Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (20 page)

The powerful cruiser surged ahead, just as dawn began breaking.

Chapter XIX

THE CROSS THAT WAS CROOKED

THEY REACHED THE sandy speck of a cay in the Caribbean just before noon that day.

The tiny isle proved to be on no marine chart—not even the authoritative
West Indies Pilot
listed it. Thus it had no name, and no history they could ascribe to it.

Doc Savage located the cay by radioing the liner captain who at first stumbled upon it during the rescue of Hornetta Hale. From this individual, he obtained its exact longitude and latitude. It was nowhere near the spot where the blonde firecracker’s seaplane had been discovered, floating abandoned—a suspicious circumstance in itself.

There was no question but this was the correct island, for it matched the description given in the newspapers—a pitiful little hump of sand surmounted by a couple of forlorn palm trees. Not much else. Not even a sand lizard.

They circled the tiny spot, but that was just a precaution. It was so small they needn’t have reconnoitered it to determine a fact that was obvious to all.

Ham spoke up after a while. “No lagoon. Not even a tiny cove.” He sounded disappointed.

“Heck,” snorted Monk, “it ain’t but a sand spit, if that.”

Nevertheless, Doc Savage brought the
Stormalong
to a suitable spot for anchorage, halted the engines, and lowered the stainless steel anchor by a mechanical windlass.

They were east of the tip of Florida. Somewhere northwest of Cuba, many nautical miles south by west of Great Abaco Island in the Bahama island group.

While the others remained behind to guard the cruiser, Doc Savage and Monk Mayfair got into the water, waded for shore and investigated the little dab of an island.

There were, of course, signs of recent habitation. A few cracked coconut shells. Some remnants of the shell of a crab. Most of the rest were broken shards of pink shell and dark husk proving that Hornetta Hale had subsisted largely upon conch meat and coconut milk during her enforced exile.

Peering about, homely Monk scratched his rusty head, and made a perplexed face.

“Well, love a duck. That blonde fire eater must be one tough babe in order to survive on this sandpile the way she done.”

Doc Savage nodded. “She has quite a reputation.”

Doc searched about for any signs of why the blonde-haired adventuress had been marooned on this tiny cay. Of course, there was nothing. Whatever had compelled unknown persons—probably the Count and his crowd—to strand Hornetta Hale in a remote corner of the Caribbean in this manner, and not kill her, those answers would be found elsewhere.

This did not stop Monk Mayfair from trying to puzzle it all out.

“Who ever done this, they didn’t want to kill her, but maybe they didn’t care whether she lived or died,” he ventured.

“A reasonable conjecture,” admitted Doc Savage. The bronze man was scratching about in the sand with the toe of one shoe, looking for any evidence, sign of writing, or even a distress marker.

He found a few sun-bleached stones carefully arranged in the shape of an S.O.S., but they were too few to properly spell out the letters. It was only by chance that the liner
Amberjack
had wandered close enough to spy Hornetta’s flag of rags.

The flag was still there, consisting of a piece of driftwood stuck in the sand. The pennant was what was left of a summer skirt.

Doc Savage examined this. There were no pockets, no writing. Nothing in the way of a message.

Examining the boles of the two palms, the bronze man looked for signs of writing. It would be possible to scratch out something with one of the pink conch shell shards, if one put their mind to it.

Indeed, the bronze man found a number of broken shards at the base of one tree, evidence that this was attempted.

The smooth, silvery bark of the palm proved to be too tough for anything in the way of a message.

Glancing over the attempt, Monk grumbled, “Looks like she gave up on it.”

Going to the next palm, they found more evidence of an attempt at writing. This palm was younger, somewhat stunted, and therefore softer of bark.

Five words Hornetta had managed to scratch out. They read:

BEWARE!

MEN UNDER THE SEA

That was all.

“For the love of mud!” exploded Monk. “She could be talking about the fish-man we spotted!”

Doc Savage offered nothing. He was examining another mark below the letters. It was not a letter, but a symbol.

Crude, of unequal lines, it might have been simply a hash mark, or a first attempt to test the bark before carving the other message.

Monk wrinkled his simian face in perplexity, tilting his rusty head this way and that, until it hit him.

