swings his blade.”

The sword hissed down.

Rolled rug—the body within it—were chopped neatly in halves.

A ghastly crimson flood spurted from the rug and washed over the floor.

Liang-Sun callously wiped his blade. “Never, my sons, will you see a man cut in halves in more expert fashion!” he addressed his men.

He got no answer.

The half-caste leader stared about. He seemed to lose inches in height. His eyes bloated out from behind their sloping lids.

“Have your tongues been eaten, that you do not answer?” he gulped.

Leaping to the nearest Mongol, Liang-Sun shook him. The man toppled out of his chair. Liang-Sun jumped to another, a third, a fourth.

All were unconscious!

With mad haste, Liang-Sun shucked the rug off the head and shoulders of the man he had cut in two.

Liang-Sun’s squawl of horrified surprise was like that of a cat with its tail stepped on.

The body in the rug was one of his own men!

Terror laid hold of Liang-Sun, a fright such as he had never before experienced. He dashed headlong out into the court.

“The bronze man is a devil!” he shrilled. “Flee, my sons!”

The Orientals who had been on guard outside, needed no urging. They battled each other to be first across the drawbridge and into their cars. They had their fill of fighting the bronze giant.

They departed without knowing what had made their fellows unconscious. A close inspection of the room where the men slept would have shown the remains of many thin-walled glass balls. Perhaps they might have guessed these had originally contained an anæsthetic gas which made men unconscious the instant they breathed it, yet which became harmless after it had been in the air two or three minutes.

These anæsthetic globes were Doc’s invention. He always carried a supply with him.

Cars bearing the fleeing Mongols were not out of earshot when Doc arose from the concealment of a divan not six feet from the phone over which Liang-Sun had talked to his chief.

Doc had heard that conversation.

Doc’s escape from the tightly chained rug, so mystifying to Liang-Sun, had not been difficult. Doc had employed a simple trick used by escape artists. He had tensed all his muscles when the rug was being tied. Relaxing later, he had plenty of room to crawl out after he had reduced the guards to unconsciousness with the anæsthetic.

Doc had not been affected by the anæsthetic for the simple reason that he could hold his breath during the two or three minutes it was effective.

He sped out of the castle, with the idea of following Liang-Sun and the others. But they had stolen his gray roadster.

Doc ran for the nearest boulevard. It was a quarter of a mile distant. Had official timers held stop watches on that quarter, the time Doc did it in would have been good for a headline on any sport page in the country. But the only observer was a stray dog which sought to overhaul the bronze man.

On the boulevard, Doc hailed a taxi.