Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (2 page)

Springing the inner hatch with his fingers, Gamble discovered only frustrating emptiness within.

“Our eyes are upon you, Ned Gamble,”
the ugly voice continued.
“Go home. Go home and live. Remain here and die a petrifying death….”

“I’ll show you!” raged Ned Gamble. “Try and stop me.”

Grabbing his hat, Gamble flung for the door, blowing defiant cigarette smoke after him. The smoke scooted across the room and seemed to produce a strange phenomenon.

The threatening voice was still speaking sibilantly.

“Seek not Doc Savage….”

The swirling cloud seemed to strike the unseen author of the warning. For the voice wavered weirdly, falling apart as if the spurt of smoke interfered with the disembodied one.

But Ned Gamble did not hear that. The slamming of the door behind him masked the inexplicable reaction.

NED GAMBLE eschewed the elevator and took the stairs to the lobby. There was a barber shop tucked in one corner, reachable directly by a glass door. He ducked in, threw his hat onto a wall peg and asked the idle barber, “How sharp is that razor?”

“Razor sharp,” the other replied, at a loss for a more clever response.

Flouncing into the chair, Gamble pointed at the forest fire atop his head and instructed, “Get rid of this!”

The barber blinked. “This what?” he gulped.

“This crop of flamingo feathers that makes folks stare at me.”

“You want me to cut your hair off?”

“No time for that,” snapped Ned Gamble. “Shave it clean.”

The barber had cut hair for a dozen years. He had seen some impressive heads of hair. This redhead was a wonder.

“Are—are you sure?”

“As sure as I hope to live to be a hundred.”

As predictions went, it was to prove unfortunate. But neither man knew that.

Gulping, the barber began rooting among his professional implements for the correct tools with which to attack the magnificent thatch of adornment.

He commenced operations with a pair of electric clippers. In short order, the floor was littered by strikingly red curls.

In the chair, Ned Gamble smoked furiously. A hand mirror appeared before his face and the barber was asking, “How is that?”

“Shave it clean,” Gamble growled. “Down to the bone if you can.”

“You’re the boss, boss.”

Pouring hot water into the shaving-cream cup, the barber whipped up a fresh batch and applied the warm lather liberally. Giving his best straight razor a brisk stropping, he carefully scraped his peculiar customer’s scalp clean, starting over the right ear.

The task was soon completed. Ned Gamble eyed his own reflection approvingly. Denuded of hair, his face looked broader, more rugged, as if belonging to a dock worker.

“My sainted mother wouldn’t know me,” he murmured. “What’s the charge?”

The barber had no idea. He had never before been asked to scalp a customer. After some consideration, he said, “Shave and a haircut, one dollar.”

Despite the fact that the price quoted was twice the going rate, he received two. The newly bald customer struggled into his ulster, his cigarette shedding hot ash. He was soon gone.

After the customer departed, the barber dropped into the vacated chair and marveled at the procession of humanity which passes through New York City.

“Takes all kinds, I guess….”

Then his dazed eyes alighted on the man’s hat, still adorning a wall peg.

Thinking that the now-bald customer would need his hat more than ever, the conscientious barber grabbed it off the peg and ran after him.

The man had taken the passage back to the lobby of the Hotel Paramount.

But there was no sign of him there. Nor had the elevator starter sent him up, questioning swiftly disclosed.

“But I know the guest who wore that hat,” the starter countered. “Had flaming red hair.”

“Not anymore!” crowed the other.

The barber doubled back to the front desk and presented his problem.

The desk clerk recognized the fedora immediately.

“That would belong to Mr. Castle.” He hit the desk bell, saying, “I will have the bell captain bring it to his room.”

“Nix! Dibs on the tip.”

The clerk sighed. “Very well. Take it up to Room Fifty-five. But a bellhop must accompany you.”

“Thanks!”

A quick elevator ascent later, the barber was strolling down the corridor to Room Fifty-five, followed by a puzzled bellhop. Reaching the panel, he knocked.

A gruff voice replied, “Who is it?”

“Barber, sir. You left your hat behind.”

“Keep it!”

“I can’t do that,” stammered the barber, sensing his tip going up in smoke.

