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The item which really got Doc Savage embroiled in the fantastic affair was one which came out in a London afternoon newspaper.

KING’S SPOOK KILLS

The good farmers in The Wash marshlands of Holland county are saying to-day that King John’s ghost took another victim last night in the person of Joseph Shires, the peasant farmer who staggered into his home, mortally wounded.

Joseph Shires is reported to have gasped out that King John’s ghost stabbed him; then he died.

The thing now puzzling the local police is that wounds in the dead man’s body do look as if they had been made by an ancient broadsword such as King John, English ruler who reigned in the thirteenth century, might have carried.

Another puzzling thing is the tradepiece, or coin, dated 1216, which was found in Joseph Shires’s pocket after he died. King John reigned in 1216.

Moreover, it is rumored that numerous persons in the vicinity of The Wash have recently seen a King John apparition—a towering ogre in armor, carrying a broadsword. King John is even said to have spoken to some, proclaiming his identity.

All in all, though, the police are inclined to believe the ghost stories are on a par with the sea serpent tales given such wide publicity some months ago. They are questioning Joseph Shires’s neighbors, seeking to ascertain if one did not commit the crime with some farm implement, perhaps a scythe.

It was probable that quite a number of persons read this article, but it created no great stir among most of those who perused it, for the bit was relegated to an inside page, since Joseph Shires was not an individual who had ranked highly.

William Harper Littlejohn was one exception. He first read the story casually, then went over it again with greatly accelerated interest.

William Harper Littlejohn was a very tall man, and he was also thinner than it seemed any human being could be and still live. His intimates frequently described him as looking like the advance agent for a famine.

When William Harper Littlejohn stood before gatherings of geologists and archaeologists, no one smiled at the fact that he resembled an empty suit of clothes standing erect, nor commented on the monocle with which he always fumbled but never stuffed in an eye. William Harper Littlejohn was conceded to know more about archaeology and geology than almost any living man.

The item about the royal spook that killed caught William Harper Littlejohn’s eye because he was hunting excitement. He had been lecturing for some weeks before the Fellowhood of Scientists, and he was getting tired of it.

One would never suspect it by looking at him, but William Harper Littlejohn’s big love in life was excitement. He was happiest when in trouble.

That was why he was one of Doc Savage’s group of five aides. Trouble was Doc Savage’s business—other person’s troubles. For Doc Savage was that amazing man of bronze, that combination of scientific genius and physical daring, who made a business of helping others out of serious trouble.

“Johnny”—he was called that by Doc Savage and his group of assistants—laid aside the newspaper which contained the spook story. He fished two radiograms from a pocket. The first was dated four days previously and read:

ARRIVING IN LONDON IN FIVE DAYS

DOC SAVAGE

The second radiogram, dated only a few hours later than the first, was evidently in answer to a message of inquiry which Johnny had dispatched, and read:

SORRY BUT HAVE NO ACTION TO PROMISE STOP AM COMING ONLY TO FILL SHORT LECTURE ENGAGEMENT BEFORE FELLOWHOOD OF SCIENTISTS

DOC

Johnny sighed gloomily. That second message had been a great disappointment, for he had held visions of Doc Savage coming to England for the purpose of helping some one who was in trouble. This would have been sure to mean plenty of action.

Johnny looked at the newspaper again and reached an abrupt decision. Doc Savage was not due in London until the following day; he would reach Southampton that night by liner. There was time, before his arrival, for a short trip up to The Wash to investigate this story of a kingly spook who slew with a broadsword. Johnny reached for the telephone.

“Connect me with the nearest aëronautical depot,” he requested; then, having secured his connection, he stated, “Would it be feasible to charter an aërial conveyance for an immediate peregrination?”

“For a what?” the voice wanted to know.

“For an immediate noctambulation to the neighborhood of The Wash,” said Johnny.

Johnny never used a small word when he had time to think of a big one. He was a walking dictionary of words of more than three syllables, and when he was really going good, an ordinary man could not even understand him.

“I’m not sure what you want, gov’nor,” the voice at the airport told him. “But if you’ve got the money to pay for it, you can get it here.”

“Expect me shortly,” Johnny advised.

Hardly more than two hours later, his chartered plane deposited Johnny close to the village of Swineshead, which was on the edge of that great stretch of marshland surrounding the curious tidal bay known as The Wash. Johnny paid off his pilot and watched the plane take the air on its return trip to London. Johnny intended to charter another plane the next day, or motor back to the metropolis.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Johnny found that Swineshead pubs were still open, catering to various local citizens, not a few of whom were sufficiently inebriated to talk freely.

Johnny underwent a curious change. In engaging the plane and during the flight, he had scarcely spoken a sentence containing words small enough for the pilot to understand. But now he cocked his hat over an eye, tucked his monocle-magnifier where it would not be noticed, and began speaking a brand of English which would have shocked his learned colleagues of the Fellowhood of Scientists. Furthermore, his manner was certainly not that of an intellectual giant.

