Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (36 page)

“Every doctor has heard of or encountered such situations. Throughout history, there have been reliable reports of people who have actually been interred, only to awaken in their own tomb, calling out for help. Medical science has yet to explain these cases, yet the facts are beyond dispute.”

“Go on,” prompted Doc Savage. Nothing in the bronze man’s features indicated doubt.

Rockwell continued, “Knowing that McLean had died very rapidly with no external injuries, I considered the possibility that his condition might be reversible. I confess I do not yet understand the nature of what afflicted him, only that I had a hunch and I acted upon it.”

“You and McLean have been friends for some time,” suggested Doc.

“As a matter of fact, I am McLean’s personal physician. And that gave me a certain interest in his case, as well as a professional responsibility to do all I could to assist the man.”

Doc vouchsafed. “We are very interested in how you managed to reverse the calcification of Malcolm McLean’s brain matter. As a physician, this is of interest to me. Additionally, my associate, Monk, is curious about the chemical processes involved.”

“It don’t make any sense to me!” exploded Monk. “Every school boy knows how bodies of animals are fossilized, but that takes millions of years. Turnin’ it around beats me all hollow.”

Dr. Rockwell smiled thinly. There was a light in his dark eyes that seemed to be a mixture of professional pride and perhaps a touch of ego.

“I never thought I would see the day that I would baffle the great Doc Savage,” he murmured. “Rather an interesting turnabout, isn’t it?”

Crisply, Doc cut the man off. “There are other victims of this petrifying influence. It is probably too late for them, having perished days ago, but if there is any chance of reviving any of them, you are obligated to share your discovery.”

Rockwell compressed his lips. “The only other victim I am aware of is poor Myer Sim. And he has already been autopsied.” He frowned distastefully. “There is no reversing that procedure, unfortunately. As for sharing my discovery, I will have to consult my attorney about that. This process may be patentable.”

Monk yelled, “Patentable! People have been droppin’ like flies, and you claim to be the only guy who can save them.”

“Do not fear,” returned Dr. Rockwell patiently. “If another victim turns up, I stand ready to move on a moment’s notice and apply my process in the hope of restoring that unfortunate one to life.”

“That is your final word?” said Doc Savage.

Craggy features firm, Rockwell remarked, “I am sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Savage. I hold you in very high esteem, as does every other medical man in the country, if not the world. In this case,
a peculiar Fate had anointed
me
Man of the Hour, and I wish to savor it before making any decisions.”

With that, Warner Rockwell stood up, signaling that the meeting was over.

Doc and Monk likewise left their seats and Rockwell offered his hand in farewell. But Doc Savage appeared to miss the gesture, and quickly departed, Monk Mayfair following behind him, his tiny eyes narrow with suspicion.

Once they were on the elevator, Monk growled, “Do you buy his story?”

“There is insufficient basis to either accept or reject Rockwell’s assertions. But the fact that Malcolm McLean is alive and walking about suggests that this process of brain calcification may not be as final as previously thought.”

“I don’t get you.”

“Up to this point, we have believed, based on our own investigations, that victim’s brains had been turned entirely to calcium carbonate. It may be possible that only a shell of calcium forms around the brain matter in some cases.”

“You mean that the brain just stops operatin’, but is still alive under that shell?”

“It is difficult to know what to believe, since the victim’s heart stopped beating and respiration also ceased. All of these biological activities, as you know, are regulated by the brain. But if there is a way to dissolve that shell, normal life processes might be persuaded to return.”

“This is startin’ to get my goat,” complained Monk.

“And mine,” stated the bronze man frankly.

The elevator reached the ground floor. As they stepped off the cage, Monk asked, “Where to next?”

“Let us pay a visit to Malcolm McLean, if we can find him,” said Doc. “I wish to see with my own eyes that he is still living.”

Monk grunted, “How are we gonna be able to tell? The guy makes Count Dracula look to be in the pink of condition.”

Stepping out into the lobby, they ran into a fresh hubbub.

The noisy press of reporters was back to trying to force their way through the police cordon, and the bluecoats were pushing back with all their muscular might.

A lobby guard saw Doc and Monk and rushed over in a lather.

“What’s going on now?” demanded Monk.

