Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (31 page)

“Look out I don’t nick you by accident,” warned Monk. “When I get to fightin’, I don’t have time to look where I aim.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Just watch yourself, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

Chapter XXX

THE COLLIERY

DESPITE THE SEASON, there was no prevailing wind. The air was still, although chilly in the extreme.

That might explain why no guards were posted outside the colliery. No doubt they preferred the comparative shelter of the big coal-washing plant, which bulked fantastically in the night, looking like a barn that had been constructed to house gigantic, otherworldly beasts. For the coal preparation structure stood many stories tall, but not in all of its angular portions.

The faint moonlight etched out a shiny area which Doc knew must be a slurry impoundment, where the sludgy byproduct of coal separation called blackwater was collected.

The bronze man had more than a passing familiarity with coal mining operations, as he did with almost every field of endeavor, human or industrial.

In the not long-ago days when the plant was active, bituminous coal was brought up on conveyor belts and put through the processing plant where it was washed, crushed, separated and loaded into railroad hopper cars for transport to market.

As he fell in silence, suspended from the great black silken parachute bell, the mighty Man of Bronze directed the dark lens of his infra-red headlamp on the ground below, searching for any signs of movement. He saw none.

The gangster hat that had tumbled out of the aircraft had managed to land on the roof of the plant. It was an incongruous touch, but it was not likely to be spotted from the ground.

There were a few windows in the washer structure, but very few. He could not assume that someone might not be picketed behind the broken glass of one of those opaque panes of glass.

Such a guard would as likely as not tote a high-powered rifle. Depending on the rifle and the caliber of bullet, Doc Savage might withstand any sniper’s handiwork. Too, his steel armor was blued like a knife blade, so that it tended to absorb stray moonbeams, rather than reflecting them. But this precaution was not perfect.

The bronze giant’s chief concern was a rifleman puncturing the canopy of his parachute. His chain mail armor would not protect him from a sudden fall, of course.

So Doc played the invisible rays of his infra-red lantern toward every shadow and crevice of the ground, seeking signs of lurking gunmen.

Not even the pooled shadows moved, however.

Pulling on his shroud lines, the bronze man attempted to steer the billowing black bell close to the big separation plant, figuring that he stood a better chance of gaining entry to the structure if he had less distance to traverse. Landing on the outskirts of the coal pit might be safer in the short run, but more risky if he had to cross open ground.

Briefly, Doc had considered attempting a landing on the roof of the plant, but the structure looked too flimsy to risk it. The roof was a tarpaper patchwork, and there were visible holes attesting to its state of disrepair.

Doc endeavored to land as close to the looming building with its weather-beaten sides of unimproved lumber as practical.

His metal boots touched the ground, slamming firmly. Doc’s knees bent only slightly, as his tremendous leg muscles cushioned the impact, such as it was.

Absence of wind caused the silken shroud to collapse over him, and Doc knelt in place, rigid as a statue, permitting this to happen.

When the thing finally finished collapsing, Doc drew a knife from the scabbard, pierced it with a blade as blued as his chain-mail armor. Working swiftly, he sliced out a square of silk, cut a roughly circular hole in its center.

He drew this over his head like a wide, billowy poncho.

When he was done, Doc Savage was all but invisible, the makeshift black silk garment covered all but his helmeted head.

Moving with uncanny soundlessness, the bronze giant advanced on the washery building. It cast a gray shadow as large as the giants of Greek mythology known as Cyclopes. A randomly-placed window at the top floor suggested a vacant orb, completing the illusion.

Moving past the touring cars parked near the main door, Doc Savage paused long enough to study the license plates, and to feel of their long hoods.

Both engines were still warm, indicating that they had lately arrived. Since he had not previously spied them from the air, this could only mean that the drivers had pulled in while Doc’s plane had been circling in advance of his preparing to jump.

Neither machine was locked, so the bronze giant slipped inside and worked swiftly and silently with a set of miniature tools. When he emerged, the ignition coils of both cars reposed in one pocket.

Moving on, he drifted up to the door, a fragment of darkness taken on life.

Pausing there, Doc listened, but no sounds reached his ears, which were only a little handicapped by the fact that a metallic helmet covered them.

The door stood slightly ajar, and Doc maneuvered his head so that he could point the infra-red helmet headlamp inside. This revealed no lurking forms.

Carefully easing the weather-beaten panel in an inch at a time to prevent rusty hinges from creaking, the bronze man slipped in as elusive as a drifting shadow. Once inside, he was able to move about freely past abandoned cyclone separators and other bulky equipment used to wash, separate, and crush raw bituminous coal for transport by rail. These had all gone to rust.

The odor of cigarette smoke drifted to his sensitive nostrils. Doc Savage changed direction, moving toward that telltale smell.

He began hearing voices—those of men in low conversation.

“But we can’t wait around all night,” one was saying.

“Can it, Blue. We’re parked here as long as we need to. With Duke out of the picture, I am in charge of this outfit.”

“Sez you.”

“That’s right. Sez me. If you want to put it to a vote, you better use bullets, on account of we’re fresh out of ballots.”

“I ain’t going against you, Blackie. But Patches Cordovan might have something to say about that. He was Duke’s number two. Five slugs promoted him to number one.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“Go ahead and arm wrestle Patches for the privilege,” Blue said truculently. “That ain’t my big worry right now. Without Duke bossing us, I don’t think we know what we’re doing anymore.”

“That moll won’t talk. And we need her to talk.”

“Why don’t we just bump her off and dump her down a shaft? No one will ever find her there. They never found the others, did they?”

“Not until we get the word. Only Duke had the ear of the head snake. And we don’t even know who that is. We just know what number to call.”

“Well, why don’t you call the number then?”

“Do you see a telephone around here?” snarled the other. “Besides, I don’t want to call with the bad news that Duke is gone unless I have some good news to add to the pot.”

“Aw, you’re just trying to curry favor with the king snake.”

“What if I am? Without this new deal, we’re gonna need a fresh racket. Repeal put the kibosh on the old racket. That’s why we hooked up with this Medusa dame.”

“Well, Patches is gonna be back shortly,” muttered Blue. “He’ll give the word.”

“I wonder why he took some of the boys into the mine like he did,” mumbled Blackie.

“That part of it we were never made wise,” said Blue. “Duke figured it wasn’t our business. Patches probably figures the same thing.”

The other was silent for a time. Finally, Blue broke the silence, saying, “Another twenty minutes in that holding pen oughta crack that twist’s nerve.”

“I’m not so sure,” considered the ambitious thug called Blackie. “I’m almost one hundred percent certain she burned down Duke. A woman who can kill a man in cold blood doesn’t crack easily.”

“Duke greased her fiancé,” commented Blue. “I’m not sure how cold her blood is about that. If you take my meaning?”

In the darkness, cigarettes glowed like tiny coals, and suddenly one described a downward arc and exploded in a brief uprush of sparks.

“O.K., then. Let’s go back there and work her over. I’m getting tired of this dismal joint.”

Blue took a long draw of a cigarette and the tip glowed more brightly, showing his face in satanic profile.

He made as if to dispose of the cigarette when there was a faint tinkle followed by another, and without warning, both men keeled over on their faces, and began breathing heavily in the darkness.

DOC SAVAGE entered the chamber, stepped over the unconscious bodies, and moved deeper into the great shadow-clotted structure, finding his way with the infra-red lamp whose rays could not be seen by the unaided eye.

There was a guard posted before a rough door and this individual also smoked a cigarette, whose fiery glow etched out the barrel of the Thompson submachine gun cradled under one arm, tracing long red gleams.

Doc Savage eyed the sub-gun warily. Its punishing power was something he did not wish to confront, even enveloped in chain mail as he was.

From a pocket of his leather vest worn over the chain mail, the bronze man removed another sphere of glass, and tossed it at the feet of the Tommy gun wielder.

Then he faded back.

The tinkle was the sound of a thin-walled globule of glass breaking. The grenade released a potent chemical brew which volatilized immediately, producing a colorless and odorless gas that soon found the nostrils of the guard.

The man was looking down at the glass shards at his feet, blinking in the bad light, when he unwittingly inhaled the potent anesthetic.

He collapsed where he stood, tangled up with his Tommy gun. Gliding up, Doc Savage reached down, lifted the weapon and quietly and efficiently began dismantling it, starting with the heavy drum which rattled with its load of .45 caliber bullets.

Doc took his time removing every single bullet casing, throwing the slugs in all directions so the weapon could not be easily reloaded.

Not satisfied with that, the bronze man took the deadly thing in one hand and while he held the weapon down with one knee, exerted a steady pressure while the barrel groaned slowly until it was bent out of plumb.

When that was done, Doc stood up, and tried the door.

It gave easily, the hinges squealing. Deep inside, a woman gasped.

“Don’t you dare come in here!” the woman yelled fiercely. Her voice was defiant, and if there was any fear in it, the bronze man did not detect it in her cultured timbre.

Doc switched off the infra-red helmet lamp, and now he pulled one of the handy spring-generator flashlights from his vest. This he had wound before leaving the plane, so he thumbed it on, simultaneously throwing back the helmet and goggles which concealed his features.

When the bronze man stepped in, he was instantly recognizable, at least from the neck up.

The woman had a stone in one hand; her arm was already cocked to throw.

Before she could recognize Doc Savage, she pitched the dornick.

Doc Savage faded to one side and the missile struck a supporting timber and rebounded away.

“That is not much of a welcome for someone who is coming to rescue you,” he said firmly.

The woman’s voice lost its defiance. “Oh! I recognize you now. Doc Savage.”

Chapter XXXI

THE HIDEOSITY

“WHEN I LAST saw you,” murmured Janet Falcon breathlessly, “I never dreamed I’d be as glad to see you again as I am now.”

Doc Savage entered the room.

The young woman was alone. She still wore her business frock. She had ripped off several inches at the bottom in order that she might move about more easily. Her green eyes were sharp and unafraid.

The ravishing smile she gave Doc was as calm as if it had been delivered in a New York Library reading room.

“I rather hoped someone would rescue me before those men could decide what to do,” she said. “But I dared not dream it would be you, for I was told that you had been killed. You see, I was terribly afraid that I was to be left here to die.”

“After chasing your captors half the night, it is quite a relief to find you,” Doc said politely. He guided her toward the exit. “We had better clear out of here.”

Janet Falcon held back. Her features were anxious in the glow of the flashlight, which Doc was now using to examine the chamber interior.

The woman grasped the bronze giant’s arm, seemed astonished by the hardness of the armor he wore. “Malcolm McLean is being held in this awful place,” she said with low urgency. “Aren’t we going to rescue him?”

For four or five seconds following that announcement, Doc’s weird trilling sound came into being and penetrated to the far corners of the room. Having no tune, yet melodious, inspiring without being awesome, the fantastic note seemed to come from everywhere.

Janet Falcon evidently did not realize from where it emanated. She looked around in perplexity. She remained wide-eyed with wonderment even after the sound died.

“McLean?” Doc queried softly.

“Yes. Duke Grogan’s gang seized him in Chicago.”

“Where is he?” Doc questioned sharply.

“In a room in the opposite wing of this building,” supplied Janet Falcon.

“You are sure he is there?”

“Mr. McLean was placed there when we first arrived,” declared the young woman. “I was in the adjoining room for a few hours. But they moved me.”

“Malcolm McLean was brought all the way from Chicago—as a prisoner?” Doc asked sharply.

“Yes.” Janet Falcon wrinkled her attractive brow.

“Did you know that he was supposed to have been murdered yesterday?”

Janet made a round mouth of surprise. “I did not hear that!”

“Did you overhear them say why they were holding any other prisoners?” Doc inquired.

“No!” The young woman made a bewildered gesture. “Are there two Malcolm McLeans?”

“There’s only one real Malcolm McLean,” Doc assured her. “However, two men are going about passing as the gentleman. One of them is a fake.”