Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (43 page)

When one of his gunmen barged into the office waving a late edition, Big Spots barked, “What’s up, Spats? You look like someone gave you a hot foot in both brogans.”

“Listen to this, Big Spots. A little birdie just told me that Duke Grogan is in the morgue.”

“You don’t say?”

“I do say. I got it straight from the morgue attendant. It’s the McCoy.”

Big Spots took a cigar out of his mouth and rolled it thoughtfully between thumb and trigger-calloused forefinger.

“They autopsy the Duke yet?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah, they did. Not that they needed to go to all the trouble. Duke took four slugs in the guts, but the one that finished him off went into his brain.”

“His brain, huh?” grunted Big Spots. “Had it turned to stone?”

“Nothing like that, Big Spots. Duke got it the day before Joe Shine met his maker. It don’t look like the two killings are connected to one another, but Shine’s killing points to that Medusa what’s got the whole town worked up.”

Big Spots laughed crudely. “Do you see me getting worked up over anything?”

“That’s not the point, Big Spots. The connection is something different. Something very serious.”

Big Spots put his stogie back in his mouth and said, “I’m listening. Spread it out on the desk for me.”

Spats pulled up a wooden chair, plunking his rangy frame onto it. “I don’t have the story completely straight, but somehow Doc Savage is tangled up in what happened to Duke Grogan’s gang.”

“Gang? You told me Duke got put on the spot. You didn’t say anything about his gang. You holding out on me, Spats?”

“No, Big Spots. I ain’t. It’s just that I don’t have all the dope yet. But Duke is in the cooler for sure, and his boys ain’t nowhere to be found.”

Big Spots eyed the burning tip of his cigar. “Nowhere to be found, you say? Ain’t that interesting? Yes, that’s very interesting. You know what they say about Doc Savage?”

“Yeah, I do. Guys who pile into Doc Savage get run out of town.”

“Run out of town, my left ear. They up and vanish. Like ghosts. Nobody ever hears from or of them again.”

Spats grew fidgety as he asked, “Do you think Doc Savage blew into town to clean it up?”

“I don’t figure that exactly. But that Medusa, or whoever she is, seems to have that bright idea in mind.”

“Maybe we should lay low, huh? What do you say, Big Spots? Miami might be a good place to spend the coming winter.”

Big Spots scowled. “What have you, gone balmy in the brain? Duke Grogan is chilling his corpse on a marble slab. Joe Shine is being fitted for his funeral suit and you want to go on vacation? This town is wide open now! Any gorilla can grab a bigger hunk than he has already.”

“Is that what you’re thinking, Big Spots? Taking over Chicago?”

A slow smile unveiled the mob enforcer’s crooked teeth. “I was thinking that when I read about Joe Shine; now that I know Duke Grogan is out of the picture, there’s a lot more room to move around in.”

“I get you. But what about this Medusa what’s declared war on wise guys like us?”

“Let the damn Medusa knock off the big fish. That works in our favor. Thins out the herd. Then we move in, big and bold as brass.”

Spats made uneasy faces. “Shine and Grogan were the biggest fish in town. The rest of us are small fry by comparison. How do you know this Medusa won’t come after us next?”

Big Spots leaned back in his chair and cocked his thumbs into his suspenders and puffed away at his cigar, staring at the still blades of his ceiling fan.

“Shine and Grogan liked to get their pictures in the paper. They wanted to make a big splash. Attracted a lot of attention, they did. People ate it up. That was their mistake. If you draw the spotlight, you’re a big fat target. That’s not how our outfit’s been operating. You know that.”

“Yeah, Big Spots. I know that. The limelight ain’t part of our racket.”

“No, it ain’t. We’re no starched-collar politicians. Strictly guns and muscle, that’s our racket. But now we’re moving up. We’re going to start quiet and move careful-like. Over time, we’ll grab off a piece of this and a hunk of that until we own a man-sized chunk of this town’s graft and rackets.”

Spats scratched behind one ear. “You’re counting on the Medusa not noticing us? Is that right?”

