Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (38 page)

“How all this fits together is difficult to reconcile.”

“It’s complicated,” admitted the little man. He examined his shirt sleeves and frowned at their soggy condition. “I could die of a cold after what you just put me through.”

“Unlikely,” returned Doc.

“I think I have told you everything worth telling,” Olden suddenly said.

Habeas Corpus trotted up at that point, having been napping. He sat down and began staring at Cadwiller Olden.

“Is that your pig?” Olden asked Doc.

“What pig is that?” returned the bronze man.

“The one looking at me like I was a freak.”

Doc Savage called up to Long Tom in the cockpit. “He says a pig is staring at him. Do you see a pig?”

Long Tom scoffed back, “That’s rich. A pig on a plane!”

Doc said, “Long Tom sees no pig, either.”

“Well, I sure see one,” said Olden, not very confidently.

“Psychologists say that a man’s conscience can begin to act up over a lifetime of wrongdoing,” suggested Doc. “Could it be that your conscience has taken the form of a pig and is haunting you?”

Olden bent a gimlet eye on the porker. “If that’s my conscience, it sure is scrawny.”

“That sounds about right,” said Doc.

Cadwiller Olden tore his gaze from the steadily staring pig to Doc Savage and decided that reticence was not in his best interest. He began reciting more facts.

“Harvell Braggs went to Cass in his front as a private detective. He wanted Cass to locate a man who stole some of his private collection of Christopher Columbus junk. Talk was the thief looked like Columbus himself. It was wacky, but when Braggs described this thief, Cass already knew who he was. Saint Pete had taken him in, just as she did me.”

“Why did Cass not turn Columbus over to Braggs?”

“He was milking the thing. Braggs had a lot of dough, and he didn’t want the theft to get into the papers for some reason. So Cass began stringing him along. But then that Box palooka stuck his nose in. He had joined the Silent Saints, too. We suspected him of being a spy for someone, but didn’t know who or why.”

“Box Daniels worked for me,” said Doc.

“Oh.” When this had sunk in, Olden added, “Box brought Gulliver into it for some reason.”

“You killed the telegrapher at La Plata to stop Gulliver from entering the picture,” said Doc.

A stab of fear stung the midget’s face. “I am saying nothing more about anything.”

“There is no use denying it. I recognized your fingerprints at the murder scene.”

“You must have good eyes, or something.”

“You also framed Gulliver Greene for the murder of Box Daniels.”

“You’ll have to prove that in a court of law,” snarled Cadwiller Olden.

“A court of law,” said Doc Savage, “is not your ultimate destination.”

Rising from his seat, Doc Savage left the midget to digest those foreboding words.

Habeas Corpus continued sitting and staring with beady eyes that never seemed to blink.

“Shoo, you ugly conscience,” the midget snarled.

The porker pointedly declined the invitation. His staring continued unabated.

Cadwiller Olden sat quietly, looking out the window with sunken eyes. Remembering that Missouri hanged its convicted murderers, he began feeling of his slender throat, whose injured larynx accounted for the midget’s hoarse speech.

Chapter XXXIX

BAD MOVE

SPOOK DAVIS WAS invariably sorry after he had told a lie, and genuinely so, but contrition never deterred him from telling a falsehood freely when the next urge presented. He was normal in most respects, although the lying was not the only trait that made him a pleasant screwball. In the face of his fixation—his subconscious urge for exaggerating—Spook Davis was without resistance; he was as powerless as is a child when faced with the opportunity to steal a piece of cherry pie. Spook had lied about the Cass crew being so close, Gull knew; Spook had been scared and had wanted to frighten him into fleeing from the island. So when it occurred to Spook that he might tell a whopper and scare Gull into departing from the isle in haste, he hadn’t hesitated. Fortunately, Spook was in too much of a dither to do very convincing lying. He could tell the most believable fibs when he was in proper form.

Gull whispered, “How many of Cass’ men did you say are on the island?”

“A hun—”

“Whoa!”

“Aw—maybe a dozen and a half, all told,” Spook amended.

“What about machine guns, bloodhounds and poison gas?”

“Uh—rifles, anyway. And revolvers.”

