Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (15 page)

“Has that fellow been following us?”

Doc nodded almost imperceptibly.

Ham decided to take bold action. Stepping away, he began walking toward the slushy corner.

Drawing near, the dapper lawyer observed the driver’s face more clearly. He all but paled.

For the face of the driver looked like nothing natural. It was an unlovely gray, exactly the color of a corpse that had lain in his coffin for some weeks.

The prospect of the man’s unpleasant cast of countenance caused Ham to hesitate. Some sights are unnerving, and this was especially so. The face appeared to be dead and gray, yet the eyes were very much alive and active. They locked upon Ham Brooks.

Baring very white teeth—so white that the contrast around the surrounding gray lips was uncanny—the driver abruptly backed up, evidently intent upon fleeing with alacrity.

“He’s tryin’ to get away,” Monk growled in Mayan.

Doc Savage dropped a tire chain in the snow, and left off all pretense of putting it on the rental machine’s tire. Wheeling, he dashed down the street, just as the purple phaeton was straightening itself out.

With a frantic shifting of gears, the corpse-face driver threw the car forward. Malodorous exhaust jetted from the tailpipe. With a grinding noise, the phaeton shot ahead.

It was well underway when Doc Savage broke into a sprint, and raced behind the vehicle. Traffic inhibited the phaeton, of course. So it could not accelerate to its upmost speed. Still, it was making a good clip. The machine apparently possessed a very fine motor.

Doc Savage raced up behind the fleeing vehicle, overhauled it, then did something that was seldom seen outside of Hollywood extravaganzas.

Pacing the phaeton, he grabbed hold of one window post, and leaped to mount the running board.

The corpse-faced driver at first did not realize that he had picked up an unwanted passenger. His almost too-alive eyes were bugging out of his head as they stared at the traffic before him, seeking an opening in which to insert his fleeing machine.

Only when bronze knuckles began rapping on the driver-side window did his head jerk around and his eyelids fly wide.

The effect was very weird. The whites of his eyes, combined with the ivory of his bared teeth, looked rather like a skull that still possessed some of its living parts.

The man emitted an inarticulate cry. He began wrenching the wheel from side to side, as if to violently throw off his unwanted passenger.

Calmly, Doc Savage reached down with one free hand and attempted to pry open the car door.

Seeing this, the driver panicked. He attempted to get at the push-button lock of the door. For the bronze man had seen that it was not pushed down.

They engaged in a tug-of-war, a test of strength between the man frantically pushing down on the door button while Doc Savage actually forced the door handle up.

The bronze giant’s tremendous strength quickly won out.

Opening the door was not easily accomplished since the bronze man’s own body was blocking it. But he managed to crack it enough to let in cold air, as well as his ringing voice.

“Pull over,” ordered Doc. He was polite about it, but something in the metallic ring of his voice also carried a compelling vibration of command.

The corpse man would have none of it. He took one hand off the push-button, grabbed the wheel with both sets of gray fingers, and began rocking it back and forth.

“That will do you no good,” cautioned Doc.

Nor did it. The driver began to clash nearby fenders; it seemed as if an accident was imminent.

That was when Doc Savage stepped back along the running board, found the handle to the back door, and let himself in.

The bronze giant landed on the rear seat cushions with such force that the suspension springs groaned and the car body jounced alarmingly.

Reaching forward, Doc Savage seized the man by his thin neck, and began applying pressure to certain spinal nerve centers there, so as to effect a sense of creeping paralysis in his extremities.

Feeling the strength go out of his fingers, the driver’s evident panic redoubled. He understood he was about to lose control of his machine. So he did all that he could.

Throwing the steering wheel hard to the left, he flung the auto up onto the curb, simultaneously stomping on the brake pedal.

The phaeton slammed to a sloppy halt. One headlight cracked.

Doc left the vehicle, threw open the driver’s door and hauled the gray man out bodily.

He attempted to place the man on his feet, but the fellow’s knees had gone rubbery and Doc’s spinal kneading had pretty much turned his nerve strings into limp spaghetti. Doc had to catch him before he fell to the sidewalk slush.

