Читать книгу The Motion Menace - Lester Bernard Dent - Страница 3

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The strange rumor that circulated when the China Rocket crashed did not get the attention it should have.

When aviation was new, airplane company press agents got the habit of breathing hints of sabotage every time there was a crack-up. Nothing definite. Just vagueness about Communists, terrorists, or some other nebulous enemy.

The idea was for these whisperings to prevent the public getting the thought that maybe airplanes were not as safe as they might be. This sort of thing eventually stopped, but the memory remained in the public mind as old stuff.

The China Rocket was a luxury clipper from San Francisco to Shanghai, China. Two pilots and a radio operator. Hot meals. Pretty hostesses whose smiles would take your mind off air-sickness and the size of the Pacific Ocean, or who would hand you a paper bag if that didn’t work.

Divers had to be used to get what was left of the China Rocket out of Hangchau Bay, just south of Shanghai. Fortunately, Europeans who had seen it happen could point out the spot. The observers just happened to be an American movie actor and his party aboard a small yacht. The story they told was so queer they were asked to repeat it quite a few times.

The China Rocket had come to a dead stop in the sky. Very suddenly. All its motors had halted. Then the plane had fallen into Hangchau Bay. That was the eyewitnesses’ tale.

Authorities and newspapermen accounted for this remarkably unbelievable story with two explanations which they considered probable: The observers had either made it up to grab some publicity, or they had all been drunk. But some one had a more acceptable suggestion: An insane passenger had grabbed the controls.

Details of the extremely modern construction of the plane were reprinted in America and Europe.

It did not appear in print that Clark Savage, Jr., better known as Doc Savage, had designed the plane. Or, rather, the ship was an exact duplicate in shape and streamlining of two ships which Doc Savage had built for himself. Doc Savage was not an individual who got in print when it could be avoided.

This point, missed by all but one person, happened to explain why the China Rocket crashed.

A young lady was the one who did not miss the point. She went down to breakfast in the coffee shop of a Shanghai hotel the next morning, bought a newspaper as a matter of course, and naturally saw the story of the China Rocket, and pictures of the ill-fated ship. She looked sharply at the pictures.

The young lady was tall, but her figure did not have a very good shape. Her hair was blond, but the stringy kind of blond that does not interest any one. Horn-rimmed colored spectacles didn’t help her looks any.

Her clothes were padded to give her a bad form, her hair was dyed, and the awful glasses hid the color of her eyes. None of this was very easily detected. Actually, she was a stunning beauty.

The dumpy-looking young woman hastily turned pages until she found another airplane picture. The legend under it said:

Miss Enola Emmel, of New York, lands her plane in Shanghai, bound on Orient tour.

The plane was outwardly a duplicate of the unlucky China Rocket.

The manager of the hotel happened to pass. He said, “I hope everything is satisfactory, Miss Emmel.” He was an American, and the hotel was American-owned and managed.

The young lady who was on the register as Miss Enola Emmel said, “Yes, thank you,” rather absently.

She was thinking. She turned back to the plane-wreck news, and her expression became grim. She got up and looked around until she found a telephone booth. It was a modern booth, just like those in New York hotel lobbies.

The girl called a number in New York City by transpacific telephone. The connection required about ten minutes.

A remarkable voice answered the telephone in New York. A male voice with depth, timbre and control. Not a radio announcer on any network had a voice the equal of it.

“This is Pat,” the young woman in China said. “Listen, Doc, have you read about the China Rocket?”

“Naturally,” said the unusual voice.

“A hunch just struck me, Doc. You know——”

“Pat,” said the voice, “you are supposed to be taking a vacation. You claimed you were tired of running that beauty shop and ladies’ gymnasium, where you charge such outrageous prices. You borrowed one of my planes, had it shipped to the Philippines, and started flying it yourself on a tour of the Orient. You disguised yourself. You insisted you were going to have one vacation where no one would bother you. Go ahead and take it.”

The young woman said, “What I need is diversion, more than a vacation. I think I’ve found some excitement.”