“Aw, they’re all riled up over the news.”

“What news?” inquired Doc Savage.

“The news that Joe Shine got out on bail, only to wind up dead.”

“Dead!” roared Monk. “What got him?”

“They think his brain got turned into a rock,” related the guard.

Chapter XXXV

THE BLACKEST MAGIC

OWING TO THE necessity of transporting in secret the gangster Joe Shine to Doc Savage’s hangared plane, Ham Brooks had taken the bronze man’s rental sedan, a public taxi hardly being appropriate for the task.

Ham piloted the nondescript machine toward Little Sicily, on the north side of Chicago. The neighborhood soon became a monotonous thing of brick row houses whose roofs were festooned with radio receiving aerials.

In the front seat beside the dapper lawyer, Long Tom Roberts was fiddling with his clumsy-looking magnetic pistol.

“Watch you don’t set that thing off prematurely,” Ham scolded.

“Don’t worry about it,” Long Tom retorted. “This beauty has a safety just like an ordinary pistol. It won’t go off until I want it to.”

Ham sniffed, “I fail to see why you think such a contraption is superior to one of Doc’s supermachine pistols.”

Long Tom took no special umbrage at that remark. “Sometimes we’ve got to rush into situations, and all the racket of a mercy gun gives our positions away. This nifty device is built around a magnetic coil. When I pull the trigger, instead of a firing pin dropping on a cartridge primer, the coil is charged and steel slugs race down the barrel. They hardly make any sound at all. Just kind of a whispering noise. And that’s the sound of the bullet, not the noise of the gun.”

Ham nodded somberly, saying, “I can see your reasoning. Speaking for myself, I think the roar of a supermachine pistol is so frightening that it often unnerves our foes. Some just throw up their hands and surrender, instead of firing back.”

Long Tom made a face as he thought about that. “Good point,” he allowed. “Maybe I can add a noisemaker to this thing that can be switched on when we need to make a fuss.”

Ham said, “You say it fires hypodermic needles?”

“Yep. They go right in, injecting the knockout stuff. You know, mercy bullets will sometimes break against thick layers of clothing, and don’t get through. These hypo needles will puncture anything. The needles operate pneumatically. Once they hit, the dope squirts out from the reservoir portion of the round.”

This explanation appeared to satisfy the elegant attorney. At length, he declared, “I believe I would like to see that gun in operation one day.”

Long Tom spanked the mechanism energetically. “Maybe today is that day. I don’t think Joe Shine is going to go quietly. Especially when he sees our faces.”

Ham frowned. “With his mob all in jail, he may not put up much resistance.”

“Hoods like Joe Shine can whistle up fresh muscle any time they want. By now he may be surrounded by new bodyguards.”

“We shall soon see,” said Ham determinedly.

THE RESIDENCE of gangster Joe Shine was rather modest for a man of his means. This was calculated. In recent years, hoodlums of Shine’s ilk had been incarcerated, not upon conviction for their crimes, but due to their failure to pay income tax. Therefore, it behooved the gang lord to give every appearance of a modest style of living.

The house stood in a nice residential neighborhood on a quiet street. The home was two stories tall with an attached garage and a circular driveway. Shrubbery appeared immaculate, even having been denuded of all leafage by the change of seasons.

There were two oak trees in the front yard, and a few surviving Autumn leaves still clung to them. But the dying lawn was spotless. Not a solitary fallen leaf was in evidence. This meant that the house employed a diligent gardener.

All appearance of outward respectability, however, was belied by the fact that two men patrolled the grounds, wearing heavy overcoats which failed to completely conceal the bulge of heavy automatics nestled in shoulder holsters.

Having parked just up the street, Ham fell to watching through a pair of binoculars, and spotted the pair.

“It appears that you are correct,” the dapper lawyer murmured.

“About what?” wondered Long Tom.

“There are two men stationed before the Shine residence, and judging by their behavior, they are not there to rake fallen leaves.”

Taking the binoculars from Ham’s hands, Long Tom growled, “Let me see.”

After adjusting the focusing screw, the pallid electrical wizard remarked, “They look like perfect targets for my magnetic gun.”

Ham considered that. “Be my guest,” he said at last.