There being no appropriate place to set him down, Doc lay the unusual fellow on the hood of his own vehicle, holding him in place with nothing more than the strength of one corded hand. The grisly-looking man struggled in vain.

Reaching into his pockets, Doc found the man’s billfold, opened it up and began examining what he found within.

“This identification says that you are Malcolm McLean,” the bronze man said. “Is this true?”

The man found his voice. Through chattering teeth, he admitted, “I am Malcolm McLean.”

“Why are you following me?”

“Because you are Doc Savage. The morning newspaper said that you had come to town to look into the Myer Sim matter.”

“What business is that of yours?”

“Myer Sim was a colleague, and a friend. I am interested in knowing what happened to him, as well.”

“What is your business, McLean?” pressed Doc.

“I am a chemist of some note. Myer was an inventor, as you may know,” the man chattered. “We sometimes worked on projects together.”

“That does not completely explain your behavior.”

“If I may,” said McLean, pushing himself off the hood and finding his feet.

Standing up, the man tried to compose himself. Either nervousness or the cold or a combination caused his teeth to chatter uncontrollably. It was an unnerving sound, given his corpselike countenance. Even his hair had a kind of dead look to it.

Doc asked, “Were you born with this condition?”

McLean shook his head vigorously. “When I was born, I did not possess this gruesome pallor. No, my unfortunate affliction is the direct result of experimenting with colloidal silver, which as you certainly should know as a medical man, results in the condition called argyria.”

Doc nodded. His flake-gold eyes continued to scrutinize the unfortunate individual. In his general contours, Malcolm McLean appeared to be an ordinary man, but in his skin tones he was anything but. A Hollywood movie director could have cast him in a horror picture, and raked in considerable box office. That was how unpleasant Malcolm McLean looked.

By this time, Monk and Ham had caught up with Doc Savage.

The homely chemist eyeballed the human corpse and remarked unkindly, “Who dug you up?”

The gray face swiveled, took in Monk’s gorilla physique and his eyes became bright with recognition.

“I recognize you, sir,” said Malcolm McLean. “You are Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, the renowned industrial chemist. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. We are in the same line. For I, too, am a chemist by trade. Malcolm McLean is my name.”

“Never heard of you,” grunted Monk. “What’s the idea of followin’ us?”

The man’s face fell momentarily, as if he were expecting recognition from a presumed colleague.

Malcolm McLean was momentarily tongue-tied. His teeth chattering resumed. A pink tongue came out and licked grayish lips like old gristle. The combination of colors was vaguely nauseating in a human face.

Ham Brooks interjected, “Speak up then. We are not to be trifled with.”

Some inner dignity asserted itself, and Malcolm McLean took firm hold of his chattering jaw. When he resumed speaking, his voice was deeper and more resolute.

“You gentlemen may wish to explain why one of your associates—I am referring to the celebrated electrical expert, Mr. Long Tom Roberts—injured an acquaintance of mine last night.”

Suspicion made Ham’s eyes darken. “Make yourself plain, my good man.”

“I am referring to Miss Janet Falcon, the personal secretary of Myer Sim. Last evening, your man Roberts paid Miss Falcon a visit and an altercation ensued in which Mr. Roberts assaulted Miss Falcon most cruelly. I happened to be paying a call upon her, and discovered this. Seeing the way of it, I rendered Roberts unconscious, and escorted Miss Falcon to a safe refuge until the matter could be straightened out. It does appear that her life is in danger.”

Doc Savage had been listening patiently. Now he put in a question. “Where is Miss Falcon presently?”

“Where no one is likely to find her. Living under an alias.”

Monk bared teeth that looked big enough to double as the tops of picket fences. This made his entire simian face ferocious in the extreme.

Balling two fists, he lifted one in warning. “We got ways of makin’ guys like you talk.”

“I am innocent of any wrongdoing,” protested McLean. “You cannot apply such brutish pressure upon an upstanding citizen such as myself. Also, Doc Savage has an impeccable reputation. I doubt very much that he would countenance a bruiser such as yourself giving me a physical workover.”

“Don’t think we don’t take care of guys who hurt our friends,” growled Monk.

Malcolm McLean was about to utter something cutting when Doc Savage broke in to ask, “Where did you last see Long Tom Roberts?”

