Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (25 page)

Monk heard every word, and considered dropping into the water. It was not deep, and powder-driven pistol lead, entering dense lake water, had a tendency to lose momentum and corkscrew about. His chances for living might be improved by immersion.

The apish chemist was on the verge of doing exactly that when another gunman cried out, “I got me a bright idea.”

“Cough it out,” demanded Joe Shine.

“These two are Monk and Ham. They’re supposed to be thick as thieves. If that ape don’t climb out of the water peaceably, we shoot the lawyer.”

The idea seemed to appeal to Joe Shine, except that he said, “No more shooting. We had enough of that.” From a pocket, he produced a small tack hammer and a long sail needle. Marching up to sprawled Ham Brooks, he kicked the dapper lawyer onto his stomach, knelt down at the top of his spine, and touched the needle’s vicious point to the base of Ham’s skull.

“You listen, you there under the dock,” he yelled out. “I used to kill beeves in the stockyards. I gotta sharp pick stuck in the back of your friend’s skull. If I bring this hammer down, he’s dead in an instant. The pick will part his spinal cord like old twine.”

Monk heard that and did not hesitate. “Suppose I climb out and you just shoot me anyway?”

“Well, what if you climb out and I don’t?”

“That don’t sound very reassuring,” Monk grumbled loudly.

“Well, it’s the deal I’m offering. Take it or leave it. But say goodbye to your friend if you welch.”

Monk accepted the offer. He clambered up the ladder and onto the dock, lifting his hairy hands to show that they were empty.

The simian chemist was miserable, but he said nothing. Finally, his eyes could see the sail needle gleaming in the moonlight. In the upraised arm was the small tacking hammer, ready to drive it home.

“Go get him,” barked Joe Shine.

Monk did not resist. Not even after the gangster stood up, pocketing his grisly tools of death.

“Hustle them aboard,” said the gang leader with satisfaction.

Ham had to be carried by two men, but Monk went under his own power. Guns were trained on him. Blunt steel muzzles ground into his burly back and ribs.

Monk bestowed upon Joe Shine a surly look, and growled, “Where do you figure into this?”

“Funny,” returned Shine. “That was going to be our first question to
you
.”

“We’re two of Doc Savage’s men.”

“That’s what makes you valuable to me. Name’s Joe Shine. Ever hear of me?”

Monk thought that over, as if tasting the name. “Can’t say that I have.”

“I’m the next king of the Chicago underworld.”

“I thought Duke Grogan was shootin’ for that throne,” muttered Monk.

“Duke is out of the running as long as Joe Shine has anything to say about it. He don’t matter. Now Duke went to a lot of trouble to snatch you two, and I want to hear all the details.”

Monk’s tiny forehead wrinkled as he realized he had scant details to offer. But he said nothing.

Soon, they stood on the laker’s broad deck where Joe Shine told his men, “Let’s take them back to the doghouse. It will be quieter there, in case we have to get rough.”

Shine’s dark eyes went to Monk Mayfair. “In this situation, I’m thinking we’re going to have to. Am I right, mug?”

Monk shrugged negligently. “To tell the truth, I don’t know much about it. Ham is the one who knows everything Doc knows.”

“I don’t believe you,” snapped Shine.

“If you know anything about Doc Savage’s organization,” said Monk casually, “you know that Ham is the lawyer of our group. Naturally, he knows a lot of confidential dope the rest of us don’t.”

It was a shameless lie, but it possessed plausibility. Monk was quite the prevaricator, when he put his mind to it. Eyeing Monk Mayfair, Joe Shine sized him up as dwelling on the stupid side. Many enemies of Doc Savage had made that identical mistake.

“If you’re lying, it’s going to go hard on both of you,” warned Shine.

“Do I look like I would lie in front of all these crook guns?”

Shine considered. “You look dumb, but not that dumb. All right, I’m going to throw you in a cabin until the mouthpiece wakes up. Then it’s going to be all business. Get me?”

“I get you.”

Monk was marched to a cabin. Ham was carried in his wake.

The dapper lawyer was flung in unceremoniously, but they made Monk stand outside the cabin while they removed various articles of clothing, including his armpit holster, which was empty. Monk had lost his supermachine pistol during his abduction by the Grogan gang.

