Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (47 page)

Monk reached out a long, hairy arm, snagged the paper and pulled it to his nose.

The headline read:

JANET FALCON A SUICIDE

WINDY CITY WEIRD STRIKES AGAIN

The article was sensational in the extreme, and consisted of many questions and accusations without any supporting evidence.

Prudently, the police had withheld from the press the precise details of the woman’s suicide note, except to leak the incriminating signature,
Medusa
.

Ham read over Monk’s burly shoulder, and exclaimed, “Doc! They are accusing you of being complicit in Janet Falcon’s death. The Superintendent of Police has confirmed that she was in your personal custody, and that she is connected to Myer Sim and Ned Gamble, the first victims of the petrified brain murderer.”

“What do you say, Savage?” snarled one reporter. “Are you behind these killings? If so, what’s your motivation? Crooks are dropping like flies, but so are upright Chicagoans. What is going on? What are you
really
doing in Chicago?”

Shouted questions were hurled with such violence that Doc Savage elected to retreat to the elevator, his men falling back with him.

The elevator operator took them up two floors, let them out and Doc Savage’s men considered their options.

“We can shoot down to the garage and make our way from there,” suggested Monk.

The bronze man shook his head in the negative. “No doubt the exhibition hall is swarming with reporters, seeking to interview me. It has been reported that I have been in attendance for two days running.”

“How the heck are we gonna nab Marvin Lucian Linden then?” howled Monk.

“You better go on ahead,” suggested Doc. “Use the garage elevator. I will follow in a few minutes.”

“We’ll get swarmed,” Long Tom complained.

“Avoid answering their questions, but keep them occupied. I have a plan.”

With that, Doc Savage sought the fire stairs and the upper floors.

Monk and Long Tom looked at one another, shrugged almost in unison as Monk growled, “Well, let’s face the music. Give Doc time to pull whatever hare out of his hat he’s gonna pull.”

“Doc doesn’t wear hats as a rule,” Long Tom groused.

“It was just a figure of speech,” said Monk, pressing the elevator button. “Why are you so touchy all of a sudden?”

“I’ve been touchy ever since I got conked on the noggin by Malcolm McLean,” complained Long Tom. “Until I get to clobber someone back, I’m going to stay that way.”

Of all Doc Savage’s men, the puny electrical wizard’s temper was the most violent. He did not look like much, but in a fight he was a wildcat with lightning fists. Monk suspected that tinkering with electricity all his life had somehow speeded up his reflexes, because his left hook could not be seen coming and his right cross was usually just a few inches behind the left. This made for a terrific combination. Many men who tangled with Long Tom Roberts in a fight never knew what hit them.

Sure enough, when they reached the garage they were immediately accosted by a mob of reporters. The seemingly ubiquitous Jack Swangle stood among them.

“No comment, gentlemen,” Ham said superciliously.

“Stand aside,” growled Monk. “We’re comin’ through.”

“Where is Doc Savage?” Jack Swangle demanded.

“Looking into your sordid past,” snapped Long Tom.

“What have you got to say about the suicide of Janet Falcon?” asked another.

“No comment, I say!” Ham repeated, exposing his glittering blade, which caused the push of reporters to retreat in alarm.

Waving the blade before him like a fencer, the dapper attorney cut through the shrinking representatives of the Fourth Estate, and they pushed their way toward the exhibition hall, the reporters falling in a respectful distance behind them.

Making their way to the exhibition booth of the electrical inventor, they found it was unmanned.

Long Tom entered the booth, fell to rummaging around. There were several crates and boxes there, and he opened each one until he suddenly exclaimed, “Jackpot!”

Standing up, he slammed a peculiar device onto the booth table. It consisted of a pair of flexible mirrors in part, one for capturing sunlight and reflecting it upon the other, which functioned as a combination diaphragm-transmitter.

“What is that?” said Ham.

“Ten bucks says it’s a photophone,” piped Monk.

“It’s a newfangled photophone,” confirmed Long Tom. “This proves it. Marvin Lucian Linden is one of the Gorgons. Now we just have to run him to earth.”

“I say we fan out,” insisted Ham. “No doubt he is circulating among the throng.”

