Читать книгу The Secret in the Sky: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 6

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Doc Savage exited to the street and made inquiries, finding that the men had gone away in two cars. Persons questioned named four different makes of cars, in each instance insisting that their information was correct.

“They’re all wrong, probably,” Monk grumbled.

Pursuit was patently hopeless, although Monk cast a number of expectant glances in Doc Savage’s direction. The bronze man had a way of pulling rabbits out of hats in affairs such as this. But Doc only reëntered the morgue. None of those who had been chloroformed were in immediate danger.

“We came here to see the body of Willard Spanner,” Doc told the attendant who had revived.

“Sort of a coincidence,” said the attendant, and managed a sickly grin which typified a peculiarity of human behavior—the fact that persons who work regularly in close proximity to death are inclined to arm themselves with a wise-cracking veneer.

The bodies were stored in bins not unlike huge filing boxes. The marble slabs on which they lay slid into the bins on rollers. The attendant was still too groggy to bring the Willard Spanner slide out after he had found the identifying card, and Monk helped him.

Doc Savage looked at the body for a long time.

“This is Willard Spanner,” he said finally.

They went out.

Monk scratched his head, then said, “But the man seized in San Francisco—that couldn’t have been Willard Spanner.”

“The voice on the phone recorder,” Doc reminded.

“You said it was Willard Spanner’s voice.” Monk found his pig, Habeas, and picked him up by an ear. “Could you have been mistaken about that voice?”

“I think not,” Doc Savage said slowly.

They examined those who were still senseless from the chloroform, gave a description of the morgue raiders to police officers who had arrived, then walked out to the roadster.

Monk seemed to be thinking deeply. He snapped his fingers.

“That bundle of Willard Spanner’s clothing!” he grumbled. “Now what in the dickens did they want with that? The police had searched the pockets and had found nothing.”

“It must have been something important,” Doc told him. “They wanted the garments badly enough to make quite a disturbance in getting them.”

A policeman came to the morgue door and called, “You are wanted on the phone.”

Doc and Monk went back, and Doc picked up the receiver and said, “Yes?” inquiringly.

A clipped, melodious voice spoke rapidly. It was the voice of an orator, and it carried the accent which is commonly associated with Harvard.

“I got to the morgue in time to observe that something was badly wrong,” advised the speaker. “I followed the chaps outside when they left in such a hurry. They are now at Albemarle Avenue and Frame Street. I will meet you at the corner.”

Doc Savage said, “In ten minutes,” and hung up.

Monk, making for the street in a series of ungainly bounds, demanded, “Who was it?”

“Ham,” Doc replied.

“The shyster!” Monk growled, and there was infinite contempt in his tone.

Albemarle Avenue was a twin groove through marsh mud on the outskirts of New York City. Frame Street seemed to be a sign, scabby and ancient, which stuck out of the salt grass. If there ever had been a Frame Street, it had long ago given up to the swamp.

Darkness was coming on when Doc Savage and Monk arrived in the roadster.

“There’s Ham,” Monk said.

“Ham” was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Park Avenue fashion plate, and a lawyer, the pride of Harvard law school. He was a slender man with the manner of a wasp and a tongue as sharp as the fine Damascus sword blade concealed in the innocent-looking black cane which he carried.

He came out of the marsh grass, stepping gingerly to avoid soiling his natty afternoon garb, the sword cane tucked under an arm.

“Hy-ah, you fashion plate,” Monk growled.

“Hello, stupid,” Ham retorted insultingly.

The two glared at each other. A stranger would have thought fisticuffs imminent. As a matter of fact, each of these two had time and again risked his life to save the other, although no one had ever heard one of them address a civil word to the other.

Ham opened the roadster door on Doc Savage’s side, and said, “I got the note you left at headquarters, telling me you had gone to the morgue. I went to the morgue. As I said over the phone—those chaps were clowning around, so I followed them.”

“Where are they?” Doc asked.