While Monk was shucking off his battered coat, one hirsute paw plunged into a pocket and captured something. Surreptitiously, he transferred this object to his wide mouth. Then he sealed his lips.

Monk’s shoes, socks and most of his outer clothing were deposited on the deck. Stripped to his shorts, he more than ever resembled a squat bull gorilla. Sans attire, Monk was as fuzzy as a baboon, his knotty muscles resembling those of a football halfback.

The assembled gunmen looked him over carefully.

“He’s clean!” one pronounced.

Joe Shine nodded, growling, “March in there! And get that lawyer ready to talk his head off when he wakes up.”

Monk ambled in without any backtalk. His trousers and belt followed him in. The door was dogged shut behind him.

Drawing on his pants, Monk surveyed the space in which he was confined. There was not much to it but steel walls and a bare floor. Illumination was entirely natural. The two portholes were too small to permit egress by a man’s body. Monk and Ham would be secure herein, until released.

“If you know what’s healthy, you’ll keep quiet in there,” Joe Shine called through the shut steel door.

Monk said nothing. Kneeling down, he examined Ham Brooks, saw that a fleck of blood and foam had crusted on the corner of his wide, mobile mouth. Unbuttoning the starched shirt, the apish chemist saw the bulletproof vest which had taken the impact of the bullets driven into Ham Brooks. They had, no doubt, left punishing bruises, but Ham was otherwise uninjured.

Standing up, Monk went to the two portholes. They were filthy with grime. Swiping them clean with his broad palm, he stared out over the water and then extracted from his mouth a small object.

This resembled an ordinary stick of chalk. Taking it in both hands, Monk exerted considerable pressure, reducing the chalk to a powder. Soon, his palms were coated with the stuff.

The hairy chemist wiped them off on the porthole glass, doing so carefully, smearing every inch of glass, then repeating the process on one other porthole.

That accomplished, Monk sat down on the floor to await developments. Despite the direness of his predicament, he did not look in the least bit worried.

Chapter XXV

DOOM DECKS

THE MIDNIGHT HOURS passed slowly, and still Ham Brooks did not emerge from his coma.

The first flickers of concern twitched at Monk’s homely features. From time to time, he checked on the recumbent attorney, who lay supine on the scuffed steel floor.

His breathing appeared normal, yet Ham did not come to when Monk snapped impatient fingers on either side of his head.

“Come on, you fashion plate. Snap out of it. We got things to do.”

Ham Brooks slumbered on.

When he was not tending to the stricken barrister, the homely chemist pressed his nose against the twin portholes. When he wasn’t watching the wavering lights on the dark waters of Lake Michigan, his tiny eyes continually scanned the night skies. Autumn clouds raced along, but that was all.

Eventually, the door rattled, and Monk sprang to his feet, ready for anything.

In stepped a thug he recognized. It was the one whose automatic had exploded because of the improperly fitted silencer. His gun hand was bandaged in white. The bandage was soaked in scarlet now.

A nickel-plated .45 caliber revolver showed in his good hand. It shook a little. Monk was a primitive sight stripped to his trousers.

The thug wiggled the heavy gun barrel, saying, “March!”

“Ham ain’t woke up yet,” protested Monk.

“Well, ain’t that too bad?” sneered the thug. “Get out of there!”

The gunman stepped aside and Monk lumbered out, long arms dangling.

The gun muzzle pointed forward, and Monk obligingly padded along on his bare feet. They made mushy noises along the moist deck. For the moment, the rain had stopped.

Small eyes shifting left and right, Monk walked slowly and carefully, pausing once.

The hard probing gun muzzle ground into one spot on his backbone. That told Monk that his captor walked only a pace or two behind.

“Keep movin’,” the gunman urged. “If I have to blow your spine in two, don’t think I won’t.”

Monk continued ambling along, looking about, but showing signs that he was not watching where he was going. He made his way forward several paces, then managed to hook his toes into a coil of Manila rope lying on the deck.

Giving out a yowling yell, the hairy chemist threw up his great arms, and pretended to trip. Down he went, in a pile of rusty red fur.

Caught flat-footed, the startled gunman held his fire.

Monk muttered, “Well, dang me for a lowdown dog. I didn’t see that coil of line.”

“Get up!”

Monk gathered his hirsute limbs together, and pretended to look dazed.