He asked questions about John Shires, whom King John’s ghost was supposed to have stabbed to death with a broadsword. He learned several things.

For instance, the citizens of Swineshead—those abroad at this unearthly hour, at least—were fully convinced King John was really a spectral reality. Two men insisted absolutely that they had seen him.

“Hi talked to the bloomin’ king not a fortnight ago!” asserted one man; then he paused to quaff the ale which Johnny thoughtfully provided. “ ’Twas while Hi was ’untin’ ’ares in the rushes near the shore o’ The Wash. King John walked right up an’ gabbed to me, ’e did.”

Johnny studied his informant, wondering just how intoxicated the fellow was; the speaker was pleasantly flushed, but certainly not entirely inebriated.

“How did you know he was King John’s ghost?” Johnny asked quite seriously.

“ ’E told me so,” said the other.

“Told you?”

“ ’E did, an’ that’s the truth, gov’nor. I’d ’ave known it anyway, on account of the way ’e was dressed. ’Ad on a coat of mail, ’e did, and carried a bloomin’ broadsword. It was King John, all right. I’ve seen ’is pictures in the school books.”

Johnny paid for more ale. “What was this talk about?”

“Mostly about whether King John’s ghost was to kill me or not,” said the informant.

“Kill you?”

“ ’E claimed as ’ow I was the bloke who give ’im poison seven hundred years ago. ’E said ’e was ’untin’ that bloke. Said ’e’d been ’untin’ seven ’undred years, and that ’e’d finally find the bloke who poisoned ’im, an when that ’appened, ’e’d run the lad through with ’is broadsword.”

“Very interesting,” said Johnny.

“King John’s ghost said as ’ow ’e killed people ’e met in ’is nightly wanderings, just on the chance ’e’d get the bloke who done the poisoning,” the other went on. “Said ’e wasn’t quite sure who did poison ’im, and that’s why ’e did so much killin’.”

“I see,” said Johnny. “Was there anything else?”

“Only that Hi’d better stay away from The Wash,” the other, man muttered. “King John’s ghost said as ’ow ’e might kill me next time we met. Said ’e was liable to kill anybody ’e met. I think that’s ’ow poor Joseph Shires got ’is.”

“Is this ghost usually seen in the same vicinity?” Johnny questioned.

“Mostly, yes, gov’nor,” declared the other. “ ’E ’angs out near the mouth of the Wellstream.”

Johnny retired to the quiet of the village street to consider what he had learned. King John, so history said, had been poisoned in this vicinity, and as a result of which, had died. King John had been a violent and intemperate ruler, Johnny recalled having read. It was King John who had signed the Magna Charta which formed the charter of English liberties and the inspiration of the “personal rights” portion of the United States constitution.

King John had a very violent temper, history said, and after being forced to sign the Magna Charta, had rolled on the floor, bit the oak legs of a table, and butted his head against a stone wall. Then he had raised an army and gone out to rob the barons who had forced him to sign. It was on this foray that he had died, either from overeating peaches and drinking new cider—or from poisoning.

Johnny fumbled out his monocle and twirled it idly, a habit he had when puzzled. He did not believe in ghosts abroad with armor and broadswords, but at the same time, the story of the apparition was a bit too prevalent to be dismissed.

“I’ll be superamalgamated!” he murmured. “I think I shall investigate more comprehensively.”

The night was not much further along when Johnny turned up alone in the region of the junction of the river Wellstream and The Wash. Since it was night and the region one without population, the eminent archaeologist shed shoes, socks and trousers and moved about clad only in underwear shorts, vest, coat and shirt. His bony shanks presented a grotesque appearance.

Frequent stretches of water and bog holes made the dishabille necessary. There were also patches of quicksand, very treacherous, which could best be detected with bare feet.

At first, Johnny attempted to reach the beach and follow that, but he surrendered this idea upon discovering that there was actually no beach, but only salt water grass and mud flats. It was a grim and dreary region which presented an aspect similar to nothing so much as a storm-swept wheat field of vast expanse, spotted here and there with pools and stretches of slime.

He had been prowling the vicinity for perhaps an hour when he had a narrow escape. The tide came in. It was not like the advance of ordinary tide, this one, but it came in swiftly, rolling over the salt marsh a good deal faster than it was possible for a man to run. Johnny was soaked to the belt line before he reached higher ground.

He stood on a knoll, among gnarled bushes, and eyed the marshes surrounding The Wash with new respect. The moon was out, and the tidal waters creeping through the marsh grass caused the latter to undulate as if it were fur on the back of some fabulous monster.

Johnny jumped a full foot in the air when a hollowly ominous voice spoke behind him.

“Turnest thou around, that thine face may be seen!” commanded the sepulchral tones.

Johnny whirled, his first inclination being to laugh. The words were so foreign to the English of the present day that they were comical. But the bony geologist forgot to be mirthful as he looked at the figure before him.