“It is to be hoped not.” The New York voice sounded weary.

“I think whoever crashed the China Rocket was after me!”

The response this got from the New York end of the long wire was strange. It was not an exclamation, grunt or whistle. It was a fantastic sound. Probably the nearest description was trilling. It rose and fell, eerie, but without tune. It was such a sound as might have been made by a small breeze.

The young woman waited until the trilling sank into nothingness, then said, “My plane looked exactly like the China Rocket. I left Manila at the same time, but stopped off in South China to see if I could find any trace of Captain Cutting Wizer.”

“You really went to China to find Captain Wizer, did you not?”

“Yes. He is an expert on electromagnetic dermatological science. When he visited New York some months ago, he made me a little contraption that cures blackheads like nobody’s business. I want to hire him to build more apparatus. But I can’t find him. Nobody knows where he went. Anyway, that could have no connection with this. No one knows me here in Shanghai.”

“Are you using your own name?”

“Of course not. I’m Miss Enola Emmel, an air tourist.”

“Took the words ‘lemme alone’ and turned them around. Not especially good.”

“I thought,” Pat said, “it was right snitzy.”

The man in New York asked, “Why should any one try to kill you, Pat?”

“Now you’ve got me. I cannot think of an enemy in the world.”

There was a brief silence.

“The people on the boat who saw the China Rocket crash told a rather strange story, Pat. That is, their description of how the China Rocket crashed. It came to a sudden, dead stop in the air, they said, so you will recall. Of course, that is impossible. Planes do not come to sudden, dead stops in mid-air.”

“Yes, Doc. It struck me as wacky, too.”

“It might be advisable to look into the matter.”

Pat said cheerfully, “I’ll meet you on Hangchau Bay where the plane crashed.”

“You will not!”

“Please, Doc, I must——”

“This is one time you stay out of trouble, young lady. No more backtalk. Go on with your vacation.”

“I won’t!”

“You will!”

Pat Savage appeared to have been backed into a corner. She grimaced, started to say something two or three times, and finally emitted a dramatic groan.

“Oh, all right!” she snapped. “But I hope I run into a kidnaping or something up in these woods!”

Bang! went the receiver, and Pat stepped out of the phone booth.

“Miss Savage, I’m here to save you,” a voice said at Pat’s elbow.

Pat—or Enola Emmel, as she called herself—gave a start and eyed the speaker.

“Didn’t you stop to think,” she snapped, “that I might have a weak heart? And my name is Enola Emmel, not Savage!”

The young man was as tall as any young man should be, and he had blue eyes, blond hair, a pleasantly large mouth. His shirt and the handkerchief peeking from the breast pocket were a shade of light tan; his well-cut suit, tie and shoes, were different shades of brown.

“Your specialty is giving others heart trouble,” he said, cheerfully. “And I know you’re Pat Savage. I’ve seen you before. Say, did you know your life was in danger?”

“My life——” Pat stared at him.

“Well, maybe not that bad. But a man’s trailing you. Oh, yes, my name is Halloc. Ky Halloc. I was at the airport when you landed last night. An old man with whiskers was following you. Not to be outdone, I, in turn, followed him. He is now loitering in the street. I’ll show you.”

“I think you’re crazy, or else you’re kidding me,” Pat said. But nevertheless she followed him.

Out on the street there was no white-whiskered gentleman, and Pat asked, “How did you happen to be at the airport last night?”

Halloc grinned. “Just happened to be passing by and saw the plane land. I recognized you, then saw the old boy follow you. He’s around somewhere. We’ll take a ride in my car. He’ll follow us, and you can see him.”

Halloc was no millionaire, judging from his car. It had been washed recently, though, and the chromium—what there was—had been polished. It was a second-hand car shipped over from the United States. He held the door open.

Getting in, Pat showed him the business end of an enormous, single-action six-shooter.

“Swell!” Halloc grinned. “I always wanted to wed a real old-fashioned sheriff’s daughter.” He got in.

