Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (16 page)

Some twenty minutes later, they were pulling into the circular drive of the rather fashionable brick Victorian home in the suburb of Lincolnwood.

As they exited the vehicle, Doc asked Malcolm McLean, “Does Myer Sim have any family?”

McLean shook his gray head, and said, “He lived alone, although there were servants. The maid should still be in residence. I understand she is quite shaken up.”

McLean led them to the front door, lifted the brass door knocker and rapped on it several times insistently.

The maid soon answered, and she seemed not particularly alarmed by the sight of a human corpse at her door. She was a Negro girl, young and rather pretty. She wore the neat black-and-white uniform of a housemaid.

“Why, Mr. McLean!” she said politely. “What can I do for you?”

McLean said, “With me are the famous Doc Savage and his associates. They are interested in what happened to your late employer. May we come in?”

The maid looked uncertain. Then Doc Savage stepped up and showed his New York police credentials, and it seemed to do the trick.

“Do come in,” invited the maid, stepping aside.

They were quickly led to a paneled study that was partly a library and personal business office. It had the look of a room that had been maintained over several generations, with only small personal details changing with each occupant.

Doc Savage went to the desk, and examined the items upon it. For the most part, they were unremarkable.

Malcolm McLean addressed the maid, saying, “You were the only one in residence when Mr. Sim was stricken. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

“But I don’t know what happened!” she said sincerely. “I was moving about the house, doing my bounden duty, and I thought I heard Mr. Sim arguing with someone in this very study.”

Doc Savage asked, “What was the nature of the argument?”

“I was too far away to tell, but it was mighty peculiar. I hadn’t let anybody in. Yet I heard two voices. Mr. Sim was getting rather hot in his arguing, for his voice was raised several times. It was not like him to raise his voice; he was not that sort of man.”

“Did you make out any of it?” asked Doc.

“It sounded like he was saying. ‘I refuse! I refuse!’ There was a long silence, and I thought I heard him speaking to the telephone operator. Then he called out, saying, ‘What is this ringing I hear?’ Lastly, there come a noise like something had fallen. It was quiet for a while after that. Then it seemed to me to be
too
quiet, if you know what I mean. So I knocked on the door. Mr. Sim did not answer. So I opened the door.”

The maid, whose name was Polly, became shaky in her composure.

“I found Mr. Sim on the floor, the telephone in one hand, the telephone stand knocked over. He wasn’t moving none. He wasn’t moving at all.”

“Go on,” invited Doc.

The maid closed her eyes and took in a slow sip of air. When she resumed, she was more in control of herself.

“I knelt down, and I could hear the telephone operator calling out, but I was afraid to take the receiver out of Mr. Sim’s cold hand. I knew he was dead. I could tell. A body knows.”

Doc Savage had been hovering around the desk, his eyes very active, and unbeknownst to the others, his keen sense of smell was also at work.

Ham questioned, “You said you heard two voices. Were there any signs of a second party in the room?”

The maid shook her head vigorously. “None. I couldn’t touch the telephone, so I went to a neighbor woman and she called the police. The police done came and took poor Mr. Sim away. He was definitely dead. Not that I needed anybody to tell me. I know a body when I see one.”

The servant closed her eyes again. It was a painful memory they were stirring.

Doc Savage asked a question which, in the moment, seemed peculiar.

“What time of day did this happen?”

“It was afternoon. The day before yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

Doc drifted over to one window. All blinds except for this one were pulled down for privacy. These were fabric window shades. The center one was rolled up quite high, and a decent dose of sunlight was coming through to help illuminate the study.

“Was it sunny when you entered this room?” prompted Doc.

“Yes, sir. It was a very sunny day.”

“What were the positions of these shades?” Doc queried.

The maid looked momentarily puzzled, and thought hard.

“Mr. Sim likes the shades set halfway down so the sun doesn’t get into his eyes when he is sitting at his writing desk. Except the center one, he likes it down pretty low most days.”

“Why is it up now?” asked Doc.

The maid looked a trifle embarrassed. “On account of the stain. I pulled it up all the way before the police arrived because I didn’t want it to reflect poorly on Mr. Sim, or on my housekeeping.”

