Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (7 page)

“It is the only thing that does,” complained Ham, who was hanging back in a far corner. The dapper attorney was not normally squeamish, but there was something about this procedure that bothered him greatly. Perhaps it was because it defied easy explanation.

The autopsy having produced all that it might, Doc Savage left the matter in the Medical Examiner’s capable hands, saying, “You can expect another body like this before long.”

The M.E.’s graying eyebrow shot up.

Doc explained, “A visitor to my office succumbed unexpectedly, and my initial examination indicated that his brain had turned into a solid mass of matter. His name was Ned Gamble. I know little else about him, except that he came from Chicago seeking my help.”

“So there were
two
such victims?” the medico said incredulously.

“It may be,” stated Doc Savage, “there will prove to be three, if not more. It is the more that concerns me. We must be going now.”

OUT on the street, Doc conferred briefly with Inspector Hardboiled Humbolt.

“What do you make of it, Savage?” the official grunted.

“It is,” admitted the bronze man, “too early to tell very much.”

“Well, you got free rein on this case, since it broke on your doorstep.”

“Thank you,” said Doc.

Lowering his voice, the inspector whispered, “Those hardboiled yeggs I sent your way last week. How are they doing?”

“Coming along,” replied Doc.

Hardboiled chuckled. “They must be pretty soft by now.”

“They will be out of circulation for a long time,” said the bronze man without outward humor.

“Good. That’s how I like crooks—out of sight and mind. I might have a few more for you before long.”

“Your confidence is appreciated,” Doc told the inspector.

“See you around then,” said Hardboiled, turning to go.

As they climbed back into the roadster, Ham Brooks remarked, “I take it you think that the man who died in Chicago is also a victim of this Medusa malady.”

Throwing the car in gear, Doc Savage imparted, “We will look into the Chicago angle next.”

Ham advised Monk, “Long Tom is already there.”

“Fast work,” snorted Monk.

“Nothing of the sort,” Ham said dismissively. “Long Tom was already in Chicago for a scientific conference.”

“Nice coincidence then,” muttered Monk.

“If it
is
a coincidence,” said Ham suspiciously.

“What do you know that I don’t?” asked Monk.

“Nothing,” snapped Ham. “I take that back. I know everything you don’t. And more besides. In this instance, I am disinclined to credit coincidence.”

Behind the wheel, Doc Savage said nothing. The gold flakes of his eyes were whirling briskly. Events were moving fast, but they had yet to make much headway in the mystery that had arrived, unbidden, on their doorstep.

“Mebbe we should stop by my place and pick up Habeas,” suggested Monk suddenly.

“Why do such a foolish thing?” sniffed Ham.

“I got a funny feeling we’re all goin’ off to Chicago, and I don’t want to leave him behind. Habeas gets powerful lonesome.”

In the front seat, Ham looked to Doc Savage expectantly.

“I would not bring Habeas were I you, Monk. But if you insist upon it, take as much protective gear as you have designed to fit the porker.”

“That don’t sound good,” murmured Monk.

“We are facing an unknown force that possesses the power to turn a man’s brain into a substance resembling coral at a speed that defies explanation. We would not want Habeas Corpus to succumb to such a danger.”

Monk’s tiny eyes narrowed. He began calculating in his brain.

At last, he allowed, “When we get to headquarters, I’ll call my secretary and have her take charge of Habeas. This is one trip he’s just gonna have to miss.”

Ham Brooks suppressed a grin of relief, knowing that if the apish chemist saw it, he would immediately reverse his decision.

Chapter VI

THE MONSTER MEDUSA

THE LIFE WORK of Doc Savage was a simple one, in theory. That was to go from one end of the globe to the other, helping those in distress, solving problems outside the domain of ordinary law enforcement. People who were in need of rescue went to Doc’s headquarters to lay their troubles at his feet. Often, the Man of Bronze would help them. Few were turned away. To others, he extended assistance where their difficulties were not great and easily solvable.

Doc Savage offered charity. Not that he gave handouts. In these difficult economic times, he employed many thousands of persons.

It was a simple credo: to assist the unfortunate in any way possible.

