Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (15 page)

“This man does not appear to have been very healthy from the start. He shows signs of acute anemia and severe malnourishment, if not tuberculosis.”

Doc Savage corrected the medico’s hasty diagnosis.

“Long Tom has never fallen ill in all the time I have known him.”

Doc took a dab of Long Tom’s forearm, and gave it a pinch. The slender man did not respond to the pain, if he felt any.

“How do you yourself feel?” asked the ship’s physician of Doc.

“Peculiar, although that sensation is fading.”

“Peculiar—in what way?”

“Peculiar in that the last thing that transpired before I lost consciousness was that I began laughing without cause.”

“How very odd. Did you think that you inhaled a form of laughing gas?”

Doc did not immediately reply, but asked, “Did you administer smelling salts to this man?”

The doctor nodded. “To both of you, but without result, obviously.”

From a pocket, the big bronze man took out a tiny vial, broke the stem. He waved the ampule under Long Tom’s nose.

This brought immediate results. The other man roused, began shaking his head as if shrugging off a powerful spell.

“What is that?” asked the doctor.

“A concoction of my own devising,” returned Doc, without elaborating further.

Long Tom sat up, blinked and peered around. One pale hand went to his stricken temple. He winced.

“How long was I out?” he demanded in a querulous tone of voice.

“Nearly a day.”

Long Tom stared.

“I am not joking,” stated Doc. “After the blackjack knocked you out, there was a battle, during which another bottle of a mysterious vapor was hurled at us.”

Long Tom made a face. “What was so mysterious about it? It smelled of methane.”

“Once the fumes entered my nostrils,” Doc told him quietly, “I began laughing uncontrollably.”

“That’s not like you,” remarked Long Tom, sliding off his bed.

“Almost a day passed before I woke up here, beside you,” elaborated Doc.

Long Tom felt of the throbbing knob discoloring his temple. “I take it they made off with the girl we tried to bamboozle with our play acting?”

“All departed the ship in the night,” replied Doc. “Efforts are being undertaken to locate the lifeboat they used to escape in.”

“In that case,” groaned Long Tom, “our entire charade was a profound bust. We don’t know any more about these crazy shenanigans than before.”

“On the contrary,” corrected Doc. “We know that something terrible is in progress.”

“But what?” snapped Long Tom.

Long Tom Roberts stood not very tall once he was on his feet. He was on the lean side, very slender, and his hair and skin possessed a pallor for which a medical man might prescribe a week in the sun fortified with plenty of orange juice.

But as Doc Savage had revealed, Long Tom had rarely if ever taken ill. In fact, he was a terror in a fight—even if he had been unceremoniously knocked out early during the prior night’s battle. His unhealthy looks were the result of long hours spent toiling in a cellar laboratory, where he often conducted experiments.

Long Tom was the electrical engineer of the bronze man’s tiny band of experts. He was an electrical wizard of the first order. Those who knew him half-expected the slender experimenter to simply snap his thin fingers and produce sparks. Long Tom had worked with Edison and Steinmetz in his day.

“What’s our next move?” he asked Doc.

“This ship is putting into Bermuda, where we are to be questioned by British authorities.”

Long Tom squared his jaw. “Can’t you pull a little weight on them?”

“Ordinarily, yes. But this is wartime. We will have to submit to British interrogation until they are satisfied. Monk and Ham are following on the
Stormalong
.”

“I thought all of our ships and planes were destroyed in the fire at our warehouse hangar.”

“Most were. But some proved salvageable. Our boats were held in a water-filled basin that protected them from complete destruction. I had the
Stormalong
rebuilt at great expense.”

“What about the other members of the gang—the ones on the steamer behind us?”

“For the moment, we will allow them to think they are not under suspicion by the
Caribbulla’s
crew,” Doc said. “The liner is no doubt actively searching for that missing lifeboat, as they would be expected to do. The captain had been previously instructed not to hinder the Count and his men, unless their hand was forced.”

“You sound very confident of your influence over the other ship’s captain,” inserted the physician.

“Doc owns the steamer company,” supplied Long Tom, applying an icepack to his injured temple. The lump appeared to be going down.

“Oh,” said the medico.