“I left him unconscious in Miss Falcon’s apartment. No doubt he has returned to wakefulness by now.”

“We did not discover Long Tom in Miss Falcon’s place,” said Doc, not going into any further details.

This did not sway Malcolm McLean. “No doubt he let himself out. If you wish to locate him, I would advise you to go to the hotel where the scientific exposition is being held. I myself am planning to attend later today. For I have something to exhibit there.”

Doc Savage studied the man, and was thoughtful in a stoic, composed way.

“We were on our way to look into the Myer Sim matter,” he stated. “Perhaps you would like to serve as our introduction to his survivors.”

Malcolm McLean appeared momentarily taken aback. He seemed at a loss for a proper response. His eyes narrowed and his teeth commenced chattering anew. They sounded like castanets.

The unpleasantness of the man’s demeanor was almost shocking. His eyes jerked about in his head and his teeth continually clashed. McLean might have been a puppet whose maker had not yet finished painting normal human hues on his wooden features.

Finally, he announced, “Since you are investigating the death of my good friend, I will acquiesce on his behalf. But for no other reason. For the behavior of your man Roberts last night was reprehensible—inexcusable in the extreme.”

Doc Savage said nothing about that.

Instead, he offered, “We will bring our vehicle around, and you may lead us to Myer Sim’s residence.”

A strange relief washed over Malcolm McLean’s leaden countenance and he said, “The home is in the suburb of Lincolnwood, not ten miles away. Kindly follow me.”

Chapter XIV

THE GHASTLY STAIN

THE DRIVE TO Lincolnwood was not very long, but at one point Doc Savage pulled over to install the snow chains on his tires in order to navigate certain thoroughfares.

During the stop, which occupied a short interval, Malcolm McLean stepped out of his purple phaeton to watch the bronze giant jack up the sedan’s tires in order to set the linkages in place. Somewhat bored, his gaze wandered, and so noticed a hatbox resting on the back seat cushions.

“That is Miss Falcon’s hatbox!” cried the gray-visaged chemist.

Monk Mayfair growled, “What’s it to you, you walkin’ zombie?”

An indignant expression, so comical it almost caused Ham Brooks to burst into laughter, took over Malcolm McLean’s unlovely features.

“Why, this is theft of personal property! I’ve always understood you fellows were men of sterling character. First, Long Tom Roberts shoots a defenseless woman in cold blood, and now one of you has made off with her hat.”

Impulsively yanking open the door, McLean grabbed the hatbox and lifted it. The stupefied look on his face when he almost dropped it was something to see.

“Why, this is quite heavy,” he said wonderingly.

Surrounding the hatbox with one arm, McLean lifted the lid and exposed the powdery grit contained within. Atop it was the stone hand whose freakishly fat thumb bore the print pattern of Long Tom Roberts.

McLean lifted this up, studied it and asked, “What the devil is this?”

Monk Mayfair, always happy to shock someone, said matter-of-factly, “We think it’s Long Tom’s remains. We found it on Miss Falcon’s rug.”

“Nonsense! This appears to be mere crushed rock.”

“That is correct,” interjected Ham. “We suspect Long Tom was reduced to stone.”

The incredulous look that overtook Malcolm McLean’s gray features was bestowed upon Doc Savage, Monk and Ham in equal shares.

“Speaking as a chemist, I doubt this is conceivable—except perhaps as a result of the action of millions of years. In which case, it might be possible for a man to become fossilized. But this does not resemble a fossil to me.”

McLean studied the hand, noticed the whorls of the thumbprint, the lifelike wrinkles at the knuckles and joints, and his changing expression suggested that he was doubting his own professional opinion.

His too-white eyes skated over to Doc Savage as if to ask the bronze man his opinion.

Doc had finished attaching the last jangling web of linked chain and straightened up simultaneously, dropping the front of the vehicle with a quick twist of the jack.

“The truth remains to be seen,” he stated noncommittally.

Gingerly, McLean placed the lifelike hand back in the box, closed the lid and restored it to the back seat of the sedan. He appeared to want nothing more to do with the hatbox.

After Doc stowed away his tools, the two-vehicle procession continued on.