In practicality, it was anything but simple. Many thousands beseeched the bronze man of mystery for succor, whether deserving or not. Doc turned many of these away, those who were able-bodied and capable of fending for themselves.

But the availability of Doc Savage created complications. People were continually trying to meet with him who had no business doing so. In his way, the bronze man was a celebrity. He did not like that. But he understood that to help the distressed, people around the world had to know where he was headquartered.

Because his work created enemies, Doc Savage was forced to take certain precautions. The bulletproof shield at his office was one. There were others. Many times these precautions had saved his life.

As far as it was possible to do so, the sub-basement garage Doc maintained beneath his skyscraper headquarters was a secret. But it was a discoverable secret.

His comings and goings were disguised in part by his fleet of vehicles, none of which were flashy. But in order to operate freely in congested Manhattan, many of these machines sported special number plates, such as the vehicle he now drove whose tag read: DOC-1.

To those in the know, these designations marked the automobiles as belonging to a person of distinction. Nor was it possible to completely conceal the garage since the bronze man was forced to drive up the ramp through special doors, over the sidewalk and onto the street.

The entrance door to the skyscraper basement was unmarked, and resembled the type of loading dock many larger skyscrapers boast, through which supplies are delivered. The main loading dock, in fact, stood around the corner.

The fact that the garage door was not well known did not make it a complete secret, however.

As Monk wheeled the roadster around the corner preparatory to climbing onto the sidewalk, Doc Savage’s alert eyes scanned the surroundings.

It was now late afternoon, and throngs had begun to empty out of the buildings, making their way to the subways, trolleys and busses to wend their way homeward for the evening.

As Monk twisted the wheel and prepared to mount the sidewalk, Doc rapped out, “Monk, stop.”

There was no great volume in the bronze man’s voice, but it possessed an imperative quality that caused the homely chemist’s broad foot to tramp down on the floor brake.

“What is it?” demanded Monk.

Doc Savage did not reply. He stepped out onto the running board, scrutinizing the entrance door. From their seats, Monk and Ham did the same.

On the sidewalk near the door stood an ash can, a thing of galvanized sheet steel of the type used to haul cold ashes from coal furnaces.

Normally such a container would not be found on the sidewalk at this spot. For the towering skyscraper was heated by steam piped in by the city through great system mains. No furnaces supplied it.

Doc studied the container briefly, and suddenly swung back, throwing himself behind the wheel with such violent force that Monk Mayfair’s powerful bulk was slammed into the passenger seat. He grunted explosively.

The windows were open, and Doc’s finger snapped out to tap a dash button. Miraculously, all open windows rolled shut. They were electrically operated.

Monk and Ham came to the same conclusion. “Bomb?” they chorused.

If Doc Savage meant to reply, it never came.

For the windshield of the roadster erupted in a flash of livid green. Of the three passengers, only Doc Savage reacted in time to preserve his eyesight.

Closing his eyelids, he threw up a great cabled arm before his face, and so the stabbing brilliance did not impact his optic nerves.

Not as quick, Monk and Ham got the worst of it. Their fingers flew to their faces, and they began exclaiming.

“I can’t see a dang thing!” howled Monk.

“I cannot see at all,” groaned Ham.

Nor could Doc Savage immediately. For once the green glare had ceased to paint his face, and he felt it safe to open his eyes, the bronze giant beheld only roiling smoke.

This smoke looked like something coming out of the bowels of Hades. It was black, gray, brown in turns, as if some enemy had thrown every combustible substance known to man into one hot furnace.

The roadster had been built in a factory, then rebuilt under the bronze man’s direction. It was bulletproof, gas tight, capable of withstanding the detonation of hand grenades and even larger explosives.

A tank shell could certainly have done it damage, but under ordinary circumstances, the armored automobile would have turned most violent assaults.

Doc Savage sat calmly behind the wheel, waiting for the smoke to dissipate, his flake-gold eyes peering about with a trace of concern in their whirling depths.

There had been persons passing by just moments before. Even through the bulletproof glass, the bronze man could hear curses and cries of complaint.

Eventually, the smoke cleared and Doc popped open the door, stepping out.