Ham pointed across the swamp. “An oyster plant over there.”

“Oyster plant?” Monk grunted.

“They probably use it as a blind for whatever they are doing,” Ham offered. “And, incidentally, just what is behind this?”

“It’s all screwy, so far,” Monk snorted. “Willard Spanner is reported grabbed in Frisco at noon, and is found dead in New York before three o’clock. Then a gang of birds raid the morgue and steal his clothing. That’s all we know.”

Ham said, “I’ll show you where they went. They had that bundle of clothing, too.”

There were a few comparatively firm spots in the marsh. The rest of the terrain was covered with water which ranged in depth from an inch to two feet, with spots which were deeper, as Monk promptly proved by going in above the waist.

A cloud bank in the west shortened the period of twilight. They were soon in complete darkness. Using flashlights would have given away their position. Making any speed through the coarse grass, without noise, was almost impossible.

“You fellows take it easy,” Doc directed. “Do not try to get too close.”

Monk began, “But what’re you— —” and did not finish. The bronze man had vanished in the darkness.

Monk listened, then shook his head. It was difficult to conceive of any one moving with such silence.

It was no casual trait, this ability of Doc Savage’s to stalk quietly. He had practiced a great deal, had studied the masters of the art: the carnivorous beasts of the jungle.

The bronze man had covered not more than a hundred yards when something happened—something that was, later, to take on great significance and a terrible importance.

He heard a peculiar crashing sound. That described it more accurately than anything else. It was not a series of crashes, but one long, brittle report. It started faintly and attained, in the span of two seconds or so, a surprising loudness.

Doc glanced up. Hanging in the sky was what appeared to be a taut rope of liquid fire. This faded in a moment. It was an uncanny phenomena.

Doc Savage crouched for some time, listening, flake-gold eyes on the sky. But there was nothing more. He went on toward the oyster plant.

The odor of the place was evident long before the low, rambling processing building showed up. It was built on the beach, with a wharf shoving out porch fashion to one side. A channel had evidently been dredged for the oyster boats. The plant was used for the sorting and opening of oysters.

Mounds of oyster shells were pyramided here and there, and were thick on the ground. They made walking difficult. Wash of waves on the near-by beach covered up lesser sounds.

Several times Doc Savage stooped and brushed away oyster shells, that he might step on the bare ground. The brittle shells would break with loud reports. The side of the building which he approached was dark. He worked around. Lighted windows appeared.

Smell of oysters was strong. Two small schooners were tied up at a wharf. The cabin portholes of one of these were lighted. An instant later, the light went out, and three men came up the companion. They stepped to the wharf. One used a flashlight, and this illuminated them.

One was Stunted. His companions were the tall man and the one with the peculiar crossing and uncrossing eyes. One carried a bundle which resembled clothing.

Stunted said, “Danged if I don’t still maintain that an automatic rifle can be bobbed and still——”

“Aw, hell!” The tall man spat disgustedly. “Here we really got things to worry about, and you go on and on about that gun. Man, don’t the fact that that bronze guy was Doc Savage impress you none a-tall?”

Stunted stopped suddenly.

“Look, you gents,” he said. “You been cackling around like two old hens since you learned that bird was Doc Savage. Now I want you to tell me something.”

“Yeah?” said the tall man.

“Ain’t it a fact that with what we got, we don’t need to be afraid of anybody?” demanded Stunted.

“You mean——”

“You know what I mean. You saw that streak in the sky and heard that crack of a noise, a while ago, didn’t you? Now answer my question.”

“Aw-w-w!” The tall man spat again. “We ain’t exactly afraid of him. Only it might’ve been more convenient if he hadn’t turned up on the spot. That Savage is nobody’s cinch, and don’t forget that.”

“I ain’t forgettin’ it,” said Stunted. “And quit squawkin’, you hombres. We’re settin’ pretty. Doc Savage ain’t got a line on us. And didn’t we get Willard Spanner’s clothing. And ain’t the rest gonna be taken care of?”