NOT an hour later, a radioman knocked on the door of Doc’s cabin, which had been repaired during the bronze man’s unfortunate convalescence from the mystery vapor.

During that period of time, Doc had removed the last of his Gloomy Starr disguise, and stood revealed in his normal state. The transformation was astounding.

No one could have ever connected the two individuals.

Bits of broken glass had been retrieved for him, and Doc had been studying the remnants of the shattered bottles which had contained the liquid which had vaporized with such volatile and unexpected—not to mention unfortunate—consequences.

Doc was handicapped by a lack of specialized equipment, a regrettable result of inhabiting the personality of Gloomy Starr.

Long Tom asked, “Make anything of it?”

Doc shook his head somberly. He had sniffed the shards, but other than a whiff of something suggesting methane, got nothing out of the procedure.

Long Tom murmured, “Too bad Monk wasn’t here. He always lugs that portable chemical laboratory with him everywhere he goes.”

“When we rendezvous with Monk and the others, we will subject these specimens to a rigorous analysis,” said Doc.

A knocking interrupted.

When Long Tom opened the cabin door for the radioman, the latter declared, “Mr. Monk Mayfair is on the wireless, and wishes to speak with you, Mr. Savage.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, following the man to the radio room.

Monk was excited. His boyishly squeaky voice made the radio all but jump.

“We found that lifeboat. Empty.”

“No sign of the former passengers?”

“Nothin’. In fact, the thing was overturned. I had to get into the water and flip it over to make sure it was empty.”

“Strange.”

“Either they had a mishap,”
Monk ventured,
“or they got picked up and tried to scuttle the boat.”

“Meet us in Bermuda,” directed Doc.

The bronze man next radioed the liner
Caribbulla.
The Captain came on and reported,
“All quiet, Mr. Savage. The passengers we were requested to keep an eye on have done nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Continue on your way,” said Doc. “When you near Bermuda, put into Hamilton Harbour. Do not announce this change in course until the last possible moment. Make reasonable excuses to allay any suspicion. We will meet you at the shipping pier.”

“Yes, sir,”
said the other captain crisply.

Doc replaced the microphone.

Long Tom tugged at an oversized ear. “The Count and his men are sure going to be surprised to see us.”

“Especially since they were led to believe that Renny Renwick was the one who infiltrated their gang.”

“Is that why you made yourself up to look like Renny’s ugly brother?”

Doc nodded. “In case they penetrated my disguise, having them jump to the wrong conclusion as to my identity allowed for more latitude in proceeding.”

“Well, you may not have completely fooled them, but we made a little progress.”

“There was another reason,” added Doc.

“What’s that?”

“It is a virtual certainty that they would have slain Gloomy Starr at their first opportunity, had they known his actual identity. At the worst, they would have held ‘Renny Renwick’ as hostage against my interfering with their master scheme.”

“Whew!” said Long Tom. “The Count sure plays for keeps. But what’s his game?”

“We will find out when we all reach Bermuda,” said Doc Savage grimly.

Chapter XV

TERROR AT SEA

ONLY ONE SHIP was destined to reach Bermuda, but the bronze man had no inkling of that. Neither did the crew of his own vessel, shadowing the Caribbulla as it made its way down the Atlantic Coast.

Ham Brooks was on the bridge of the cabin cruiser,
Stormalong.
He was, predictably, attired for the occasion, wearing an impeccable yachtsman’s outfit of tropical worsted with matching ascot tie and white cap.

He had stored his sword cane, since the walking stick was not exactly an ocean-going convenience and Habeas Corpus, no doubt motivated by Monk Mayfair, had twice made off with it—only to be caught by the dapper barrister in the act of trying to drop the cane off the stern and into the drink.

“You might consider,” Ham told Monk bitingly, “tying a life preserver to that infernal pest.”

“Habeas is too sure-footed to fall overboard by accident,” Monk returned blandly.

“What I am considering,” snapped Ham, “will not fall under the category of an accident.”

Since the ungainly porker was an indifferent swimmer, Monk gave this suggestion some thought. Ham was unusually out of sorts, having had to leave behind his pet ape, Chemistry. The unclassifiable ape had an aversion to boat travel, owing to his distressing tendency toward seasickness. Ham might act out of pure spleen.