Despite all the smoke, the explosion had not been as violent as it first seemed. The bronze giant accosted several passersby, determined that they had not been injured, merely shaken up, and waited to see if they developed any symptoms in the aftermath.

Meanwhile, having regained their sight, Monk and Ham emerged from the vehicle. Out of padded armpit holsters, the pair yanked compact machine pistols, which they waved about as if eager to unleash hot lead on the perpetrator.

But there was no perpetrator in sight. Merely thinning gray smoke, and a bitter charcoal odor. Doc Savage was quietly questioning the people who had been caught up in it.

Ten minutes passed before the bronze man felt confident enough to permit them to move on.

That was when they noticed the gruesome greenish-yellow splotch on the garage door. It was gigantic, fearsome, terrifying. Fully twelve feet tall, it loomed over them, its great snaky skull seeming alive with viper-headed tentacles.

“Jove!” exploded Ham.

Monk stared, slack-jawed, grunting, “I half expect them heads to hiss at me.”

Going to the barrel, Monk discovered it was open at the top, the insides scorched black from fire and smoke.

Monk bent down as if to take a deep whiff of residue, but Doc stayed him with a quiet admonition.

“Too dangerous. I will open the garage door. Give the barrel a kick to roll it inside.”

Monk pulled back with alacrity, saying, “Gotcha.”

Ham went to the sedan dashboard, pressed a button. A radio signal caused the great door to roll ponderously upward.

Thereupon, Monk gave the barrel a lusty boot, and it went crashing down the ramp, finally rolling to a dead stop against a support pillar.

When Doc drove past, Monk hopped onto the running board and rode along with them to a parking area jammed with other vehicles.

Exiting the sedan, Doc Savage said, “We will examine the barrel later. Right now I wish to pursue our investigation as rapidly as possible.”

As they rode the super-speed elevator up to the eighty-sixth floor, Ham gripped his sword cane until his knuckles grew white while Monk made fierce faces.

“We are bein’ followed around town, ain’t we?” Monk said to no one in particular.

“We are,” confirmed Doc.

“And that drum down there was meant to scare us off, right?”

“Obviously,” inserted Ham tightly.

Stepping off into the corridor, Monk took in the bile-colored blotch on the corridor wall and growled, “I’m gonna study this real close.”

“First, let us put the residue from the hotel under the spectrometer.”

“Good idea,” said Monk. “That hag shadow ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

They repaired to the great laboratory while Ham Brooks remained in the reception room, making rapid telephone calls, endeavoring to look into other angles of the growing mystery.

Doc and Monk set up the spectrometer, which burned unidentified matter, releasing their constitute spectra. This was a fancy way of saying that the colors produced by this process revealed the chemical composition of any substance being tested.

Doc and Monk took some of the residue from the hotel-room hatch and subjected it to the process.

They did not have to wait long, but when they beheld the spectrum results, Monk’s eyes went wide and he gave out an inarticulate grunt.

Doc’s unique trilling drifted out briefly; it had a wondering quality.

“This is new in my experience,” he admitted.

“Whatever this junk is,” Monk muttered, “I don’t recognize it, either.”

Not satisfied, Doc took another sample, and repeated the process. The results were the same. The color line produced did not match anything he knew.

To an ordinary scientist, this would not have been very significant. The world is full of unusual substances, and not all of them had been tested by man. The big bronze giant was a master of chemistry, as he was of electricity, aeronautics, medicine and virtually every other field of endeavor.

If Doc Savage did not recognize something, it was a fair bet that no other scientist on the planet would have.

As Monk absorbed this, his tiny eyes grew narrow and his mouth came back under his control.

“Blazes!” he squeaked unexpectedly. “You don’t suppose that this stuff is not of this earth?”

“While we can suppose nothing of the kind,” replied Doc evenly, “neither should we rule out the possibility. This matter, whatever it is, does not belong to the existing fund of modern scientific knowledge.”

That last comment almost took Monk Mayfair’s breath away; he did not know what to say for the longest time. Finally, he managed, “Maybe I had better take a look at the residue in that barrel downstairs.”