Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (17 page)

Monk snapped his thick fingers. “I get it! Janet became Jane.”

“That was so simple even
you
could follow it,” sniffed Ham.

They came to the correct room, and Doc Savage said, “It was too close to be coincidental.”

Malcolm McLean said in a low, disgruntled voice. “You make it sound elementary.”

Ham interjected, “Perhaps because it
was
elementary.”

In response to Doc’s knocking, a female voice asked cautiously, “Who is it?”

To Malcolm McLean’s complete dumfoundment, he heard a voice very much like his own emerge from Doc Savage’s metallic lips. The tone that was identical to his own said, “Malcolm McLean calling.”

McLean’s jaw sagged downward, and he looked about to shout a warning. Monk Mayfair swept in, and clapped a hairy hand over the man’s open mouth.

McLean struggled strenuously, but was unable to speak or wrest free.

Sound of footsteps approaching the other side of the panel came. Monk abruptly removed his paw and thrust Malcolm McLean’s dazed features in front of the door panel, where there was a tiny peephole.

McLean realized too late that he was being used to allay Janet Falcon’s concerns.

The door came open, and Monk pulled McLean away. Doc Savage stepped into view, a tower of bronze.

The woman responded as one might expect a woman would. The back of her hand flew up to her open mouth, and she seemed torn between letting out a shriek of surprise and stifling it.

Doc said directly, “Apologies for the subterfuge. But we must speak to you about the whereabouts of Long Tom Roberts.”

“You are Doc Savage!” Janet Falcon gasped.

“We would prefer to come inside,” said Doc. “In order to converse in private.”

Janet Falcon’s fear-widened eyes went from the bronze man to Monk, Ham and finally Malcolm McLean, who was grabbing his tie and attempting to straighten it out. At the same time, his features resembled dirty gray water that had become disturbed.

“Mr. McLean! What is the meaning of this?”

“I was tricked by these men,” he burst out. “I did not mean to bring them to you. Please forgive me.”

This proclamation alarmed Janet Falcon, who suddenly stepped back, and attempted to slam the door shut.

Monk Mayfair inserted a huge foot, effectively blocking the panel from closing.

Doc stepped in, easing the door open with gentle but irresistible strength.

“We mean you no harm, Miss Falcon. We are merely making an investigation.”

“I do not wish to speak with you,” she said flatly.

While Ham was closing the door behind them, Doc Savage scrutinized Janet Falcon.

“Your employer was found dead under mysterious circumstances,” he related. “And now your fiancé has also met his end. One would think you would wish to cooperate.”

“She does not have to, you—you wooden Indian!” Malcolm McLean inserted.

Monk ambled up to the deathly-gray individual and growled, “Pipe down, you! Or I’ll fetch you a fresh coffin to go with your graveyard looks!”

The corpse-faced chemist gasped, then subsided.

Doc Savage continued, “What about it, Miss Falcon? Why did you send Ned Gamble to New York?”

“I decline to answer. Please go away. You have no standing in Chicago.”

From an inner pocket, the big bronze man produced an envelope. It was unsealed. Opening it, he unfolded a sheet of paper, and handed it over.

Janet Falcon accepted this and read it in silence. The letterhead belonged to the Superintendent of the Chicago Police Department.

“This says that you have been authorized to conduct an official investigation into the death of Myer Sim,” she breathed.

“And, per my New York credentials, that of Ned Gamble,” added Doc.

“I see,” said Janet Falcon vaguely. Her eyes darted about the hotel room. She twisted her pale fingers together, made a bony knot, nervously undid them.

“I—I have nothing to offer you,” she said miserably.

Doc Savage produced another sheet of paper. Handing this to her, he said, “Here is a list of recent visitors to Myer Sim’s residence. Chicago police detectives compiled it, sharing it with me. Do you recognize any of those names?”

The distraught woman looked over the list. It was short. Only a handful of names.

“I know all of them,” she admitted. “These are men of high position in the scientific community. Surely you recognize them as well. Are you not yourself a scientist?”

Recovering the list, Doc Savage stated, “All are familiar to me. I merely wished to know if they were frequent visitors to Myer Sim’s residence.”