Reaching up, Doc found the woven ring and hauled down the shade.

Monk and Ham were startled by what they beheld on the shade, although on reflection perhaps they should not have been.

IMPRINTED on the pale surface was a bilious greenish-yellow splotch. It had a shapeless quality, but the head portion was unmistakable. It resembled a nest of snakes, their wedge-shaped heads twisted all about, bristling with fangs and forked tongues.

Malcolm McLean strode up to the window shade, and examined the gargoyle-shaped outline with professional interest.

“I do not recognize what type of stain this could be,” he said slowly.

Monk grunted, “Join the parade.”

McLean continued to study the outline, and seemed not to recognize what it signified.

“Rather large for a stain,” he pronounced.

“It may not be a stain precisely,” commented Doc. “But the outline is very suggestive.”

“Of what?” McLean wondered.

“Step back a few paces,” suggested Doc.

McLean did so, and seemed to struggle with his eyes. Finally, Ham Brooks lent a hand.

“The top portion suggests a being with a head full of darting serpents, while the rest of the form might be a garment of ancient cut.”

McLean frowned, and the deep corrugations of his unlovely forehead did not look natural.

Monk completed the thought for him, asking, “Don’t you recognize Medusa when you see her?”

McLean got it then. But he continued to look baffled.

“Why would anyone paint that hideous outline on a common window shade?”

“It may not have been painted,” said Doc. “Monk, take it down, please.”

While the homely chemist climbed onto a chair to retrieve the widow treatment, the bronze man drifted over to the wastebasket and was rummaging through the detritus found within.

“There are burnt granules on the desktop,” he stated. “What was Mr. Sim in the habit of burning?”

The maid replied, “Mr. Sim suffered from asthma. When he was having an attack, he would burn some of his asthma powder on the desk and inhale it.”

Doc found the residue of burnt powder at the bottom of the wastebasket and poured this onto a blank sheet of paper he took from the desktop. It smelled faintly of peppermint oil, which was a common ingredient in many of the commercial powders that aided suffering asthmatics.

“Was this powder on his desk after the body was discovered?”

“Yes, sir,” said the maid. “I cleaned it up only this morning.”

Doc Savage took the sheet of paper and folded it in a shape that was similar to the paper sailor hats young boys create. He inserted this into an inner pocket. But he said nothing more about it.

“Did you look at your employer’s face when you found him?”

“I did.”

“And what did you perceive?”

“Poor Mr. Sim’s eyes were sunken and hollow, like someone dead for a few days. But that plain couldn’t be so. He was alive and talking only moments before.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, who then turned to the others and announced, “We are finished here. Our next course of action is to locate Janet Falcon.”

All eyes turned to Malcolm McLean. A stubborn look came over his dull face. He folded his arms defiantly and said, “I refuse to divulge Miss Falcon’s present whereabouts until we get to the bottom of her mistreatment.”

Monk and Ham looked to Doc Savage, who went to the telephone and picked it up.

“Operator, get me the Superintendent of Police of Chicago. This is Doc Savage speaking.”

In short order, the bronze man was in low conversation with the party who came on the line. He turned his back to further conceal the exchange. And when he was done, he turned and announced, “By the time we get back to the city, we should have a line on Miss Falcon’s present whereabouts.”

This comment immediately struck Malcolm McLean as humorous. He began cackling in a macabre way that was forced and unpleasant.

“Oh, I will believe
that
when I see it!” he tittered.

Monk Mayfair eyed him and said, “Brother, be prepared to believe. When Doc Savage says something, it comes plated in gold.”

Malcolm McLean’s tittering came apart, and his eyes got a little worried. He essayed another attempt at laughing, but it failed miserably.

Doc told him, “Nevertheless, you are welcome to accompany us to our destination.”

The moribund-looking chemist did not hesitate. “I have heard astonishing things about you, Mr. Savage. I’m intrigued to see if your reputation is as stellar as the newspapers would have it. Also, in the unlikely event you do manage to unearth Miss Falcon, I wish to be present to guarantee her safety.”

Now it was Monk Mayfair’s turn to laugh.