They went their separate ways, hands not straying far from the openings in their coats so they could yank out their assorted weaponry in a hurry.

Chapter XLIV

THE RESURRECTED

AT THE SAME time that Doc Savage’s men were working their way through the exhibition crowd in search of Marvin Lucian Linden, the eccentric inventor himself was making his way toward one of the exit doors.

Linden’s genial face was flushed, and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead and cheeks. A sick, hunted light danced in his too-round orbs.

The inventor showed none of his usual politeness as he wended his way between attendees, occasionally elbowing one aside, and nearly knocking others over. Linden was manifestly a man in a hurry, but either he did not wish to show that, or the surging crowd prevented him from breaking into a mad dash.

Yet Marvin Lucian Linden looked for all the world like a fellow who was trying to run away from something or someone he feared.

As he worked around knots of individuals, the inventor ducked behind a vehicle that resembled a cross between a sedan and a small tank. Instead of front wheels, it was fitted with steerable skis mounted beneath the radiator grille. Three sets of rear wheels were joined together by a caterpillar tractor tread arrangement so that they could operate in tandem. Mounds of white confetti were sprinkled about the contraption to simulate snow.

By all appearances, it was designed to operate in snowy environments through a combination of traction offered by the caterpillar treads, turning via steerable skis mounted forward.

A banner over the preposterous vehicle proclaimed:

SNOW SEDAN

Marvin Lucian Linden circled around this display, hovering there for a bit. His eyes, still sunken and hunted, peered about.

Shortly, a nondescript individual pushed into view. He was painfully thin, rather tall, and very colorless in appearance. Only his brown hair offered any distinction. It was a little too brown, like the fur of a mink.

This fellow was evidently hunting for someone, for he lifted his head, craned his neck about and seemed in search of a particular individual. His eyes, combined with the grim set of his features, marked him as a man of determination.

Seeing this person, Marvin Lucian Linden ducked down. The ducking of course attracted attention, so furtive and out of place was it in the public gathering.

The man in charge of the Snow Sedan display inquired, “May I help you, sir? Are you lost?”

Marvin Lucian Linden made a hissing sound and attempted to wave the man away, which made his actions even more suspicious.

“See here, I will thank you to step away from the Snow Sedan. You may not enter it.”

As if that was some form of reverse invitation, Marvin Lucian Linden reached out to take hold of the ordinary car-door lever. Unlocking it, he slipped inside, ducking out of sight.

Now the flustered display manager became truly upset. “You come out of there at once! Do you hear?”

No doubt Marvin Lucian Linden had heard, but he merely hunkered even lower.

This incipient altercation caught the attention of the trailing man, who swiftly changed direction and drifted up to the display area. This was a raised island, rather like those in dealer showrooms where new automobiles are put on display.

The thin man stepped onto this island and said, “Come out of there, Linden. Step out right now and face the funeral music!” His voice was terrible, twisted with some inner emotion that sounded like hot metal on the verge of its melting point.

“Call the police!” shouted Marvin Lucian Linden. “That madman wants to murder me.”

This caught the nervous display manager quite by surprise. But he took the outcry seriously. He looked around, seeking one of the gray-uniformed security guards who were circulating around the exhibition, helping to keep order and incidentally prowling for pickpockets who unfortunately infest assemblies such as this one.

While he was looking away, the pale man stepped into the so-called Snow Sedan and fell upon Marvin Lucian Linden, cowering on the floorboards.

Seeing his face, Linden emitted a frightened screech, and that screech turned into a terrible series of screams.

“Stop! Stop! Oh, someone help me. Murder, murder!”

It was pathetic, the way Marvin Lucian Linden called out, sounding like a character in an old silent melodrama. He was being murdered. There was no question about it.

The crowd, attracted by these cries, could see a maddened figure lifting and plunging downward one arm over and over again. The sounds of a blade going into Marvin Lucian Linden’s unprotected chest were grisly and distinct.

Five times that blade rose and fell and, with each reappearance, it was more crimson with gore than it had been before. Droplets of blood splashed, becoming scarlet tears running down the windscreen’s interior.