“Drive by slowly,” suggested Long Tom. “I’ll hit them and then we can double back and take the place.”

Getting the machine into gear, Ham observed, “If that weapon is as silent as you say, they will not suspect a thing.”

The sedan nosed away from the curbing, and tooled past the quiet house.

Cranking down the window on his side, Long Tom unlatched the safety lever, and pointed the distorted barrel in the direction of one of the men. He squeezed the trigger once.

Nothing seemed to happen in the immediate vicinity of the weapon. It was entirely silent in operation. The sound made by the missile escaping the barrel was negligible.

The end result was that the man’s hat flew off.

The guard looked momentarily startled, and gave out a yelp. The other guard came trotting up and started wondering loudly what the hell was going on?

Redirecting the barrel, Long Tom potted the second thug in one shoulder.

The man did not react in the typical way of a gunshot victim. For the slug did not strike him with any great velocity. Instead, he suddenly grabbed at his shoulder as if stung by a bee.

It was the hatless guard’s turn to demand what was happening.

He received a reply in the form of a silent hypodermic bullet, which caught him on the back of his hand. A vein was punctured. Blood spurted.

Now he gave out a cry of alarm, but almost immediately collapsed in a heap beside the other, who also fell to the ground.

“It worked!” crowed Long Tom. “Now let’s charge the place!”

Ham killed the engine, coasted to the curb, and they popped out of the angled machine.

Streaking up the circular driveway, they came to the spot where the two hoodlums had fallen. Ham demanded of Long Tom, “Why did you shoot his hat off first?”

“It was an accident,” retorted Long Tom. “This thing has no recoil, and I’m used to compensating for the kick of a supermachine pistol.”

“Help me drag them out of sight,” said Ham.

Together, they pulled the pair into some shrubbery and left them there.

“Break a window next?” suggested Long Tom.

“I have a better idea,” returned Ham firmly. “We will simply ring the doorbell.”

Stepping up to the entryway, the dapper lawyer touched the push-button with the tip of his elegant cane. A satisfactory buzzing sound was heard.

When the front door opened, what passed for a butler showed his stern face. The man was not exactly dressed in traditional butler attire, but he had the demeanor of a manservant.

His voice, however, was coarse. “What do youse guys want?”

To Long Tom’s surprise, Ham Brooks proffered a business card, saying, “Theodore Marley Brooks, Esquire. I am an attorney of some note. I have been retained by Mr. Shine about his legal complications.”

It was such an audacious approach that the manservant accepted the card and said, “If that’s the case, step right in, gents.”

The fellow shifted to one side while Ham and Long Tom entered, the latter holding the magnetic gun carefully behind his back.

As the supposed butler was closing the door, Long Tom turned, shot him in the back, high up just between the shoulder blades. The bullets stuck out of his coat after impaling the flesh beneath.

Ham caught the stupefied one before he made too much noise in falling, then dragged him over to one side.

“I am becoming a believer in your magnetic gun,” commented Ham tartly.

Grinning, Long Tom led the way, deeper into the dwelling.

A murmur of voices could be heard, and Ham Brooks immediately recognized the gruff tones of gang lord Joe Shine. Canvassing the first floor, they discovered the sounds were coming from behind closed doors.

The portals were of the type that slid apart, indicating a drawing room or den of some kind lay beyond.

Creeping up to the closed panels, Ham and Long Tom laid ears flat against the carved wood and listened carefully.

Behind the door, the rough voice of Joe Shine was saying, “I don’t know how much hot water I’m in, but it will be your job to throw ice cubes into the pot. Cool everything down. Understand?”

An educated voice was saying in round tones, “Of course, Mr. Shine. I understand perfectly. You have kept your hands as clean as possible. This affair may be a small concern.”

“Well, it will be a big concern if any of my boys start wagging their tongues to get out of jail.”

“Your men are loyal. They also understand that, even behind bars, they are not safe from your reach.”

Joe Shine laughed nastily. “You got that right. So many of my old mob have been locked up, I could hold a reunion in Joliet Prison. But that ain’t my worry right now. Doc Savage and his boys are what’s troubling me. If they testify against me, my goose is cooked.”