Pat Savage came up from below, a vision in white slacks and a cream-colored shirt. She seemed not to mind the relative coolness of the ocean breezes.

“I don’t mind taking in the salt air,” she remarked, “but I signed aboard for my share of action. Where is it?”

“Once Doc catches up with you, young lady,” Ham said reprovingly, “you will have all the action you need.”

“Yeah,” seconded Monk. “Tryin’ to keep Doc from lockin’ you in a cellar somewheres. You know he don’t like you bargin’ into any of our shindigs.”

“That glory grabber should learn to share,” sniffed Pat, unimpressed by the threats. She had insinuated herself into several of her bronze relative’s past adventures, and, despite a hair-raising brush or two with death, never seemed to get enough excitement.

“I wish,” she said after a few moments, “I was at the wheel of my three-masted schooner.”

“Why?” asked Ham, curious.

“This tub is too slow for my taste. On the
Patricia,
I could catch up with Doc instead of nursemaiding a pokey liner.”

Ham made an indignant face.

The
Stormalong,
while technically a yacht, was no pleasure craft. She was an ocean-going cabin cruiser, capable of great range. Sixty feet long, she had plied the South Seas and done exploration work in the mid-Atlantic. Her hull was steel, her bow reinforced so that she could serve as an ice-breaker if need be. She was also equipped with an astounding number of marine gadgets many years in advance of current science.

Nothing like her existed elsewhere, which was why the bronze man had put a crew of shipbuilders to working round the clock until she was restored and made seaworthy after the devastating Hidalgo warehouse fire.

It was late afternoon now, and Pat Savage was taking out her boredom on a swarm of jellyfish.

She had loaded her antique six-shooter with mercy bullets, and was giving the floating organisms a taste of her marksmanship.

Unerringly, she hit every one. The jellyfish immediately went to sleep, although that was a supposition, since they were floaters who drifted with the tides. It was impossible to judge their degree of wakefulness.

“Don’t you ever miss?” Monk wondered, eyeing her work with admiration.

“Not in the last three hundred and twenty-seven shots,” Pat said confidently.

Monk blinked. “You keep count like that?”

“Missing is something I never forget,” the bronze-haired girl said grimly.

“Wonder whatever happened to Hornetta Hale?” the hairy chemist muttered, scratching his nubbin of a head.

“It’s not that blonde bearcat that interests me,” snapped Pat. “It’s Honoria Hale I want a crack at. She helped feed me to the Count and his pack of goons.”

Ham Brooks called back from the wheel.

“You say she resembled Hornetta Hale?”

“The two,” said Pat, popping a jellyfish dead center, “could be twins.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Hornetta Hale in disguise?” asked Monk.

“I know hair, and Honoria’s tresses were a darker blonde than the gal I saw in the color newsreels. I run a beauty salon, you will doubtless recall. The face was the same, but the hair was different. And it wasn’t colored. It was natural. A gal knows these things.”

“If you say so,” muttered Monk. “But the idea of there being two Hornetta Hales makes my scalp itch.”

“If I ever catch up to either wench,” Pat promised vividly, “I won’t miss!”

Another jellyfish jumped out of the water and Pat blew a curl of smoke from the muzzle of her sixgun.

A LITTLE before dark, they heard a dull sound.

The noise was coming from the south, in the general direction of the liner they were following at a discreet distance.

“What was that?” growled Monk.

Habeas erected his ridiculously long ears. He sniffed the air with his peculiarly extended snout.

Taking up a pair of binoculars, Ham Brooks conned the sparkling waters before them.

“I did not like the sound of that,” he said slowly. “Submarine raiders belonging to one of the warring parties have been known to operate in these waters.”

Rushing up to the bridge, the apish chemist snatched the glasses away from the dapper lawyer, saying, “Let me see that, you seagoin’ shyster!”

Bringing the eyepieces to his tiny eyes, Monk searched the tossing waves.

Before very long, black smoke began smudging the horizon line.

Everyone saw it. Ham jumped to the controls, threw the throttle to its maximum. The
Stormalong
responded by surging ahead, digging in its stern, and knifing through the waters with her reinforced bow.