“In recent weeks, yes. Some of them came often. But that means nothing. All of these men are present at the exposition being held at this very hotel.” Her tone becoming brittle, she added, “Why don’t you simply go to the exposition hall and inquire of them? I wish to be left alone.”

Doc looked to Monk Mayfair. “Hand me that, please.”

The homely chemist had been studying the trim lines of Janet Falcon’s frock. He lifted the rolled-up window shade taken from the Sim residence den.

“Here you go, Doc.”

Accepting the tube, the bronze man unrolled it with a sudden snap of his metallic hand.

The laminate sheet dropped open, displaying the yellow-green imprint that was so hideous.

Janet Falcon’s emerald eyes went to the image. She immediately paled. Her eyes rolled up and her knees suddenly buckled.

Monk moved then. He leaped in and caught the woman’s suddenly limp form, depositing it on the couch.

“Fainted!” said Ham. “The image meant something to her.”

“What do you know about that?” muttered Monk. “What do you say, Doc?”

The bronze man furled the shade and commented, “You overlooked something.”

A puzzled expression roosted on Monk’s wide features that bordered on the comical.

Doc Savage helped him out by asking, “Where is McLean?”

Monk and Ham looked around wildly.

“He must have ducked out!” Ham exclaimed.

Monk snarled, “I thought you were watchin’ him!”

Ham waved his slim stick in frustration. “I assumed that you were. But of course you had your eyes on the girl. Or should I say—on her legs?”

Doc Savage said, “We will get no more out of Miss Falcon at present. McLean doubtless retreated to the exposition hall. We will follow him and begin interviewing the participants.”

“Sounds kinda dull,” muttered Monk.

But it proved to be anything but.

Chapter XVI

GATHERING SCIENTIFIC

THE SIGN OVER the great exhibition hall attached to the Hotel Chicago read:

CHICAGO EXPOSITION OF SCIENCE

Doc Savage, accompanied by Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks, arrived at the entrance after a brief stop at their hotel room to leave the unusual window shade collected from the home of Myer Sim. Doc secreted it, along with Long Tom’s strange magnetic gun, in a large upholstered chair.

During that stop, he had also left the hatbox containing the grit believed to be the late Long Tom Roberts’ mortal remains behind, but asked Ham to pocket the intact stone hand without further explanation.

There were ticket takers stationed at the front of the building, and they were so awestruck by the giant bronze man they neglected to ask if he held a ticket. All recognized him.

When Doc entered the exhibition hall itself, heads began turning.

Almost immediately, one individual approached. He wore an extremely serious countenance whose cragginess bespoke of middle age, and resembled an investment banker down to his conservative haircut and wire-rimmed eyeglasses framing frank gray eyes.

“Dr. Savage,” he greeted. “I recall we met a few years ago at a conference in Washington. Warner Rockwell is my name.”

Doc Savage took the offered hand, and shook it firmly, saying, “I remember you, Dr. Rockwell. At that time, you were working along certain lines in brain surgery.”

A tremor touched Dr. Rockwell’s craggily handsome features.

“Lines upon which you improved. For before I could conclude my research, you announced a superior version of my procedure.”

Doc nodded. “An unfortunate circumstance. But I had been pursuing similar clinical studies prior to our meeting.”

“Well, that’s all in the past,” said Rockwell. “I read in the papers that you’re in town to investigate the strange death of Myer Sim.”

As he spoke, Dr. Rockwell’s penetrating gray eyes never left the bronze man’s face. He had a rather peculiar gaze. He did not seem to blink. He just stared.

Doc admitted, “The newspapers have jumped to a conclusion. In this case, it was the correct one. It is my understanding that you were often a visitor to his home.”

“I was. Nothing unusual about that. A great many of us were excited about this exposition.”

“Did Sim have any known enemies?” pressed Doc.

“I doubt it. But you might want to talk to Marvin Lucian Linden about that. He knew Sim better than I. Come, let me introduce you to him.”

Walking with a purposeful stride, Dr. Rockwell led the bronze man through the maze of exhibitions that was the exposition.

The assembly was, in fact, composed of multiple exhibitions. There were booths in which well-known commercial companies were represented. Individual inventors also showed their prized developments.