As it happened, Long Tom Roberts was near the scene. Hearing this altercation, he smashed his way through the crowd, stepping on toes and using his sharp elbows to nudge blocking bodies aside.

When he did finally make his way to the Snow Sedan, the assailant had fled into the throng. The door to the Snow Sedan hung open. Gawkers were staring into the blood-splattered interior, their eyes weird with mesmerized horror.

“What’s going on?” Long Tom yelled out.

A woman moaned, “A man was stabbed before our very eyes. He’s inside that contraption.”

Long Tom stepped up onto the dais, pointing his magnetic gun ahead of him.

Inside, Marvin Lucian Linden lay in a welter of gore.

He was not yet dead, but the numerous stab wounds which had perforated his heaving chest made breathing a painful ordeal.

His mouth open, Linden tried speak. “Murder, murder,” he moaned.

“Who did this?” Long Tom demanded.

“Oh, woe is me,” Linden moaned. He seemed only dimly aware of his surroundings, for his eyes held a light that was fast fading.

“Speak up!” Long Tom said hotly. “Who stabbed you?”

“It was the Medusa, damn him. The Medusa murdered me.”

With that, Marvin Lucian Linden gave out a creaky sigh and expired. It was as if his heaving chest were a punctured balloon that had leaked out its last reserve of air.

Shucking off his coat, Long Tom Roberts threw it over the dead man’s face and turned to the nervous crowd, demanding, “Did anybody see who did this?”

A patron sputtered, “Yes, yes. The pale, thin man. He took off in that direction.”

Long Tom followed the stabbing finger. It pointed toward an illuminated sign that said: EXIT.

He took off in that direction and saw, many yards ahead, an individual fitting that description. He was traveling fast.

Attracted by the noise, the crowd was moving in Long Tom’s direction, and the slight electrical wizard knew he would have difficulty bulling his way through the incipient stampede.

Leaping up onto a display table, he aimed his magnetic gun in the direction of the fleeing slayer. Lining up the sights carefully, Long Tom depressed the trigger, but nothing seemed to happen.

Yet far ahead, people began dropping. Screams rang out. Panic ensued, swiftly turned into pandemonium. Long Tom ceased fire immediately.

“Aw, damn this thing!” he complained.

“I will take that, Long Tom,” a voice said distinctly at his side.

Wheeling, Long Tom found himself facing a broad-shouldered individual with extremely blonde hair and wonderfully blue eyes. He was well-dressed, but not otherwise known to him.

“Who the heck are you?” he demanded.

“Doc Savage,” said the disguised bronze man.

Long Tom blinked, seemed stupefied. It dawned on him that the new arrival possessed generally the same stature as Doc Savage. It was evident that the Man of Bronze had disguised himself for the purposes of reconnoitering the exhibition hall without being harassed by reporters or stopped by autograph seekers.

Handing over the weapon, Long Tom said dolefully, “I’m still not used to firing a gun that has no kick. It looks like I dropped a lot of passersby, but I don’t know about the killer.”

Doc accepted the weapon, stepped onto the table, surveyed the crowd. The bronze man was in hopes of spying the fleeing slayer, if in fact he had not succumbed to the spray of hypodermic bullets unleashed by Long Tom Roberts.

But it was impossible to ascertain who had succumbed, so Doc Savage stepped down, handed Long Tom back his weapon, and invited, “Follow me.”

Doc led the way, pushing through the crowd, and soon they were joined by Monk and Ham, who had their supermachine pistols out.

Four exhibition attendees had fallen as a result of Long Tom’s hypodermic bullets. They were not otherwise harmed, but among them was no sign of the tall, pale killer who had wielded the fatal knife.

Doc said to the crowd. “Did anyone see a tall and too-pale individual flee the scene?”

“What did he look like?” asked one person.

Long Tom told them, “I didn’t get a good look at him.”

From an inside pocket, Doc Savage produced the police sketch that the bronze man had earlier made of the person who resembled Malcolm McLean.

Showing this to the crowd, Doc said, “This is the man we seek.”

One person recognized the image. “He went through that exit door over there.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, departing in that direction, followed by his men.

The exit door led to a hotel corridor in the kitchen area, but there was no sign of the individual.