The tall man burst into sudden laughter.

“Now what?” Stunted growled.

“Just thinkin’,” the other chuckled. “People are gonna wonder how Willard Spanner was in Frisco at noon and dead here in New York at three o’clock the same afternoon.”

Doc Savage was close to them. He could have reached out and tripped any one of the trio as they filed past.

The silent man of the three, the one with the unnaturally roving eyes, brought up the rear. Doc Savage had been crouching. He stood erect. His fist made a sound like a loud finger snap on the man’s jaw. The man fell. The bundle of clothing flew to one side.

A number of surprising things happened. The surrounding darkness erupted human beings. At least a dozen men appeared with magical effect. Each had a flashlight, a gun.

“Take ’im alive?” one shouted questioningly.

“Not much!” squawled another, evidently the chief.

Doc started for the clothing bundle. A man was leaping over it, coming toward him, gun spouting flame and thunder. Doc sloped aside. He twisted. Lead slammed past.

Doc hit the ground and rolled. Tall marsh grass took him in. He burrowed a dozen feet, veered left. Slugs tore through the grass. They made hoarse snarls.

A pile of oyster shells jutted out of the darkness in front of him. The bronze man got behind it. He ran a score of paces, went down in a hollow where there was soft mud, but no water, and waited, listening.

Stunted was yelling, “He’s behind that shell pile! If I had an auto rifle, it would put a pill right through that stuff!”

“Suppose you use your legs more and your mouth less!” some one suggested.

The men scattered, hunting. They were in pairs, a neat precaution. The couples did not walk close enough together that both could be surprised at once, yet nothing could happen to one without the other knowing it.

Stunted shouted, “You jaspers knew he was around here! How in thunder did you know that?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” a voice told him.

Stunted swore at the speaker. “C’mon, feller, how’d you know it?”

“There’s a bank of alarm wires strung around here,” said the voice.

“Nuts!” Stunted told him. “I haven’t seen any wires.”

“They’re underground,” the other snapped. “Just barely covered. Any one walking over them changes the capacity of a high-frequency electric field enough to show on a recording device inside.”

“Well, sink me!” Stunted snorted.

Doc Savage, listening, made a mental note that some one of considerable scientific ability was involved with the gang. Such an alarm system as had been described was feasible, but required high technical knowledge to construct.

The bronze man crawled away through the tall grass.

Doc did not go far, however. A score of yards, and he stopped. He spent a moment or two tensing his throat muscles, striving for a certain effect.

“Hands up, you fellows!” he said loudly, using his own natural voice.

A split of a second later, he shouted again. This time, his tone was a splendid imitation of a man greatly frightened.

“It’s Doc Savage!” he shrilled. “Give us a hand over here, somebody!”

Results were instant and noisy. Men howled irately and made a great clatter in the marsh grass, charging for the spot. They were completely deceived.

Doc Savage moved swiftly, not in flight but circling back toward the oyster shell mound near which he had made his attack. He wanted the bundle of clothes.

He reached the shell pile, paused, listened. Men were making angry sounds, but not close by. Some one had dropped a flashlight in the excitement. Its beam did not play directly on the spot where the garments lay, but the backglow disclosed the parcel. It was hardly more than thirty feet away. It lay in the open.

Doc continued listening. His ears were remarkable, for he had trained them from childhood with a sonic device calculated to develop the utmost in sensitivity. He evidently caught some small sound, for he produced from inside his clothing a coil of thin silken cord to which was affixed a folding grapple hook.

That he had practiced a great deal with the grapple was shown by the accuracy with which he tossed the hook. It snared the bundle of clothing. He hauled it toward him, remaining sheltered behind the shell pile.

Stunted and other men bounded up from where they had been lying and watching the bundle.

“He slicked us!” Stunted bawled.

Doc Savage gave the silk cord a brisk yank, stooped, and caught the garments, and was off like a sprinter. Guns made whooping thunder behind him. He pitched right, then left, zigzagging. Then he doubled over and changed course.