“Follow us, ghastly,” he said roughly. “It might be educational at that.”

Chapter XV

UNPLEASANT INTERVIEW

DOC SAVAGE DROVE rapidly into downtown Chicago, and pulled up before the central police station on Michigan Avenue. McLean’s garish purple phaeton coupe pulled in behind, brakes jerking, tires cutting into the curbstone.

“Wait here,” Doc informed the others. “Watch McLean. Do not let him out of your sight.”

Ham asked, “You do not trust him?”

“We do not wish McLean to call Janet Falcon and warn her that we are on her trail.”

The bronze giant went inside.

Minutes later, Doc returned and said to Monk and Ham, “I have a line on Janet Falcon. But first we will go to Long Tom’s hotel and look into the situation there.”

When this was conveyed to Malcolm McLean, assorted expressions paraded across his deathly-gray features.

“As I told you before, I planned to attend the exposition today. I will be happy to detour to that particular hotel on our way to wherever you imagine Miss Falcon to be.”

“Thank you,” said Doc politely. He reclaimed the wheel of the rented sedan, and the two vehicles moved into traffic.

The hotel was equipped with a rather sizable underground garage. Since Doc had previously registered, they were able to park the sedan there. As a member of the scientific exposition being held within its halls, Malcolm McLean was extended a similar courtesy.

They rode a rather narrow service elevator up to the lobby, and Doc Savage strode up to the front desk, and what he said caused Malcolm McLean to practically jump out of his rather tight shoes.

“In which room is Miss York staying?” he asked.

Had a man of less sterling reputation asked such a question, he might have been politely rebuffed. But this was Doc Savage, a world-renowned figure.

The desk clerk had no hesitation in responding, “Miss York has taken Room 612.”

“Thank you,” said Doc.

Turning, his flake-gold eyes rested upon Malcolm McLean, who was trying to gather his wits, and not doing a very good job of it.

“You—you tricked me!” he burst out.

“How so?” asked Doc calmly.

“You informed me that we were coming to this hotel before going to meet Miss York—I mean Miss Falcon,” he sputtered out.

“No,” corrected Doc. “You were told that we would visit this establishment on our way to visit Miss Falcon. You assumed that we were bound for two separate destinations.”

Now McLean sealed his lips so tightly they disappeared. His eyes narrowed. It seemed as if his normal reserve was becoming undone. Dark gleams came into his bone-gray eyeballs that were not pleasant to see.

“You may accompany us,” invited Doc unemotionally.

They took the elevator to the sixth floor. As the lift toiled upward, Doc Savage, for reasons that were not clear to Monk and Ham, launched into a brief explanation of his amazing deduction.

“Two clues were provided by your statement, McLean,” he said. “One that Janet Falcon was safely hidden away, and the other that she was using an alias or assumed name.”

McLean said tightly, “It is not possible to deduce anything useful from those minuscule facts.”

“I did deduce from your apparent professional connection with Miss Falcon that you did not hide her in your own personal residence. That suggested a hotel. Under the circumstances, a respectable hotel. That narrowed the possibilities down considerably.”

McLean sniffed, “But there are dozens of good hotels in the Chicago area. Many more immediately outside of it.”

Doc nodded somberly. “Which prompted our visit to police headquarters where I requested that they assemble a list of female residents who had checked into local hotels in the last twenty-four hours. Women do not frequently travel alone, so the list was rather scanty. When the police superintendent showed me the list, I concluded it could only be a woman named Jane York who had lately registered at this hotel.”

“That is quite a leap in assumptions,” sneered McLean.

“Not if one understands human psychology,” supplied Doc as the lift came to a halt, and the door rolled open.

They stepped out, turned left, and walked along the carpeted hall runner.

“Assuming that the woman chose her own alias,” continued Doc, “and knowing that normally persons are uncomfortable with assumed names, it was a safe bet that Janet Falcon would have chosen a first name close to her own. Before seeing the list, I planned to look for women whose first initials began with the letter J. Evidently, due to the speed at which she was forced to go into hiding, Janet Falcon chose a first name that was only one letter short her own name.”