“That’s about the size of it. As for Doc Savage, he’s out of New York City. He won’t stay in Chicago any longer than he has to. Whatever his business is in this town, it’ll blow over soon enough. Doc Savage won’t be a problem for long.” Big Spots chuckled to himself thoughtfully. “Hell, Doc Savage may not be a problem at all.”

A brave grin crept over the underling’s face. “Sure, Big Spots, sure. We’ll ride out Doc Savage and lie low until this Medusa scare dies down. It’ll all blow over eventually, and what’s left will be ours.”

“Like picking up a poker pot after you’ve gunned down the other players,” chuckled Big Spots Bender.

Both men began laughing rather ghoulishly, perhaps reflecting on times in the past when they had done exactly that. For despite his high-sounding name, Big Spots Bender was small potatoes in the Chicago underworld. Long considered a comer, he had never risen to prominence, nor had he ever owned a section of town or controlled its rackets. A hired gun at the start, he was still nothing more than a manager of younger enforcers. His nickname was acquired because he liked to hit the night spots, but only the biggest and best of them.

Leaning forward, Big Spots slammed down the front legs of his chair and took his thumbs out of his stretched suspenders. His face was serious. Seeing this, Spats cocked a wary eye in his direction.

“I know that look, Big Spots. Do I get you right?”

“Yeah, you do, Spats. I’m thinking it won’t hurt to lay low for a little bit. What say you and me knock off for the day? Go back to my place and relax. We won’t take any vacation. We’ll go on what the college professors call a sabbatical.”

Spats had never before encountered the word. “What’s that?”

“It’s kinda like time off, for good behavior.”

Having served jail time and received that same consideration, both men chuckled in unison.

Jumping to his feet, Big Spots barked, “Bring the car around, will you Spats?”

“Sure, boss. I’ll do that little thing.”

Spats, who served as both chauffeur and bodyguard to Big Spots Bender, went out and brought the criminal’s sedan out of a nearby garage and parked in front of the pool hall, awaiting his employer’s pleasure.

Soon, they were tooling through the city, and in short order they pulled up before the gangster’s residence.

Outside, two vehicles were parked. One was a coal truck, and the coal deliveryman was busy pouring rattling lumps of anthracite down the chute into the cellar coal bin.

“Take a look at that, Big Spots.”

Misunderstanding, Big Spot’s eyes went to the other vehicle, a rather shabby coupe. A man was seated behind the wheel, perusing a newspaper.

“I recognize that bird. Jack Swangle. He’s a legman for the
Tribunal
. Wonder what
he
wants?”

“Probably a few choice words, Big Spots.”

“Well, he ain’t going to get any. We’re laying low. Keep your trap shut and let me do the talking.”

Spats tugged at his boss’ sleeve. “That snoop wasn’t what I was wondering about, Big Spots. It’s that coal truck.”

Big Spot’s eyes veered toward his property. “What’s the matter? Guy’s just delivering coal, ain’t he?”

“Didn’t you get a load in just a week or so back?”

“Yeah, I did. But it’s been snowing, and then raining, and winter is coming on. You can’t have too much coal, now can you?”

Spats shrugged. “I guess not. It’s just that they usually don’t make deliveries so close together.”

“Well, forget about it. Here comes that long-nosed reporter. Let me handle this.”

The scribe in question pushed his toothy smile through one car window and asked, “How’s the boy, Big Spots? Seen the latest edition?”

Big Spots guffawed self-consciously. “You know I can’t hardly read, Jack.”

The reporter laughed carelessly. “Don’t hand me that. You can read as well as the next bozo. What have you got to say about Joe Shine and what killed him?”

“Nothing. But don’t quote that. I didn’t know Shine, and I barely knew Grogan.”

Jack Swangle’s hungry features quivered with sudden interest. “Duke Grogan? What about him?”

A canny light came into Big Spot’s eyes. “Ain’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Tell you what,” said Big Spots. “I’m allergic to newspapermen. Leave me out of your story and I’ll hand you a hot lead.”

The reporter’s face broke out in a big grin. “It’s a deal. What’s the scoop?”

Big Spots leaned close to the other and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Duke Grogan was gunned down the other night. Nobody knows who done it. But he’s plenty dead. They got the stiff down in the city morgue. If you get yourself a good photographer, I’ll bet you could take a swell camera study of the guy.”