“Better,” Gull said. “Now let’s turn into observers.”

What they saw seemed to promise a more peaceful future, for Cass was obviously convinced that Gulliver and Spook had been in the plane when it crashed out in the lake. That was good, Gull thought. Swell! The ship had hit the water with enough force to smash it, and being a metal plane, it would surely have sunk. Therefore, Cass would never know he was wrong.

Cass’ men brought a speedboat which must have been hidden along the stony shore somewhere, and they went out to inspect the lake where the plane had hit. When they came back, they seemed much happier, and yelled to those who had remained ashore that the plane had sunk, carrying Gulliver Greene and Spook Davis to their deaths.

“We fooled ’em!” Spook breathed proudly.

Gull Greene remained crouched where he was, it being unlikely that they could find a clump of brush that would be better for concealment. Also, he had no idea what their next move had better be. The fundamental thing to be done was plain, of course—get Saint Pete and Columbus out of Cass’ hands, then get Cass arrested in some fashion. There were complications, not the least being more than a dozen men which Cass seemed to have on the island, and the demonstrated willingness of these gentlemen to take the life of anyone who threatened their activities.

Gull forced his mind to take hold of the future as reasonably as it would approach the preparation of a magical effect. Before presentation to an audience, each step in a magic trick was carefully worked out, with consideration given each word and each small gesture, so that the effect of the whole trick would be smoothly successful. He had gone through the planning process with magic tricks a thousand times; it seemed logical that he should consider the present situation with an attitude as cool—but he found it a great deal more difficult. His thoughts even seemed to shy off from the unpromising future; he found them repeatedly summarizing what had gone on in the past, beginning with the unfortunate moment when he had learned of the mysterious telegram sent by Box Daniels, which had been the fuse to the entire package of perpetually exploding dynamite.

The thing to be regretted was that no more progress had been made getting clear of the mess, and yanking Saint Pete out of it.

Pete, Gull realized with increasing horror, would not be safe any longer. Gull moistened his lips. He had, he knew beyond any shadow of doubt, fallen heavily for the girl. He didn’t regret it, particularly since, on their way to the island, the young woman had given some indication that his prospects were good.

Gull chewed his lips as he considered. It would be insanity to delay their efforts to free Pete, Christopher Columbus, and Harvell Braggs. There were many reasons for haste, not the least being that the fog which afforded concealment now would probably lift when the sun got a little higher. Likewise, the wind, now making a little noise which covered their movements, might drop later in the day.

“Was there anything worth looking at in that secret photographic darkroom?” Gull asked.

“No,” Spook muttered. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t have put me in there.”

“Just why did they separate you from Columbus and Braggs?”

Spook shrugged. “Search me. Maybe it was because I kept slipping out of their knots all the time.” He cracked a weak grin. “Guess that they had never tied up a magician’s assistant before.”

Gull rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, then announced that they had better proceed at once with the polecat hunt.

“But how are you going to do it?” Spook asked uneasily.

“The only way we can.”

“Huh?”

Gulliver clicked the barrels of his captured weapons together. “Pick them off one at a time.”

Spook began to muss his hair with his fingers and squirm as if his clothes were too tight. “Pick them off one at time, eh? Well—ah—whew! I don’t think we’d better try that, Gull.”

Gulliver eyed his nervous stooge. “You want to try to make it to shore for help?”

“You know I can’t swim so good!” Spook hardened his jaw.

Gulliver stared at him. Suddenly, he reached out and took Spook by the throat. He said, “For a long time, I’ve wondered if this wasn’t the cure for your lying!”

“Hey—wait!” Spook gasped. “I’m not lying!”

“Then why don’t you think we better try to get these phony saints the only way we can—one at a time?”

“Well—” Spook registered discomfort. “Dang it, Gull, I think some of them are mind-readers.”

Gulliver asked, “Why not come out with it, if that’s what you think?”

“Because you know darn well there ain’t no such thing as a mind-reader,” Spook mumbled. “But I tell you, them birds just come close to me and look at me and tell me exactly what I’m thinking about.” He squinted at Gull. “Your girl does that, too, according to what Christopher Columbus told us. Remember?”

“Pete!” Gull sighed. “You know what? I think I may get some place with her.”