The last was a wise move. Some type of light machine gun blared out behind him. Its lead stream sickled off the marsh grass across the spot where he had vacated. The gunman did not fan his fire, but concentrated it, and the ammo drum went empty. Violent cursing followed.

Doc was some distance away now. He heard noises of men sloughing about in mud, and enraged grunts and growls.

“Monk!” he called softly. “Ham!”

The pair were waist-deep in mud. Doc extricated them. They joined him in flight.

“Monk, the baboon, led us into that bog!” Ham complained.

Monk found his pet pig before he shouted, “That’s a lie! I was followin’ that overdressed shyster!”

Sounds of pursuit dropped rapidly behind, and it became evident that they were going to get clear.

“We oughta do something about them rambunctious jaspers,” Monk announced.

“The police will do something about it,” Doc told him.

Doc Savage, Monk, and Ham were in the skyscraper headquarters when the police telephoned the results of their raid, staged on the strength of the bronze man’s information.

The oyster factory, they advised, had been found deserted. The “birds” had flown.

“They must have a bally tight organization to move that fast,” Ham opined. “They knew their hangout was no longer a secret, so they cleared out.”

Monk lifted his pig, Habeas, by one oversize ear and swayed the porker slowly back and forth, a procedure the shote seemed to enjoy.

“What gets me,” muttered the homely chemist, “is what that streak of a thing in the sky could have been. Did you see it, Doc?”

The bronze man nodded.

Monk persisted, “Hear the funny long crack of a noise it, or something like it, made?”

Doc nodded again, then said, “The men at the oyster factory mentioned the streak in the sky and the sound, as having some mysterious connection with their own project.”

Monk let Habeas fall. “Say, what’s behind all of this, anyway?”

The telephone rang.

“This is the central police station,” a voice stated. “You seemed to be interested in that Willard Spanner killing, so I thought we’d better let you know his body has been stolen from the morgue.”

“You mean Willard Spanner’s clothing was stolen?” Doc queried.

“I mean his body,” said the officer. “They got his clothing first. They came back about fifteen minutes ago for the body.”

“Same crowd?”

“Sure.”

“They got away?”

“They did. Or they have, so far.”

Doc had switched an audio amplifier-and-loud-speaker into circuit with the telephone, a procedure he commonly followed on calls in which his aides might be interested. Monk and Ham heard.

“Jove!” Ham exploded. “They made no move to take the body the first time.”

“At the oyster factory, I heard them speaking of ‘taking care of the rest,’ ” Doc said slowly. “This matter of the body must have been the ‘rest.’ ”

Ham lifted the bundle of clothing which Doc Savage had taken at the oyster factory.

“We still have Willard Spanner’s garments here,” he declared. “Since those men wanted them so badly, they may possibly furnish us with a clue.”

Monk got up, grunting, “Maybe the duds had papers or something sewed in them, like they have in story books. Let’s have a gander at ’em, as we lowbrows say.”

The garments were tied together with tarred twine of the type which seagoing men call marlin. Ham took hold of it, after trying the knot, intending to break it; but finding it much stronger than he had expected, gave it up, grimacing, snapping his strained fingers.

Doc examined the knots.

“No sailor tied those,” he decided.

“They didn’t talk like sailors, either,” Monk offered. “What part of the country d’you figure they came from, Doc?”

“The West, or the Southwest,” the bronze man said, and, with no perceptible difficulty, broke the cord which had baffled Ham. He sorted through the pieces of clothing.

“They outfoxed us,” he said. “Fixed this up as a decoy by that shell pile merely to draw me back, hoping to get a shot at me.”

Monk squinted. “Meaning?”

“These are not Willard Spanner’s clothes,” Doc said. “They are for a much larger and fatter man.”

Monk groaned, “We’re sunk!”

“We have,” Doc corrected him, “one chance.”