“Then stick it in the clothes hatch. I’m busy.”

Reluctantly, the disappointed barber did as he was told. Feeling for the catch, he sprang the bulging door open and made ready to place the hat inside.

The barber never completed the action.

The act of opening the hatch produced a result similar to Pandora opening her ill-omened box of troubles.

First, there was a greenish glare, followed by clouds of viscous smoke. These struck the unfortunate barber full in the face, blinding him.

Staggering back, the man let out a yell of baffled astonishment. Still clutching the fedora, he employed it to fan the smoke away from his face. The stuff spread, thinning, but the barber could not see that. The green flash had seared his eyeballs and he could see nothing.

Stumbling about, he discovered a wall, and used it for support.

“Help, oh help me!” he groaned.

THESE cries penetrated to Ned Gamble’s room, where he was gathering up his things and depositing them into his open Gladstone.

Going to the door, he called through the panel, “What’s the trouble out there?”

The answering voice came distinctly. “I—I can’t see!”

“See what?”

The voice replied, but the words came haltingly, disjointed and slurring.

“Speak up!” Gamble shouted.

The thud of a falling body came unmistakably.

Ned Gamble hesitated, uncertain if it was safe to open the door.

Instead, he flung open the door-hatch, saw that its opposite hung open, and peered out through the open gap.

Gamble saw no one, for the stricken barber had fallen to the floor. At the end of the hall, the fire door was closing on the fleeing bellhop, but Gamble did not know that.

Across the corridor, the cream-colored wall had acquired a livid greenish-yellow splotch.

It appeared to be a shadow. The shadow had a shapeless quality, as if the person casting it were attired in sackcloth. But it was the fixed head that made Ned Gamble’s eyes fly wide.

The outline was overlarge, and tangled, as if a nest of serpents were at war with one another. Forked tongues protruded. Fangs bared. But the serpentine mass did not move. It was as if the vivid yellow-green shadow was being cast by a hideous being lying in wait.

Ned Gamble exploded, “Hell’s bells!”

Clapping the hatch shut, he grabbed up his bag, shoved open the window and took his departure.

The sounds of his stamping feet negotiating the fire escape rattled for a bit, then were heard no more….

Chapter II

FAINTING SPELL

THE DESK CLERK presiding over a rather down-at-the-heels lodging house situated near the Bowery looked up from reading a tabloid newspaper and scrutinized the individual who pushed in through the front door.

This individual was a man. Hatless, his completely bald head gleamed in the weak ceiling lights.

He strode up purposefully, and barked, “Need a room for the night.”

The man’s manner was so forceful that the clerk was momentarily taken aback. The individual’s clothes were tasteful and well-kept.

“That will be two-fifty. In advance,” the clerk told him, pushing the register book around.

Bending, the striking individual quickly signed his name.

Already suspicious, the desk clerk gave the register book a twirl, and eyed the name inscribed in moist ink. His suspicions became even more aroused. For the name the new guest had written was Harry Baldwin.

Narrowing eyes jumping to the man’s open face, the desk clerk studied the crown of the guest’s head.

Bald men have at least a fringe of hair around their ears, or some other indication that they once possessed a full head of hair. This man did not. His skull was absolutely nude in that regard. An egg might conceivably display more fuzz.

Many who sought refuge in this Bowery establishment lived on the shady side of the law. The clerk momentarily categorized the bald guest among that shifty legion.

“In town for long?” asked the clerk, handing over a brass room key stamped 205.

“Staying the night,” the other said gruffly. “That’s all.”

“Travel far?” the clerk pressed.

The man shrugged. “Cincinnati.”

The clerk did not think the guest’s accent smacked of Ohio. But he avoided saying so.

“Your room is two flights up. We don’t have a bellhop, but I see you don’t carry much in the way of baggage.”

“Thanks,” said the guest calling himself Harry Baldwin. His Gladstone bag swinging in his left hand, he made a beeline for the stairs, and melted up them briskly.

There was a girl at the hotel’s tiny switchboard, and the clerk bustled over to the corner cubbyhole where she worked.