“I know what that jigger is supposed to be,” he gulped.

It was a cross. Its arms were bent a clockwise manner. A crooked cross, a twisted thing of harsh right angles.

“This hooks up with the Count and his boys, all right,” Monk stated grimly. “But what does all this have to do with men livin’ under the sea?”

“That remains to be seen,” said Doc. “My hunch is that Hornetta Hale left these marks as a warning to others in the event she perished here. No doubt whatever she can tell us will have an important bearing on the mystery behind all this—the motive, the reason for what is happening in the Caribbean.” Doc Savage was silent for a time. He was studying the strange twisted cross.

“Let us return to the boat,” he said abruptly.

They made their way back to the
Stormalong,
and shared this latest information.

Dark eyes glowing, Ham Brooks said, “Everything we have encountered or witnessed so far appears to tie together. Yet it makes absolutely no sense.”

“No apparent sense,” corrected Doc Savage. “This does not mean that there is no sense to be found at the bottom of the matter.”

“If so,” Ham said, twisting his polished sword cane in his hands, “we’re going to have to dig very deep to find it.”

Long Tom spoke up. “This is a dead end for sure. Where do we go from here?”

Doc Savage said, “We have three clues. There is a cay with the lagoon, and the Count and his cohorts appear to have a hideout or a base there. It is imperative that we find this unknown cay.”

“What about Pat?” asked Monk, voice stricken.

“The fact that these men were too squeamish to do away with Hornetta Hale could imply that they will hesitate to bring harm to Pat. If they wanted her dead, there would be no necessity of abducting her. It is a slim hope. But it is all that we have.”

“Do we know that the Count and the mermen are connected?” wondered Ham.

“We do not,” Doc said flatly. “But we can hope that one trail converges with the other. The fact that Honoria Hale and her captors disappeared from a lifeboat mid-Atlantic, in a manner similar to Pat’s vanishing, suggests a tie-up.”

“But not much of one,” muttered Monk. “This sure is a screwy fish stew.”

Going to the controls, Doc Savage raised the anchor, reversed the engines, and piloted the powerful cruiser away from the nameless island.

Ham got out all the marine charts, and was poring over them. They had been doing this previously, in the hope of locating a cay possessing a noticeable lagoon. But now they became very intent upon the task.

“Deuced needle in a haystack,” he muttered.

“What is?” asked Long Tom.

“Finding the correct cay with the accompanying lagoon.”

Doc Savage surprised them by announcing, “The cay we are seeking is volcanic.”

How the bronze man had arrived at this conclusion was a mystery, but no one questioned it. Doc often came to correct conclusions through what appeared to be magic, but was in reality sound deductive thinking.

Suddenly, Monk snapped his blunt fingers, saying, “Those vapor traces that I analyzed. All of that stuff are products of volcanic action! I shoulda realized that myself.”

“Some lagoons are created by water eroding the extinct cone of an underwater volcano,” mused Ham. “Are there any extinct volcanic cones in this immediate vicinity?”

“None,” asserted Doc. “But it is possible that an ancient volcano, overgrown by tropical greenery, and worn down by perpetual action of the tides, could exist in this region, undiscovered. You will both recall our troubles on such an island two years back, when we fought a battle on a volcanic spot such as we now seek.”
³

“That don’t help us now,” snapped Monk. “What difference does it make what kind of isle it is? We’re lookin’ for a lagoon, ain’t we? Then let’s get to it. Pat needs rescuin’!”

The
Stormalong
worked its way amid scattered islands. Shoal cays and coral atolls were plentiful. Many were simply forlorn mangrove swamps, overgrown with the tough water-seeking roots, home to lizards and tropical birds. They were clearly uninhabited, if not uninhabitable, by humans.

They discovered nothing of interest along the way.

It was a little bit further along in the afternoon when they came upon the yellow-and-black amphibian plane roosting upon the waves. It looked like a tired duck resting after a long flight.

Monk trained his binoculars on it, and squawled, “Hey! That’s Hornetta’s bus!”