Swangle whistled softly, his eyes a little strange. “First, Joe Shine and now Grogan! This is going to bust the Chicago underworld wide open.”

“You want my opinion,” Big Spots remarked, “I think things will be quiet for a little bit. Very quiet. Now if you excuse me, I’m going to take my ease.”

Jack Swangle hopped into his coupe, and took off like a scared rabbit.

Turning to his bodyguard, Big Spots Bender said, “That’s how you handle the press. You hand them a line, and they run with it. You want to stay healthy, Spats, keep your name out of the papers.”

“Smart thinking, Big Spots.”

“That’s why I’m still walking around, and Joe Shine and Duke Grogan are on ice, waiting on their wakes.”

“It will be a big week for the florists!” breathed Spats.

Laughing raucously, the two men entered the dwelling, where they made themselves drinks, and turned on the radio.

They had to wait until the coal man had finished filling the bin, and departed to finish his round of deliveries, before they got truly comfortable.

“Sounds like you got enough anthracite to last you all winter,” remarked Spats.

“That suits me. I figure on staying home a lot. ’Til everything blows over, you understand.”

The two criminals chuckled as they downed their drinks, neither one of them suspecting what lay in store.

“Put some of that fresh coal in the furnace, Spats,” ordered Big Spots. “It’s gonna be a chilly night.”

HEADLINES the next morning read:

BIG SPOTS BENDER AND BODYGUARD FOUND DEAD

The article was riveting. It ran:

Police this morning were called to the Canaryville home of Jerome “Big Spots” Bender, an underworld figure little known outside of Chicago.

Several crows were discovered in the vicinity of the dwelling, having expired. This was noticed by neighbors, who, fearing a gas leak, called it to the attention of the Chicago police.

When authorities arrived, they canvassed the neighborhood, knocking on doors. Failing to receive a response from the Bender residence, and noting the owner’s vehicle parked at the curb, they took the liberty of forcing the door.

Inside, they found Mr. Bender and an associate, known as Spats McGillicuddy. Both men were found dead sitting in easy chairs, the parlor radio operating. There were no signs of foul play nor any injuries observed by arriving ambulance attendants.

It was, at first, suspected that the two died as a result of a faulty coal furnace, but the furnace was found to be in good working order and neither body displayed the telltale cherry-red skin coloring which accompanies carbon monoxide poisoning.

The bodies were transported to Mercy General Hospital, where all efforts to revive them were met with failure.

It was only discovered hours later that the brains of both victims had been inexplicably petrified—a condition linking them to the queer fate of the late gang leader, Joe Shine.

By this time, Dr. Warner Rockwell was summoned, but quickly declared that the two men had been dead far too long for his reversing process to take effect.

“It is my determination that the victims died not long after sunset last night, and sat, deceased, in their easy chairs all night,” pronounced Dr. Rockwell.

Alerted to this new finding, Chicago police went back to the Bender dwelling, where they discovered a note in the owner’s mailbox, which had not been left by the postman, for it bore no address or stamp.

The contents of this note have not been released, but police have declared that these latest killings are definitely tied to the terrorizer calling him or herself Medusa.

Chapter XLI

QUEER COAL

DOC SAVAGE WAS conferring by telephone with the Superintendent of Police of Chicago when news of Big Spots Bender’s demise reached the latter’s ears.

The bronze man was explaining that some small progress in his investigation of the calcified-brain slayings had been made, when an orderly handed the Superintendent a teletype report.

“One moment, please,” the official told Doc. There was a rustle of papers, and the Superintendent’s voice came back on the line, charged with excitement.

“I was just handed a bulletin that Big Spots Bender and one of his bodyguards was found dead in their home this morning.”

“I am not familiar with the name,” admitted Doc.

“A small-time enforcer. Bender was an up-and-comer a while back, but has not been very active in recent years,” the official reported. “This has all the markings of another petrified-brain case.”

“I would like to examine the scene,” requested Doc.

“You are more than welcome to,” advised the Superintendent, providing an address and adding, “I will meet you there. We can finish our conference on the scene.”