Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (13 page)

“And that’s only one of my new bullets,” said Monk proudly. Tapping an ammunition case, he added, “I got me a pile of nifty ones. You watch.”

Ham frowned, but interest came into his dark eyes. “What kind of bullets?” he demanded.

“You’ll see, shyster. Stick around. The best is yet to come.”

With that, Monk subsided, confident that he had the dapper lawyer’s interest.

They were winging their way over upstate New York, having taken off from Doc Savage’s private warehouse-hangar on the Hudson River. In this somewhat ramshackle edifice, the bronze man housed his fleet of boats, aircraft and other aerial conveyances.

Doc had selected his tri-motored speed plane for the hop to Chicago, the so-called Windy City. The aeronautical marvel was driving for the Great Lakes at a speed which topped two hundred and fifty miles an hour. It was streamlined to a degree that few other planes had yet achieved. The cabin was electrically heated and soundproofed to an amazing degree.

Thus, Monk and Ham were seated in comfort behind the cockpit. Doc flew the craft.

As the argument abated, Ham Brooks asked Doc Savage, “Duke Grogan is going to be beside himself when he steps off the train and discovers us waiting for him.”

“We will arrive in Chicago half a day ahead of the Twentieth Century Limited,” stated Doc Savage. “That will give us time to hunt up Long Tom, and see how his investigation is going first.”

“This is sure spooky business,” muttered Monk. “People’s brains turnin’ to stone for no reason. And grisly green shadows found on the walls afterward.”

Ham Brooks was a learned man and his reading had not been limited to law books. He had perused the classics, and knew Greek and Roman literature, as well as mythology.

“It is not reasonable to think that Medusa is walking around in modern times,” he declared.

Monk snorted, “And it sure ain’t reasonable for a bird’s brains to turn to stone. But some did. Make something of that.”

Ham could not. He fell back on a recitation of what he could recall of the mythological Medusa.

“Medusa was a horrid creature in the shape of a woman, but with a head full of twining serpents instead of hair. Her awful stare was anciently said to turn any mortal to stone in an instant.”

Monk made thoughtful faces. “Well,” he said, “this modern edition doesn’t have the act down completely. Nobody’s turnin’ to stone. Just their brains.”

“I fail to see how,” commented Ham.

Monk Mayfair’s chemical mind began to work. “The brain is made of a substance kinda like bean curd. It’s soft. Nothin’ to it that could harden into stone—not by any chemical action.”

Always poised for an argument, Ham retorted, “Don’t living things petrify into fossils that were once soft in nature?”

Homely Monk was not stumped by that. “The human brain can only live as long as the skull holdin’ it. Once a person is dead, the brain will liquefy pretty dang quick.”

“Ned Gamble did not die in an ordinary manner,” reminded Ham. “It appears that his brain suddenly fossilizing is what struck him down.”

“When archeologists dig up fossils, they never find the brain,” scoffed Monk. “It just won’t fossilize. Besides, the process of fossilization can take millions of years.”

“Then explain the sorry state of Ned Gamble’s brain,” retorted Ham.

Monk entertained some mental counter arguments, but decided there was no point to playing devil’s advocate. The dapper lawyer was correct. The unfortunate Gamble appeared to have died because his brain had turned to a stony substance, and not the other way around.

Calling ahead to Doc Savage at the controls, Monk asked, “Doc, do you reckon what happened to Ned Gamble’s brain is what croaked him?”

“Undoubtedly,” returned the bronze man.

“Any notion what might’ve done it?”

Doc did not reply. He was not being rude. It was one of his few quirks that when he heard a question he preferred not to answer, he fell into a somber silence, pretending he had not heard the inquiry.

Often, this meant that Doc was still formulating theories, other times it indicated he had arrived at a definite conclusion, but was unwilling to share it pending actual proof.

It was impossible to tell from the bronze giant’s silence into which of the two categories his lack of comment belonged.

The subject apparently exhausted for the moment, the cabin fell silent, as Doc Savage sent it hurtling through the night. It was a long way to Chicago but the bronze wings of the big plane devoured them with the speed that would have impressed another mythological figure, the wing-footed Mercury.

AT THE exact time Doc Savage was flying to Chicago, Long Tom Roberts was experiencing difficulties.