DOC SAVAGE sent the
Stormalong
hammering in the direction of the amphibian. He cut in the silencing mechanism for the motors, but it was of limited value. The powerful Diesels, even throttled down, made considerable noise despite the ingenious baffles.

As they drew near, Doc throttled back the engines to reduce the noise, hoping not to give away their approach.

The sleek cruiser slipped up on the amphibian from its tail section, where visibility was nonexistent from the point-of-view of the cockpit.

Still, something alerted the pilot, for suddenly the exhaust stack spat sparks and began belching grayish-black fumes. The seaplane began shuddering and moving forward.

Advancing the throttles, Doc raced to get in ahead of the craft.

The famous
Hornet
had been a champion in her days, and had come in second in two consecutive Schneider Cup races. But that was years ago. She was showing her age.

Prow throwing up spume and spray, the
Stormalong
soon overhauled the thundering amphibian. Doc, perhaps desperate for a lead, lunged toward the port wing of the amphibian as she tried to climb up on step.

The pilot—they could see clearly that it was Hornetta Hale—flung the amphibian to starboard. In this way, she avoided a collision, but lost headway.

Doc veered the
Stormalong
in a great sweeping circle, attempting to get in front of the plane’s buzzing nose.

Each time Hornetta attempted to bring her ship around and resume taxiing, the
Stormalong
intercepted it.

Finally, Hornetta realized the futility of escape. She shut down the engine. The spinning prop froze, and she slid open a window.

“You win!” she called out.

Doc Savage called over in a voice that carried with amazing clarity, “It is time to parley.”

“I don’t seem to have much choice in the matter. You stiffs are in my way.”

Reluctantly, Hornetta stepped out of the cockpit and onto a pontoon. Without hesitation, she threw herself into the water and swam with the agility and speed of an Olympic diver for the waiting yacht.

Monk and Ham raced one another to be the first one to help her on board. Hitherto they had considered the blonde adventuress to be the female equivalent of the devil, complete with horns, spiked tail, with a tongue like a pitchfork. But now their initial impression subsided, the blonde girl’s evident charms providing the motivation.

To Ham’s slack-jawed surprise, Hornetta spurned his offered hand and accepted Monk’s assistance onto the heaving deck of the
Stormalong.

Monk beamed. Ham frowned.

“We meet again,” Hornetta said boldly.

Long Tom warned her, “Watch your step around me, unless you want to be knocked into the drink for all the trouble you bring.”

“Pick on someone your own size, you shrimp,” sneered Hornetta. “I only fight them that’s in my weight class.” Looking around the deck, she snapped, “Where’s that gal that socked me? I want a rematch right here and now.”

Doc said somberly, “My cousin Pat was abducted in the middle of the night.”

Hornetta hesitated before replying. She seemed at war with herself.

“By the Men Under the Sea, apparently,” prompted Doc.

Hornetta’s snapping blue eyes popped in surprise. She bit her tongue.

Doc said, “Given the uncanny manner in which Honoria Hale vanished in mid-ocean, we might conjecture that both women are being held by the same persons, possibly in the identical location.”

“Where is she?” Hornetta yelped. “You tell me this instant, you copper-faced wooden Indian!”

Doc ignored the insult. “At last report, Honoria Hale was a prisoner of a man calling himself Count Rumpler. What can you tell us about these Men Under the Sea?”

“They are not what they seem to be,” Hornetta supplied sullenly.

“If you are speaking of the same type of creature we encountered,” Doc Savage returned simply, “one of which we saw under moonlit conditions suggested a merman. But last night an aquatic marauder stole aboard this vessel, leaving behind footprints like those of oversize geese.”

“The Men Under the Sea,” said Hornetta slowly, “come in two varieties. The web-footed ones, and the fishtailed ones. They’re pretty ugly customers, as I’m sure you realize by now.”

“Where do they dwell?” pressed Doc.

“That’s what I’m down here trying to find out!” snapped Hornetta. “But you clowns keep cramping my style. I need to be free to act! My sister’s life is at stake!”

Doc Savage said calmly, “We appear to have a common cause.”

Hornetta subsided. Her facial contortions showed that she was doing considerable thinking. She gave her bedraggled blonde locks an annoyed fluffing.