Читать книгу The Secret in the Sky: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 9

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Monk grunted, “That’ll bear looking into.”

Doc Savage put in a long-distance telephone call, and because it was late, some time was required in obtaining the information which he desired. In the interim, a messenger arrived from police headquarters with a parcel of pictures. Finally, the bronze man secured from the Tulsa tailor, the name of the man for whom a suit answering the description of the one in the bundle had been made. It was a suit distinctive enough to be remembered, being rather loud in color.

“The garment was tailored for Calvert R. Moore, who is more commonly known as ‘Leases’ Moore,” came the report from Tulsa.

“Just what do you know about this man Moore?” Doc asked.

“He is very wealthy.” The Tulsa tailor hesitated. “He is also considered a bit sharp as a business man. Nothing crooked, you understand. Merely, well—a man who misses few bargains.”

“What else?”

“He has disappeared.”

“He has what?”

“Disappeared.”

“A kidnaping?” Doc demanded.

“There has been no indication of that. Leases Moore merely dropped out of sight two weeks ago, on the same day that Quince Randweil vanished.”

“Quince Randweil?” Doc asked sharply. “Who is he?”

“The owner and operator of a local dog-racing track,” explained the tailor.

“There is no indication of what became of these men?” Doc persisted.

“None.”

“Have either of these men been considered crooked?” Doc asked.

“Oh, they ain’t neither one been in jail, that anybody knows of,” said the tailor, who seemed to be a frank and talkative individual.

Monk squinted at Doc when the conversation ended. “More angles?”

“Two men named Leases Moore and Quince Randweil vanished mysteriously in Tulsa, two weeks ago,” Doc told him. “Leases Moore’s clothing turned up in that bundle.”

The bronze man now scrutinized the pictures of Willard Spanner’s body. Spanner had been shot to death. Two bullets had hit him in the chest.

But it was another wound, a wrist cut, upon which the bronze man concentrated attention.

“This was not a new cut,” he pointed out. “You will notice marks made by adhesive tape, indicating it was bandaged. The manner of the tape application indicates the work of a physician. The man would hardy have applied the tape himself in this manner. I observed this fact at the morgue, but unfortunately, not close enough to be sure.”

Monk looked surprised. It was not often that the bronze man had to go back over ground he had already covered for information.

“But where’s this getting us?” asked the homely chemist.

“Our problem is to ascertain whether the man seized in San Francisco was the one found dead in New York,” Doc told him. “On the face of it, that seems an impossibility—for less than three hours elapsed.”

Doc resorted to the long-distance telephone again. He first called San Francisco police. They gave him the name of the hotel at which Willard Spanner had been staying. Incidental was the information that Spanner had arrived in San Francisco only the previous day.

The call to the hotel was fruitful. Willard Spanner had slipped in the hotel bathroom, struck his arm against a glass shelf over the washstand, and the shelf had broken, cutting his wrist. The hotel physician had dressed the wound, which was undoubtedly the one the pictures showed.

“Whew!” Monk exploded. “Willard Spanner was seized in San Francisco a little over a couple o’ hours before he was found dead in New York!”

Ham flourished his sword cane. “But it could not happen!”

Monk stood up. “The telephoning has taken time. There oughta be fresh newspapers out. I’ll go get some.”

He was back in a few moments. He looked excited.

“Lamp this!” he barked, and exhibited extra editions.

The headlines were large, black.

SEEK SPANNER RANSOM IN FRISCO—$50,000 DEMANDED

A San Francisco newspaper editor late to-day received a note stating that Willard Spanner, reported slain in New York this afternoon, was alive, and would be released upon the payment of fifty thousand dollars.

There was more of it, but the opening paragraph told the substance of the story.

Monk eyed Doc. “Hadn’t we better look into this? Ham or me can go.”

“We will all three go,” Doc told him. “We will leave a note advising the other three members of our outfit to do what investigating they can, when they return from up-State. They can handle the New York end.”

“What about the Tulsa, Oklahoma, angle?” Ham queried.

“We will stop off there,” Doc advised.

Tulsa likes to call itself the capital of the oil industry. Oil men do much flying. The Tulsa municipal airport is a source of local pride. Facilities and appointments are excellent.