The undersized electrical genius was being drowned.

The persons doing the drowning were the two thugs who had abducted him from Janet Falcon’s apartment. They were taking turns.

One, whose unshaven jaw had a bluish tint, was saying, “What’s it going to take to get this mug to wake up?”

“We conked him pretty good, Blue,” grated Blackie.

“Yeah, maybe
too
good. He ain’t coming around.”

“Dunk his head again. Even a guy who’s out like a light needs to breathe.”

The one addressed as Blue seized Long Tom’s neck, and shoved his face underwater. The water in question was an overflowing bathtub that had once been used to make bootleg gin. Long Tom became immersed; immediately bubbles of air began popping on the surface of the water.

Blue held the electrical wizard down, waiting for a reaction.

The reaction was not coming. The two men watched with cold-eyed interest, as Long Tom continued to drown, completely unresponsive to their hearty calls to wake up.

Blue looked up at his confederate and said, “We got to find out what Doc Savage knows, Blackie.”

“Don’t I know it?” grunted Blackie, throwing a well-smoked cigarette into the water. The burning butt made a hiss, but that was all; it soon sank.

The paucity of air bubbles breaking the surface became alarming.

Blackie’s nerve broke. “I can’t go through with it. It just ain’t fair, guy.”

“O.K., O.K., lift him up.”

Blackie hauled Long Tom’s head out of the water, and laid him flat on the bathroom floor. The puny electrical wizard just lay there, seeming beyond all appeal.

The two blows to his head had done a job. Long Tom would not wake up until nature permitted this.

Blackie and Blue looked at one another in exasperation. Blackie said, “Duke will want to know everything this guy does.”

“Well, Duke ain’t here. We gotta think for ourselves.”

The two men lit cigarettes and threw themselves into comfortable chairs while they gave the matter thought.

The pair were hardened killers, products of the Chicago underworld. Killing a man was not something that bothered them particularly. Bumping off one of Doc Savage’s men was another matter entirely. They were afraid to do that until they had wrung from their captive everything he knew of Doc Savage’s interest in Janet Falcon.

“What if the punk don’t ever come around?” Blue asked Blackie. “Some birds don’t.”

“Well, we got to wait until he does. Can’t chill him until we get the word from Duke.”

Blue looked at his wristwatch and said, “Duke won’t be in until tomorrow. That’s a long time from now. I don’t feel like babysitting this runt. I got a hot babe itching to go out on the town.”

Blackie gave the matter thought as he puffed slowly, threw his head back, and blew smoke rings expertly. Silently, he watched the vaporous circles strike the ceiling and dissipate like expiring ghosts.

“I got an idea.”

Blue regarded his partner expectantly.

“This idea is a peach. It may cause Doc Savage to think twice about sticking his nose into our business.”

Interest grew on Blue’s unshaven features.

“I’m going to send the bronze guy a telegram. We’ll make up a story, put them on a wild goose chase. Plus, we need to buy us some extra insurance.”

Blinking, Blue rubbed his purplish jowls. “Insurance? I don’t get you. Insurance from what?”

“Not life insurance. But
death
insurance. Insurance that we don’t disappear like my pal who disappeared.”

Now Blue’s interest was acute. But Blackie did not enlighten him. Instead, he grunted, “Help me drag this punk into the cellar.”

Shrugging, Blue stood up, and the two men took hold of Long Tom Roberts, and proceeded to convey him to the basement.

SOME hours later, Long Tom began to emerge from his prolonged period of unconsciousness. He opened his eyes painfully, but saw nothing. Only darkness.

Smells that came to his dilating nostrils suggested mustiness, stored coal, and other indefinable odors that are found in cellars and basements everywhere.

Long Tom tried to move, but found he could not. His right arm appeared to be fixed. When he gave it a tug, he discovered that the limb felt as heavy as concrete. He could not move so much as his fingers. They would not even wriggle.

“Blast it! What have I gotten myself into now?”

Long Tom attempted to lift his right hand, but it seemed to weigh a ton. In fact, the member felt as if it was composed of rock-hard cement.

The exertion was too much for the feeble electrical wizard. Once again, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

His last wild thought before oblivion overtook his brain was that his entire arm was turning to concrete….