Pat kept the six-gun in her right hand, and kept her left hand on her left knee. That way, her arm would prevent his grabbing the gun if he felt so inclined.

They drove through narrow streets, scraped some paint off the fenders turning cramped corners, but saw no one. Then Ky Halloc gave Pat a surprise.

“Look here,” he said, “what got Doc Savage interested in the Elders?”

Pat took off her colored glasses. Her eyes narrowed at him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said.

“Oh, don’t try to beat around the bush. Doc Savage started you investigating because you were least likely to be suspected. Anyway, you knew the man.”

It was with some difficulty that Pat managed to look composed.

“They tried to stop you yesterday, and got the China Rocket by mistake,” Halloc said. “The two planes looked alike. Instead of killing you, they killed those others by mistake.”

“You listened outside the telephone booth!” Pat snapped.

“Nope.”

“Then how did you—who are you, anyway?”

The young man took in a big breath.

“I’m a new pal of yours. Listen, does the name Viscount Herschel Penroff mean anything to you?”

It didn’t. Pat shook her head.

“Ever hear of Captain Cutting Wizer?” Ky Halloc asked.

“Captain Wizer?” Pat’s eyes widened. “You mean a nice old gentleman who is a surgeon experimenting with electrical treatments for skin disorders?”

“Captain Wizer—nice old gentleman?” Ky Halloc looked queer.

“A wonderful old fellow,” Pat said warmly. “I want to hire him to build skin-beautifying apparatus. Do you know where he is?”

“Did he have a white beard?”

“No.” Pat frowned. “Look here, what is this all about?”

The young man shook his head. “Either you’re fooling me and don’t know what a horrible fellow Captain Wizer is or—well, we’d better talk this over. Say, I’ve got to smoke while I talk. Have you got a cigarette? I’m out of them.”

“I don’t smoke,” Pat said.

Ky Halloc steered his car into the curb at a corner, stopped and shut off the engine. There was a tobacco shop on the corner.

Pat watched him get out and walk quickly into the tobacco store. He had a nice, swinging stride, with his shoulders held back. It was too early yet to tell whether he had any brains or not.

Pat was so interested in speculating about the young man that she did not observe a car until it stopped in the street beside Ky Halloc’s machine. She gripped her gun and eyed the newly arrived automobile. It looked harmless enough.

A smallish man, bundled to his ears in a gaberdine coat, was driving. Two persons were in the rear. All three seemed to be engaged in an animated discussion. It was the kind of conference any travelers might hold when puzzled about the road.

Then Pat gave a start. Beards! All three of them had white beards! The sight of so many beards startled Pat. When the car door opened, she thought it was Ky Halloc returning, and neglected to look around.

The next instant, her six-gun was wrenched out of her fingers.

When Pat looked around to see who had snatched her gun, she got one of the surprises of her life. There was not one man. There were two. They both had pistols. One was already starting the car.

They both had white beards!

Pat took a moment to get over being stunned; then she went into action.

The white whiskers of the nearest man were nice and long. Pat grabbed and yanked. The fellow hadn’t expected that. She got him down across her lap. He couldn’t very well shoot. Neither could his companion.

With her free hand, Pat aimed a dig at the driver’s little pop eyes. He bleated and threw up his hands as if he had found a snake in his lap.

Pat reached for her big six-shooter. At the same time, she twisted the whiskers with all her might. She could feel some of them pulling out.

Then the curtain of unconsciousness fell down on things.

The bearded man from the other car hastily pocketed the gun with which he had clubbed Pat.

“Can you drive, General?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the one whose eyes Pat had poked.

Both cars went down the street in a hurry. They did not, however, drive too fast. That might have interested some of the military guards stationed about this, the foreign quarter of the city.

Ky Halloc came out of the Chinese tobacco shop with a pack of American cigarettes on which he had paid an unearthly import duty. He looked about, and seemed surprised when he saw his car about four blocks distant, moving rapidly. It turned a corner and was lost to sight.

Ky Halloc, after he had rubbed his jaw, gave a queer, short laugh.

“This,” he said, “is just the first chapter.”