The gangster stepped closer, features darkening with fury. “Damn you, quit stallin’!”

Monk shook his head as if to clear cranial cobwebs. Abruptly, he sprang to his feet and snatched the automatic from the gunman’s good hand, at the same time smearing a furry paw over the fellow’s mouth before he could scream.

The gunman quivered, kept his feet. Monk hit him with the barrel of the revolver, then caught him as he sagged, easing the body gently to the deck.

Monk stripped the belt around the hapless one and employed it to bind the fellow’s hands, then used his own belt on the gunman’s ankles. The gunman had two handkerchiefs and a plug of chewing tobacco in his pocket. Monk wrapped the tobacco in cloth squares and jammed the resulting wad in the man’s mouth, tying it there with one of the straps which formed the shoulder harness that supported the holsters of two big automatics. Extra clips of ammunition reposed in the man’s coat pocket. The apish chemist carried these in his left hand and thrust both guns under a makeshift belt he tied around his waist, using the thug’s gaudy necktie for that purpose.

Murmur of voices came from a spot toward the bow. Apparently, the short fray had attracted no attention. Monk made for the sounds.

They were coming from the forecastle.

A gunman was saying, “I’d like to blow a hole in him for rubbing that cigar in my eyes! I can’t see out of my left eye yet.”

“Will you put a tackle on that jaw, you mug?” Joe Shine ordered.

Monk gripped his captured automatic tightly. His piggish eyes narrowed. Now was the time to act, while all of the gang were confined in one spot. Otherwise, his handiwork on the unconscious guard would be discovered soon.

Monk pitched through the door.

“Stick them up!” he rasped savagely.

Joe Shine gulped, pouring part of a glass of whiskey down his shirt front. Another was massaging an inflamed eye. He squinted foolishly, his hands remaining over the orb. The third gunman was tipped back in a chair, hands clasped behind his head. A fourth just stared, a burning cigarette balanced on his slack lower lip.

The group became perfectly motionless. Then their hands crept above the ears.

“Line up along the wall!” snarled Monk.

The quartet hesitated.

“Do what he says!” ordered Joe Shine. “He looks like he’s willin’ to fling lead.”

“You got that right,” growled Monk.

As one, the cowed gunmen turned meekly and put their noses against a rusty bulkhead. Monk relieved them of their guns and piled the weapons on the table. One rodman snarled an oath when Monk’s fingers felt over his person. He half turned.

“Do you want your bile splashed all over the wall?” Joe Shine hissed out of the side of his mouth. “Let him have his fun.”

“Shut up, you!” Monk gritted.

The simian chemist stuck his fingers through the trigger guards of the automatics he had collected. They made a big fistful.

A glance had shown him that the stateroom door was fitted with a substantial lock. The gunmen would be secure there, as long as they did not smash down the door.

Monk seized a flashlight off the table.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” he barked.

The four leaning against the wall made no answer. Relieved at the ease with which the capture had been executed, Monk backed toward the door. “Now to collect Ham,” he muttered.

He fumbled at his back to transfer the key from the inside of the door to the outside.

Vesuvius, the whole galaxy of planets and a half dozen anvil choruses seemed to land on the back of his head.

Joe Shine roared, slapped both hands against his thighs and doubled over with a burst of ribald laughter. Monk heard his bellowing mirth fade away in the hellish echo as he folded down on the floor.

THE LAUGHTER ceased for a time, then sounded again. It became louder—a fiendish cackle. Monk decided he was having a nightmare, hearing things in the delirium of unconsciousness. There was an agonizing impact against his nose and mouth. Scarlet curtains, like glowing streams of gleaming blood, rose and shattered in front of his eyes.

“He likes it, Rollo!” Joe Shine chuckled. “He’s wakin’ up so he can enjoy it better!”

Monk struggled and reached his feet. He opened his eyes just in time to have the chair Rollo wielded close them again. The blow knocked the stunned chemist across the table. He lay there with only his toes touching the floor.

Joe Shine dashed whiskey into the homely face. The alcohol smarted Monk’s split nose and lips. Monk kept his eyes shut, feeling that if he moved, he would be hit again.

“Use your fist, Rollo,” growled Joe Shine. “You’ll croak him with that shillelagh.”

“And skin my knuckles on him? Not much I don’t. Anybody got a pair of brass knucks?”