Floodlights fanned brilliance as Doc Savage dropped his big speed plane in for a landing. The night force of mechanics stood about and stared. Some one ran to a near-by flying school, and shortly afterward there was a stampede to the tarmac of aëronautical students in all states of partial dress. It was not often that a plane such as the bronze man was flying was seen.

The speed ship was trimotored, and all three motors were streamlined into the wings until their presence was hardly apparent to the eye. The hull breasted down so that the plane could be landed on water, and the landing gear was retractable. The cabin was as bulletproof as was feasible, and inside were innumerable mechanical devices.

One individual did not seem interested in the bronze man’s remarkable craft. He was a pilot in greasy coveralls who tinkered with the motor of a shabby-looking cabin monoplane over near the edge of the field.

He had dropped into the airport two hours before, and had been tinkering with his plane since. He had given short answers to the field mechanics, and thereafter had been left severely alone. It was now not long before dawn.

Doc Savage taxied over near the covered pit which held the gasoline hoses and cut all three motors. He stepped out of the plane and glanced into the east, as if seeking the sunrise.

“I’ve heard a lot about that bird,” a flying student said, unconscious that his whisper carried. “They say he designed that sky wagon himself and that it’s the fastest thing of its size in the world.”

Over at the edge of the field, the motor of the shabby cabin monoplane came to life. It roared loudly.

A small crowd surged around Doc’s speed ship. They were flying men, greatly interested in a sample of the most advanced aërial conveyance. Most of them were interested in the layout of navigating instruments, in the robot pilot.

“I’ve heard this bus can take off and fly herself, and can be controlled by radio from a distance,” a man said. “Is that a fact?”

One man was interested in the tail structure of the plane. He found himself alone back there. He flashed a long knife out of his clothing, ripped and gouged, and got open one of the inspection ports through which the control connections could be examined.

The man was thin; his movements had the speed of an animal. He whipped a series of three packages out of his clothing. They were connected by wires, and none were extraordinarily large. He thrust all three inside the inspection port, then closed the flap. Then he backed away into the darkness.

He blinked a small flashlight four times rapidly.

Motor a-howl, the cabin monoplane scudded away from the edge of the field. It headed straight for Doc’s ship.

The bronze man had to all appearances been occupied entirely in answering questions. But now he flashed into life, and seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

“Run!” he rapped at those standing about. “Get away from here! Quick!”

His great voice was a crash. It was compelling. Three men turned and fled without knowing why. The others retreated more slowly. They saw the oncoming cabin plane.

“Runaway ship!” some one howled.

Monk and Ham had stepped out of Doc’s speed craft. They whirled to clamber back inside. But Doc Savage was ahead of them. He banged the cabin door in their faces, then lunged to the controls. The big motors whooped out at the first touch of the starters, and because they were hot, instantly hauled the speed craft into motion.

There was a tense second or two. Then it became evident that Doc’s plane was going to get clear. The men scattered from the path of the oncoming cabin monoplane. It went bawling past, doing no harm, except to give an aviator student a bad fright.

All who looked could see by the floodlight glare that the cabin was empty.

“Where’s the pilot of that trap?” yelled the night field manager. “Such damned carelessness——”

He swallowed the rest. An unexpected thing was happening. A weird thing.

The old cabin ship had gone on, but instead of crashing into the fence at the edge of the field, as every one expected, it was turning—swinging as if a hand of uncanny skill were at the controls. It arched completely around and cannoned after the speed plane of Doc Savage.

The onlookers gasped, unable to believe what they were witnessing. They saw the pig, Habeas Corpus, come hurtling from the cabin of Doc’s speed ship. Then they saw the bronze man appear in the cabin door.

He seemed to be trying to reach the tail of his plane, for he dropped off and sought to seize it as it went past. But the streamlined metal surface offered no grip. He was knocked aside and the ship went on.

Doc scrambled to all fours, seized the pig, Habeas, and fell flat with him. He lay there.

The shabby cabin ship charged in pursuit of the speed plane. The two ships approached at an angle. They met. The whole world seemed to go up in blinding white.

The tarmac jumped, quaked. Windows fell out of operations office, hangars, the flying school buildings across the paved road. The side of one huge hangar buckled inward, and the roof came down as if a giant had stepped upon it.

The noise of the blast thumped and rolled and finally went into the distance like a heavy salvo of thunder.

Out where the two planes had met, there was a hole in the earth which would require two days to fill.