Читать книгу The Mystic Mullah: A Doc Savage Adventure - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 5

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SORRY BUT DOC SAVAGE NOT IN CITY AND NOT AVAILABLE TO COMMUNICATION. CANNOT SAY WHEN HE WILL RETURN.

WILLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN.

Monk rubbed his jaw and asked, “Connection?”

“Between this message and the dead man?” Johnny shrugged. “He inscribed the name ‘Joan’ on the wall.”

Ham pointed at the wall markings with his sword cane. “But what does the rest of that mean?”

In the manner of a scholar giving a lecture, Johnny said, “The man could not write Doc Savage’s name, so he came as near to describing it as he could. The mountain men in the Tananese region are savages, so ‘He of Mountains’ probably is meant for Savage. And a Tananese doctor is called one who chases evil spirits.”

Monk squinted admiringly. “Maybe there is something besides big words in that head. What about the ‘fish that smokes on water’?”

“A boat,” said Johnny. “A boat in some manner connected with a fish, and probably an oil or a coal burner.”

Ham said briskly, “I’ll see about this.”

He strode down the corridor, opened the door on which was the name “Clark Savage, Jr.,” in small bronze letters, and entered a reception room which held an enormous safe, a costly inlaid table, and various other items of quiet but expensive furniture. Ham picked up a telephone.

With the casual ease of a man who had done the thing before, Ham got a land-line-radio connection to the liner Atlantic Queen. He spoke for some minutes, then hung up.

He did not leave the telephone immediately, but consulted the directory, then made a second call. Then he went out and joined the others.

“His Majesty, Khan Nadir Shar of Tanan, and a young woman named Joan Lyndell were taken off the Atlantic Queen by the tug Whale of Gotham about three hours ago,” he repeated. “I called the owners of the Whale of Gotham. The tug is tied up at a wharf in the Hudson, off Twenty-sixth Street.”

“Whale of Gotham,” Monk grunted. “That would be the ‘fish that smokes on the water.’ ”

Ham eyed Johnny, then indicated the body of Hadim. “Just what did kill this fellow?”

The thin geologist shook his head slowly. “That is a profound mystery, as great a mystery as the nature of the green body I saw.”

Monk frowned at Johnny, at the rubber apron the tall geologist wore. “Busy, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Johnny admitted. “I am trying to assemble the vertebræ of a small dinosaur of the early Mesozoic——”

“Stick here,” Monk advised. “Me and the tailor’s dream here will go down to this tugboat.”

“Very well,” Johnny agreed, after hesitating.

“If Doc Savage shows up, tip him off,” Monk finished.

Monk and Ham, departing, rode down to the basement in a private high-speed elevator which had undoubtedly cost a young fortune to install, and came out in a subterranean garage which held several motor vehicles, ranging from an open roadster of expensive manufacture and quiet color scheme to a large delivery van which, although it did not look the part, was literally an armored tank.

The elevator, the garage, the assortment of cars, as well as the establishment on the eighty-sixth floor—there was an enormous scientific laboratory and a highly complete scientific library up there in addition to the reception room—were all a part of the New York headquarters maintained by Doc Savage.

A strange individual, this Doc Savage. Probably one of the most remarkable of living men. A genius, a mental marvel and a giant of fabulous physical strength.

He was literally a product of science himself, was this Doc Savage, for he had been trained from birth for one single purpose in life—the fantastic career which he now followed. Every trick of science had been utilized in his training. In no sense had he led a life that might be regarded as normal.

Two hours of each day since childhood had been devoted to a routine of intense exercises calculated to develop not only muscles, but physical senses and mental sharpness. All of his early life had been devoted to study under masters of trades, sciences, professions, until he possessed a knowledge that was, to the ordinary man, uncanny.

The result of this studied upbringing was an individual who was a remarkable combination of scientific genius and physical capacity.

Stranger even than the man himself was the career to which his life was dedicated—the business of helping others out of trouble, of aiding the oppressed, of dealing with those evildoers who seemed beyond the touch of the law. For all of which Doc Savage made it an unbending rule to accept no payment in money, under any circumstances.

Long ago, Doc Savage had assembled five men as his assistants, five men who were world-famed specialists in their respective lines, five men who associated themselves with him because they loved adventure, excitement, and because they were drawn by admiration for the giant of bronze who was Doc Savage.

Monk, the chemist, and Ham, the lawyer, were two of the five aides. Johnny, the archæologist, was another. Two others—Colonel John “Renny” Renwick, engineer, and Major Thomas J. “Long Tom” Roberts, electrical wizard—were, at the moment, elsewhere in the city, engaged in the private business which they carried on when not actively assisting Doc Savage.

The present whereabouts of Doc Savage himself was something that no one knew. The bronze man had vanished. He had told no one where he was going. No one, not even his five aides, knew how to reach him. But they were not worried, these five, for they were confident that the bronze man had gone away to some mysterious rendezvous, where he could be alone for intensive study.

And, although Doc’s five aides were not sure, they believed this place to which the bronze man retired, this remote trysting place with reflection which he called his Fortress of Solitude, was located on an island in the remote Arctic. It was certain, though, that no one would hear of Doc Savage until he should return, mysteriously as he had gone.

Monk and Ham, nearing the Hudson River water-front in a coupe which presented no outward hint that it was a rolling fortress with bullet-proof glass and armored body, exchanged comments punctuated with insults.

“We should’ve asked that walkin’ encyclopedia, Johnny, more questions,” Monk grumbled. “Where’s Tanan, the place where this Khan Shar is supposed to be a king?”

“Didn’t you study geography?” Ham asked sarcastically.

“Well, where is it?”

“In Asia.”

Monk scowled. “Do you, or do you not, know where it is?”

“I know as much about it as you do,” Ham snapped.

“Which is not a dang thing.” Monk used a spotlight to ascertain a street number. “What’s this king over here for? And what’s he want with Doc?”

“Nothing was said about the king wanting Doc,” Ham pointed out. “It was this Joan Lyndell who sent that radiogram.”

Monk said, “Wonder who she is?”

“How would I know?” Ham said sourly.

They parked the car and got out. Monk rummaged for a flashlight, but was unable to find one, then they moved away from the machine.

Monk mused aloud, “Wonder what broke that brown-skinned guy’s neck. Wish we’d figured that out.”

Ham began, “Say, you hairy baboon—wuh!” He ended the statement with a sort of choked explosion.

Monk’s jaw sagged, pulling his big mouth open cavernously; his fingers made absent straying movements. His little eyes seemed on the point of jumping from their pits of gristle.

They had been moving along a warehouse side, a wall of brick, unbroken by windows or other apertures. The darkness was intense.

Ahead of them, a face had appeared, materializing with an eerie unexpectedness. This was all the more startling, because the darkness was so thick that neither Monk nor Ham could see the other. Yet they saw the face clearly.

It was a fantastic thing, that face. Its color was not human, but a greenish hue, the tint that comes to meat in the first stages of decay. The green countenance shone with a fantastic luminosity; it was not exactly fluorescent, nor did it seem to have a light playing upon it, yet it was plainly visible.

The face had slant eyes, the contour of the Orient, and when it rolled lips back in a grin, the effect was anything but pleasant, for the tongue in the mouth, which should have been in shadow, was as plainly discernible as the other features. It was the same unholy green.

Monk said, “What the devil?” thickly.