“You’re welcome,” Spook groaned. “Go ahead and marry the source of all our troubles.”

Gull said, “I think I’ll take the chance, if I can.”

THEY were taking a chance some time later when they lurked near the crest of the rocky, brush-covered island. Gull stared, amazed, and pointed.

“Radio,” he breathed.

Object of his astonishment was a pair of tall telescoping masts which had appeared from a cleverly camouflaged concealment. Gull did not happen to be posted on the latest short-wave wrinkles in aerials, but this one looked efficient as it stood coppery and bright between the masts.

“Cass must keep in touch with his men by radio,” he said. “I found a portable set in Cass’ trailer. Wonder what they’re really up to?”

Spook scratched his head. “They’re sure organized.”

Gull gripped Spook’s arm and pointed. A figure was moving through the smothering fog, but that glimpse was enough to assure them that the moving shape was only one person, alone.

“There goes our first victim,” Gull breathed.

Gull handed Spook the Winchester. Spook immediately began to tremble, and they had not crept far before Gull discovered the rifle was missing. Gull looked at one of his own fists meaningly.

“A-w-w!” Spook went back and got the rifle where he had left it. He returned carrying it as if it were a snake capable of biting him.

Gull hefted his shotgun. They couldn’t shoot the prowler, of course, even if they were so inclined. The noise would be heard. What he was trying to figure out was the best way to hold the weapon to knock a man senseless, and still not kill him; it had never before occurred to him that this would be any problem, but now that the necessity confronted him, it was something to think about.

“You get behind him,” Gull breathed. “If I miss him, he’ll turn to run. You get him.”

Spook put down his rifle and picked up a rock.

“I’m scared enough without handicapping myself with that firearm,” he said determinedly.

Gull sighed and gave up trying to make Spook Davis rely on the rifle. They separated. Gull circled, and by listening intently, got an idea of the course of the lone stroller, then posted himself ahead of the fellow. It turned out to be simple—he glimpsed a head over a rock and gave it a whack with the scattergun’s heavy barrels. That was all.

Gull was standing over the prize muttering, “Whoever said to look before you leap knew what he was talking about!” as Spook Davis came up.

Spook popped his eyes at the victim, who was swimming in clothing several sizes too large for his slender frame.

“I recognize this guy from the newsreels,” he exploded. “They call him the wizard of the juice. Long Tom Roberts!”

“Yeah,” Gull agreed lugubriously. “One of Doc Savage’s assistants. What in Cagliostro’s name is he doing here?”

“Probably looking for his friends,” Spook muttered absently.

“What friends?” asked Gulliver suspiciously.

“I clean forgot to tell you, Gull. But when Cass and his boys ferried us up here, they also dragged along a bunch of Doc Savage’s boys.”

Gulliver swallowed his rebuke with difficulty. “How did this one slip free, I wonder?”

“He didn’t,” Spook admitted. “He wasn’t one of the bananas in that bunch.”

Gull’s green eyes flashed like hard emeralds. “And exactly when were you planning to reveal this deep, dark secret to me?”

“I was kinda hoping that Doc Savage would show up and pull their sorry souls out of the fire,” Spook admitted sheepishly.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” mused Gulliver Greene, peering around the foggy surroundings, “if Doc Savage wasn’t on this island right now.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Saint Pete warned me he was coming.”

Spook grunted, “How would
she
know?”

“The things Saint Pete knows,” returned Gulliver grimly, “would surprise a crystal gazer.”

Chapter XL

SINISTER CACHE

DOC SAVAGE
WAS
on Rat Island.

The bronze man had found the island in the fog and overflew it once, at a high altitude, where their plane was unlikely to be seen. The super-silenced motors of Renny’s plane, combined with the milky fog, kept the aircraft from being heard.

Anchored a fair distance from the southern shore was the small seaplane rented in Chicago by Petella van Astor, so they knew they had found the correct island. Long Tom employed a special pair of mechanical goggles combined with the plane’s infra-red lamps to pierce the fog and make out the bobbing craft.

Doc had set down on Lake Superior a good distance from the leeward shore of the islet, where the fog would keep them smothered in concealment.