“Hey, Mabel,” he said. “New guest in Room 205. Says his name is Harry Baldwin. But I don’t believe it.”

“Sounds like a perfectly reasonable name to me,” returned Mabel, in between methodically masticating a wad of chewing gum.

“This Harry Baldwin,” returned the clerk, “is as bald as an egg.”

“Coincidences happen,” murmured the telephone girl.

“Not in this part of town. I want you to listen in on any calls he makes. Write anything down that sounds suspicious.”

The telephone girl’s eyes widened slightly. “You think he’s on the lam?”

“This guest doesn’t add up in my book,” snapped the clerk, taking his departure.

“Okey-dokey,” said the telephone girl, settling down to wait. She picked up a love story magazine with which to idle away the dull afternoon hours.

The telephone girl had not long to wait. The guest in room number 205 picked up the receiver in his room, opening the connection.

“Hotel operator,” the girl said crisply.

“I wish to place a call to a private party in the city. His number is Empire 1-7900.”

“Hold the line while I connect you to Central.”

“Operator,” said a feminine voice at the central telephone exchange.

“Party wishes to speak to the person residing at Empire 1-7900,” the telephone girl requested.

“One moment, please,” called the voice of the central exchange operator, who sounded like the telephone girl’s twin sister, such was the uniformly professional manner of the women who worked modern switchboards.

Although eavesdropping was frowned upon in most hotels, this was the Bowery. After the connection was made, the switchboard operator remained on the line.

The phone rang twice. A remarkable voice answered, saying, “Doc Savage speaking.”

The telephone girl’s fingers flew to her carmine mouth, and repressed a gasp of amazement. The name was one she knew well. Doc Savage was an individual to be reckoned with, not just in midtown Manhattan, but throughout the world.

Doc Savage was famous the way kings and heads of state are famous. He was a man of astonishing accomplishments. Although he had been operating publicly for only a few short years, he had already stopped two revolutions, invented a new surgical procedure for brain surgery, designed aircraft that were five years ahead of anything with wings, and performed feats of strength and daring that may well be remembered one hundred years from today.

“Mr. Savage. Ned Gamble from Chicago. I wired you from my train.”

“Your message was received,” said Doc Savage. “But you neglected to state the nature of your problem.”

The voice spoke matter-of-factly, but there was an arresting quality to it, a timbre that made the nerves shiver. It was as if the speaker was vaguely more than human.

“Listen, I hoped to come see you in the morning,” continued Gamble, “but since sending that telegram, my situation has become desperate.”

“Go on,” invited the striking voice of Doc Savage.

“I checked into a certain hotel, and a peculiar thing happened. A disembodied voice threatened me, so I checked out fast to shake whoever had followed me here.”

Interest flavored the bronze man’s voice. “Followed by whom?” he inquired.

“I—I would rather not say over the telephone. But I must meet with you as soon as possible. I fear for my life. Evidently, the precautions I took before I left Chicago were insufficient.”

“How soon can you get here?” asked Doc Savage.

“As soon as I can hail a taxicab.”

“We will be waiting for your arrival.”

“Thanks,” said Gamble shakily. “A terrible thing is in the wind, and I believe you are the only man to stop it.”

With that, Ned Gamble hung up the phone. The line went dead.

The telephone girl flung off her headset, and rushed out to the front desk, squealing excitedly. She loved to trade gossip with the front desk clerk, just as much as he enjoyed receiving it.

“You won’t believe this!” she said breathlessly. “His real name is Ned Gamble. He’s from Chicago.”

“I knew he was a phony!” exploded the clerk. “What else did you learn?”

“You’ll never guess who he rang up.” The clerk looked expectantly. The girl chewed her gum, shifting it to the other side of her mouth, enjoying the interval of expectation.

“No less than
Doc
Savage
himself!” she squealed.

The clerk whistled, the whistle misfired several times as if he couldn’t quite control it. That was how greatly astonished it was.

“Doc Savage, the Man of Bronze!” he breathed. “He can’t be a friend of Doc Savage’s, not staying in a fleabag dump like this one. He must be in trouble.”

“Oh, he is,” chirped the girl. “He told Doc Savage it was life or death. He’s on his way over there now.”