The latest industrial projects, modern conveniences destined for homes across America, were on display.

As they passed by, Monk looked some of these over with great interest. He had a keen eye for the latest developments in his field, and others. The work which Doc Savage and his men did required that they be at least one jump ahead of their enemies. Most of their tools were scientific.

They came to a booth which stood empty. There was a banner over it, proclaiming that here was the exhibit belonging to Thomas J. Roberts, the noted electrical engineer.

The sight of the vacant booth brought a pained expression to Monk Mayfair’s incredibly homely features.

Ham Brooks likewise looked faint. Firming up his lips, he said nothing. The thoughts of both men were easily read on their faces. They were thinking of a hatbox containing a gritty powder which might be the mortal remains of their comrade in arms.

No doubt Doc Savage noticed the empty booth as well, but the bronze man showed no outward sign that he did. From childhood, he had been schooled to control his emotions. His face might have been a metal mask.

They came at last to a booth not far from where Long Tom had planned to hold forth. This was in the section of the exhibition hall segregated for advancements in the field of electrical engineering.

The person manning the booth was small and spry, and rather on the excitable side. His hair stuck out in a frizzled halo, as if he had accidentally electrocuted himself and the individual strands of hair had fried to the proverbial crisp. In spite of the fellow’s comparative youth, their color was a rather neutral gray.

When he saw Doc Savage approaching, the crispy-haired individual leaped from his chair, and proclaimed, “Do I spy the Man of Bronze himself? Doc Savage in the flesh! Although flesh might not be the best description to use for, if you were not moving, I might have mistaken you for the legendary warder of ancient Crete, Talos. He, too, was a man of bronze.”

The effusive one grinned with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.

Dr. Rockwell made introductions. “Doc Savage, please meet Marvin Lucian Linden, a close friend of the late Myer Sim.”

Doc and the excitable electrical inventor shook hands, Linden rather too vigorously. Doc managed to detach himself, however.

“I have been keeping my eyes peeled for your comrade, Long Tom Roberts, all morning,” said Linden. “But I have yet to spy him.”

“Long Tom is indisposed,” replied Doc Savage matter-of-factly.

This brought startled looks into both Monk and Ham’s eyes, but they said nothing. Doc Savage was doubtless concealing the truth for reasons of his own.

Marvin Lucian Linden went on breathlessly. “I had hoped to discuss with Roberts his latest theories on television. I believe that television will become an important medium in the future. Of course, your theories would interest me, as well. A few years ago, I had begun work on a new-type scanner to replace the old mechanical ones then in development. Imagine my displeasure when I read in a scientific journal that you had already achieved a breakthrough in that area.”

Doc Savage said, “Television has a long way to go before it has been fully explored in all of its potential. A great deal of work remains.”

Marvin Lucian Linden grinned rather lopsidedly. “That is a rather gracious way to put it. But no hard feelings. Although I was beaten to the punch, it was fair and square, and I have not yet been knocked to the canvas.”

Doc Savage changed the subject without skipping a beat. “I am interested in the activities of Myer Sim in the days leading up to his untimely passing.”

The lopsided grin collapsed, and Marvin Lucian Linden became grim of feature.

“I am keen to read the autopsy results,” said Linden. “For I cannot imagine what struck down poor Myer. The man was in his prime.”

“What did you two discuss when last you spoke?” pressed Doc.

“Why, the coming exhibition, of course. Sim was most eager to appear. He had invented something rather novel, but refused to divulge the details. There was nothing personal in that, of course. Secrecy is important to an inventor working alone. His booth in the northwest corner is rather large, so I imagine that what he planned to display was not a small discovery.”

“What was Sim’s particular field of endeavor?” asked Doc.

“He did not have one. Sim was rather a scientific gadfly. He had invented many things on a small scale. But now he had moved up in the world to something he thought was momentous. What it was, I have no idea. Nor did I need to know in advance. I fully expected to view it here today.” Linden shook his head morosely. “Alas, it was not to be.”

Doc Savage then asked, “Do you know Malcolm McLean well?” This question was not directed to Marvin Lucian Linden alone, but to Dr. Warner Rockwell as well.