Chapter XII

THE TELEGRAM MYSTERY

OWING TO PERSISTENT headwinds, Doc Savage arrived in Chicago at the crack of dawn.

Although his plane was an amphibian, and capable of landing on water, the bronze man chose to set down at the Chicago Municipal Airport.

Thanks to the rising sun, the bronze paint of his speed plane was evident to anyone loitering at the busy airport when the amazingly streamlined ship came in for a landing.

One happened to be a Chicago newspaper reporter. When he saw the metallic hue of the plane taxiing discreetly into a hangar, he rushed to a pay telephone, his hungry-looking face excited.

Shoving his lanky frame into the wooden call box, the reporter demanded that the operator connect him with his city editor.

“Sam! It’s Jack. Guess who I just eyeballed down at the airport. No less than Doc Savage himself. No, I didn’t see him exactly. But his bronze plane is scooting into a hangar right now. Sure, I’ll try to snag a story. You know me. If I can’t get one, I’ll make one up!”

Hanging up, the reporter snapped the door open, and hotfooted it toward the hangar in question. He made excellent time, managing to reach the structure just as Doc Savage, trailed by Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks, exited the building.

Excitedly, the legman raised one arm, calling out, “Hey! Doc Savage! Is that you?”

Behind the bronze man, Monk Mayfair growled, “Dang! Looks like a local newshawk.”

Ham frowned. “No avoiding him.”

Doc Savage commented, “I had hoped to avoid such a situation by landing in the dark, but headwinds were against us.”

The scribe jogged up and came to a halt, a yellow pencil poised over his dingy notepad.

“What brings you to the Windy City, Doc?”

Monk got in front of the bronze man and waved his massive paws about, saying, “Scram, you! Don’t you know Doc never gives interviews?”

The scribe grinned crookedly, “Sure. But rules are made to be broken. What say you? What’s doing in Chicago that interests the Man of Bronze?”

Doc Savage imparted, “We prefer to offer no comment at this time.”

The reporter had a hunch, or perhaps he took a wild stab. “Is it anything to do with the mysterious death of Myer Sim?”

Ham Brooks interjected, “My good man, Doc Savage does not wish to speak on the record.”

The newspaper legman was persistent. He followed them to the operations building, pestering them with questions but getting no response.

Doc Savage resembled a statue of bronze, except that he moved with a fluidity that belied his metallic solidity. He was such an impressive sight in motion that the reporter began wishing he had a photographer along. Candid pictures of the bronze man of mystery were rare.

Entering the building, Monk made a point of going in last and slamming the door behind him, holding the knob firmly in both hands, preventing the lanky reporter from so much as turning the knob.

Seeing the way of it, he ran back to the public telephone, and began filing his story.

“Sam! It’s hot! Doc Savage blew in to town to look into the Myer Sim mystery. I got the whole scoop! Put a rewrite man on the wire.”

For the journalist in question was one of the members of his fraternity who rarely wrote his own stories. Instead, he phoned them in to someone who took down the facts verbatim, typing them into publishable form.

ONCE he had made arrangements for securing his aircraft, Doc Savage rented a dark sedan, and he, Monk and Ham piled in and began the push into early morning traffic.

“Where to for us, Doc?” asked Monk.

“We will check in at Long Tom’s hotel, and find out what progress he has made. By now, he should have spoken with Janet Falcon.”

The Hotel Chicago was one of the best the city had to offer. But this early in the morning, it was quiet.

Doc Savage entered the lobby, Monk and Ham following him. He went to the front desk clerk, swiftly cut through the man’s flustered excitement.

“We wish to secure a suite of rooms,” said Doc, “but first ring the room occupied by Major Thomas J. Roberts.”

“Wait one moment.” The clerk looked up the room number and rang. A few minutes later, he hung up, reporting, “Mr. Roberts does not answer, sir. But there is a telegram for you.”

No expression registered on the bronze giant’s metallic features, but Monk and Ham looked vaguely baffled.

“No one knew we’d be coming here,” declared Ham.

“Long Tom might reasonably suspect that we would show up,” stated Doc, taking the telegram and tearing it open.

Once Doc read the message, he passed it around, first to Monk. Ham crowded in.

The two aides read it together. The text ran: