Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (41 page)

“A burnt charcoal odor in the elevator cage indicates a combustible substance at work.”

“He was killed to discourage your pursuit, no doubt.”

“Evidently,” said Doc.

Rockwell nodded heavily. “I take it you put no stock in the newspaper reports of a Medusa stalking the streets of Chicago?”

“None whatsoever,” stated Doc, returning Rockwell’s emotionless stare with one of his own.

“Are we supposed to believe that this poor elevator operator is a criminal of some sort?”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Doc. “I must once again request to witness the procedure you intend to perform on this man.”

Rockwell shook his heavy head slowly. “It is very tempting, for you may be able to assist me, but my present preference is to work alone. Nevertheless, I thank you for your offer.”

Doc Savage said nothing for a long moment, then added, “The suspicious person may have circled back to the exhibition hall. I must continue my pursuit.”

Rockwell had been staring at the deceased elevator operator and suddenly looked up. “What was so suspicious about him?”

“He rather reminded me of Malcolm McLean,” replied Doc.

Rockwell gave vent to an unexpected laugh. “Rather reminded! I would think anyone whose appearance smacked of McLean’s would stand out in any crowd.”

“This fellow was notable for being nondescript in his general coloring. But he possessed McLean’s height and gaunt features.”

Rockwell cocked a thick eyebrow and asked, “I fail to follow your reasoning.”

“Call it a hunch,” said Doc.

This seemed to further befuddle Warner Rockwell, but by this time the clanging of the ambulance could be heard and he excused himself to meet the arriving attendants.

Doc Savage quietly departed the lobby, and was soon filtering through the exhibition crowd, making a circuit of the great auditorium hall, avoiding as much as possible persons who might wish to accost him for one reason or another. Finally, failing to accomplish anything constructive, he drifted back in the direction of his aides.

Monk and Ham were badgering Long Tom Roberts.

“Is it possible,” Ham was asking, “that this insect exterminating device could have the ability to turn a man’s brain into something hard?”

Long Tom seemed to take the suggestion rather personally. “Have you gone bughouse? Why would I build anything that could do that?”

Ham bridled, saying, “I am not referring to your device. But the one invented by Marvin Lucian Linden!”

Monk inserted, “I was kinda thinkin’ along the same lines. It would take something really unusual to produce such a chemical reaction in a human brain. Maybe it could be done by special rays.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Long Tom said, “Hardly likely. In fact, it’s flat-out impossible.”

“You don’t know that Linden’s device is identical in the way it operates to yours, do you?” questioned Ham.

“No, but it’s close. And what you’re saying is ridiculous. The both of you. Cut it out.”

Doc Savage was suddenly in their midst. Caught unawares, Monk all but jumped out of his hairy hide!

“Dang your spooky way of gettin’ around!” he squeaked.

Ham asked, “Doc, what do you think of this? Perhaps Linden’s device is causing all this trouble.”

Instead of replying directly, Doc Savage asked, “What makes you suspect Marvin Lucian Linden?”

Both Monk and Ham were slightly taken aback, but Ham admitted, “We do not suspect him specifically. It is only that we seek a reasonable explanation for these mad occurrences.”

“Linden’s device would not produce these effects,” said Doc. “Have you forgotten the cigarette smoke that felled Ned Gamble? Or the fatal gasses that emerged from the coal mine?”

Both men looked sheepish.

“They’re just grasping at straws,” said Long Tom heatedly. “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know what they’re talking about, neither of them. I’m disgusted by everything that’s happened today.”

Changing the subject, Ham Brooks asked, “Have you seen any sign of Malcolm McLean in the vicinity?”

Once more, Doc Savage dodged the question and related the events of the last few minutes.

“I trailed a suspicious individual,” the bronze man concluded. “He managed to elude me, but he does not seem to have returned to the exhibition hall.”

Monk, Ham and Long Tom looked suitably impressed.

“What attracted your attention?” inquired Ham.

“The fellow,” replied Doc, “bore a general resemblance to Malcolm McLean.”

“Ye-e-o-w!”
yelled Monk. “Do you think it was McLean?”

“It is impossible to be certain. I did not see the fellow clearly. But he appeared to have gone to Janet Falcon’s floor only to double back, managing to throw me off the trail.”

“Could it be a coincidence that he went to that floor?” Ham wondered.

“It is always prudent to be skeptical of coincidences,” Doc Savage pointed out. “But Janet Falcon was not approached. If that was the man’s intention, it was foiled.”

Doc gave a specific description of the man and all four of them fanned out and canvassed the exhibition hall.

An hour later, they regrouped and were forced to admit that there was no sign of the mysterious individual anywhere in the great convocation.

“We keep hittin’ dead ends!” complained Monk.

“This is one of the most baffling matters we have ever looked into,” agreed Ham in spite of himself.

“Disgusting, I call it,” said Long Tom. “It’s just flat-out disgusting.”

No one contradicted the pale electrical wizard.

“Well,” Monk muttered, “the newspapers are gonna have a field day with this latest killin’.”

Which caused Doc Savage to remark, “No doubt reporters will be descending upon the hotel at any minute, looking into different angles of the story. Best we make ourselves scarce. We do not want any further entanglements with the Chicago press.”

They went in search of the service elevator, so they could return to their hotel suite undetected.

Chapter XXXIX

SUSPICIONS

ONCE THEY WERE again ensconced in Doc Savage’s hotel suite, the bronze man sat down at the writing desk and took out a sheet of hotel stationery and a pencil.

Without explaining his actions, he began to sketch the individual he had observed slipping through the crowds of the great exposition.

The likeness was remarkable, and would have done credit to a police sketch artist. Inwardly, the bronze man felt it lacked a sense of personality, but it was a distinct and accurate likeness.

He passed this to the others, saying, “This is a rendering of the suspicious man.”

Long Tom took it first, considered the drawing thoughtfully, and made a face.

“Reminds me of that sideshow freak, Malcolm McLean. But not exactly.”

Monk and Ham studied it next. The homely chemist said, “Could be him at that.”

Predictably, Ham said contrarily. “Or perhaps a relative.”

Long Tom asked, “You say the man looked normal?”

Doc Savage nodded. “He was uncommonly pale, his hair was a dull brown, but the resemblance was marked, although not perfect.”

Ham wondered, “There are too many men walking around looking like this one. It is an unpleasant thought.”

Monk pointed out, “We still don’t know for sure if McLean’s livin’. No one’s seen him.”

Long Tom snapped his fingers. “That’s right! We have only Dr. Rockwell’s word that McLean made it.”

“And the word of the hospital staff,” reminded Doc. “They are unlikely to be mistaken in that regard. McLean’s appearance is too distinct.”

Ham unsheathed his cane, studied the blade and declared, “This may be the most maddening puzzle we’ve ever blundered into.”

Doc Savage said, “Long Tom, have photostatic copies of this made and distributed to police stations. I will request of the Superintendent of Police that a dragnet be cast for this man.”

“Sure,” said the pale electrical wizard.

Doc turned to the others. “Monk, Ham, why don’t you to go to McLean’s residence. See if he has returned. If not, stand watch and wait until he does.”

“Righto,” said Ham. “What will you be doing in the meantime?”

“We have acquired scant clues in the course of our investigation,” replied the bronze man steadily. “Without our complete chemical laboratory back east, we are somewhat handicapped.”

“What about Janet Falcon?” wondered Monk. “The police don’t know it yet, but she’s the main suspect in the killing of Duke Grogan.”

“Janet Falcon will have to keep,” said Doc. “She is very much like a safe with a combination lock. If we continue working on her, perhaps the door will fully open and she will reveal her secrets.”

Ham Brooks suddenly made an intrigued face. “She will need a competent attorney in any event.”

“Perhaps you might offer Miss Falcon your services at the appropriate time,” suggested Doc. “But for the moment, we will keep her under wraps.”

With that, Doc Savage and his men went their separate ways.

NEWSPAPER extras were already on the streets and newsboys howled the headlines, which were in two-inch type.

“New Medusa Murder!” yelled one.
“Wuxtra!
Read all about it! Another victim struck down!”

They related the death of the unfortunate elevator operator at the Hotel Chicago, with plenty of sob-story stuff about the man’s family and additional color concerning past efforts by Dr. Warner Rockwell to salvage such unfortunate victims.

Holding the open sheet high so as to help conceal his distinctive features, Doc Savage read this as he left the hotel, signaling the doorman that he did not require a taxicab.

Instead, the bronze giant climbed the covered stairs of an elevated train platform, rode a rattling train several blocks, and walked until he came to an imposing building—the Chicago Public Library. He entered through the Washington Street entrance.

The hour was growing late, but the library was still open—although it showed signs of being readied for closing.

Doc Savage presented himself at the main desk, and requested a courtesy card that would permit him to use the microfilm files.

“We are closing in ten minutes,” the librarian told him, unimpressed by the bronze giant’s Herculean stature.

“This may be important,” said Doc quietly. “I am investigating the wave of murders in the city.”

“In that event,” the librarian hastily amended, “we may make an exception for you, Mr. Savage. Step this way.”

Doc was led to a reading room, and from memory recited a certain date three years in the past, saying, “I would like all Chicago newspapers for that date.”

The bound volumes were promptly produced and Doc Savage began to go through them one by one.

At the end of his perusal, he stood up, returned the boxed volumes to the librarian, saying simply, “Thank you. This was very helpful.”

A guard had to let Doc out the front door, which had been locked during his study.

A cab conveyed the bronze giant to Mercy General Hospital next, where he inquired at the reception desk, “How is Dr. Rockwell progressing with the latest victim under his care?”

“He is still working,” the receptionist told him.

Doc asked, “I understand from my reading that a Dr. Marsden treated the victims of the Ryerson Coal Mine disaster of a few years ago. Is this the same physician listed in your hospital directory?”

The receptionist was not sure, but consulted with the head nurse, who said, “Yes, our Dr. Marsden handled some of those patients. Although by the time he got to them, they were immediately pronounced dead. So they were not truly his patients.”

“Where might Dr. Marsden be found?”

The head nurse consulted papers at her desk. “Try his office, on the fourth floor.”

After thanking the women, Doc rode the elevator to the fourth floor, knocked at the door and stepped in without waiting for response.

Dr. Marsden shot out of his seat, and the expression on his long face alternated between flustered startlement and genuine admiration.

“Dr. Savage!” he cried out. “I heard that you were in town, but I did not imagine I would ever meet you.”

Doc got right to the point, saying, “You were the physician on duty when the victims of the Ryerson coal mine disaster of 1931 arrived at the county hospital.”

“However did you know that?” said Marsden, waving Doc to a seat.

Doc Savage remained standing, however. He addressed this point. “By consulting the Chicago newspapers for that year. You, among other physicians, were quoted in regard to the disaster.”

Dr. Marsden shook his head sadly. “It was a terrible thing. There were no survivors.”

“Were any of the victims autopsied?”

Dr. Marsden had to think about that a moment. Finally, he admitted, “I do not believe so. As you might imagine, coal-mining disasters happen from time to time, and once the bodies are removed, it is usually assumed that the dead expired as a result of inhalation of firedamp—as coal miners call poisonous gasses.”

Doc nodded. “Did the bodies display any unusual characteristics?”

The medical man did not have to think about that. “No, I do not believe that they did.”

“Were there signs of acute hypoxia?”

“No, no, none of that. The skin lacked any unusual discoloration. But you have to understand that, with over two hundred victims, the bodies were very quickly examined, then released to their next of kin. There was no question but that they were all deceased. Nor that they had been subjected to a poisonous atmosphere. So the state coroner did not dig too deeply. The mine was immediately closed, and has remained shut since that time.”

Intrigued lights played in Doc Savage’s flake-gold eyes for a moment. Dr. Marsden watched him, awaiting another question. But none came.

“You have answered all questions to my satisfaction,” said Doc Savage. “Thank you for your time.”

The bronze man turned to go and Dr. Marsden asked, “Do you think that they perished in an unusual way?”

“It is a certainty that their deaths were out of the ordinary,” said Doc. “But nothing could have been done for them. Thank you again.”