Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (21 page)

“It all goes back to the time Honoria took up with that phony-baloney Lancelot Lacy character,” she began.

“Tell us about Lacy,” Doc requested.

“Lancelot Lacy,” exclaimed Hornetta Hale, “is as vain as all the peacocks in Siam. He struts about like some kind of uppercrust swell, when in fact he’s a dirty low-down dog. My opinion.”

“Was Lacy the one who stranded you?” asked Ham.

“No other. He wanted me out of the way because I knew too much. But he refused to knock me off.”

“Why not?” inquired Doc.

“Because of my stuck-up sister, Honoria,” snapped Hornetta. “She’s sweet on the rat.”

“You had better begin at the beginning,” suggested Doc. “We would like to hear a full account of your recent activities.”

Hornetta looked as if she had swallowed poison. She began spitting out words.

“My sister and I are twins. But we didn’t like being twins. What’s more, we are as different as a pineapple and a peach. I like the limelight, adventure, seeing my name in headlines. Honoria, who was nicknamed ‘Honeybee,’ was the exact opposite. She likes the nightlife, gay parties, socializing. She had an affinity for European royalty. She took up with a number of them, during the period she lived in Europe. Then came the war, and she had to return to America. You probably remember that fuss the week the war broke out.”

Doc nodded. “All nations recalled their vessels back to their home ports. There was a scramble to evacuate Europe by tourists visiting the continent. For a few days, the Atlantic was choked with passenger liners and refugees fleeing the outbreak of war.”

“Honoria returned to the U.S. on one of those panicked liners,” supplied Hornetta. “With her came that no-good Lancelot Lacy. He promptly joined one of those Bunds you read about, where they grow identical trick mustaches, go off to weekend camps and dress up like pretend soldiers.”

Doc Savage said, “I have looked into your background. I find no written record of your having a twin sister.”

“That’s because Honoria and I could barely stand one another. Sure, we’re sisters. But we are exact opposites. Our parents died, and we were separated. Honoria was raised down in Virginia, where she took on the buttery manners of a Southern Belle. I landed in Jersey. Because Honoria was three minutes older, she thought she was better than me. She tried to pretend that I didn’t exist, so I returned the favor. It’s as simple as that. This goes back to when we were young. Get me?”

“I get you,” returned Doc. “Please continue.”

Hornetta was looking at her nails, plainly still upset over her predicament. “Lancelot Lacy is the rottenest of bad apples. Strictly Fifth Column material, if you take my meaning.”

Then her crystal blue eyes shifted up over their heads.

Doc was the first to notice this. He turned his head.

The bronze man’s vision was sharper than it seemed possible for human optics to be, the result of a lifetime of intensive training for all of his senses.

“What is it?” asked Long Tom, peering in the same direction.

“Passing mail plane,” explained Hornetta. “Probably nothing.”

Still, the blonde adventuress did not take her eyes off the approaching aircraft.

Suddenly, Doc Savage rapped out crashing orders. “Everyone go below! Take cover!”

Doc plunged for the controls, got the engines going, and began driving the
Stormalong
in a zigzag line, changing direction frequently as if attempting to slice up the Caribbean seas into sections.

Sunburned arms flailing, Hornetta Hale tumbled off the stern—whether by accident or design was never known. Once in the water, she struck out for her own amphibian, the
Hornet.

Maneuvering wildly, sweeping in half circles alternating with sudden shifts in course, Doc Savage spotted the approaching plane. It was a very modern craft, whose wings were bent in a fashion that had become feared all over Europe. It was now flying very high, climbing hard. Then, suddenly, it rolled its canted wings, dived straight down.

There came an unearthly screaming.

“Dive bomber!” moaned Long Tom, recognizing the sound.

The bronze man had already determined that from the canted configuration of the warplane’s wings.

Hurtling down out of the clear sky, the alarming howl grew nearer. Doc steered to port, then starboard, desperate to avoid what was coming next.

The dive bomber, fortunately, carried only one bomb slung to its undercarriage. There was no telling when it would release, or where it might land.

Finally, this let go.

Their first certain knowledge that they were under attack came when a great upheaval disturbed the coral-hued Caribbean waters off to starboard. A gush, followed by a fountain of water came—so close that chilly spray spattered their faces.

Monk and the others had by this time unlimbered their superfirers. The tiny weapons made thunder on the open water, but it was all show. The ingenious pistols did not have the range needed to pepper their attacker.

Doc Savage had rushed below, and came up with a .220 rifle, which the
Stormalong
carried for potting sharks.

Bringing this to his shoulder, the bronze giant fired two shots, clipping one wing fuel tank, then the other. It was amazing shooting, and it had a marked effect upon the pilot, who might have been about to trip his machine guns.

The screaming warplane leveled out, and headed south. It carried only one bomb. And that had missed. With precious fuel stringing behind, it had no more business to conduct.

They all saw that it was painted a flat battleship gray and bore no markings whatsoever.

“Where the heck did
he
come from?” bellowed Monk, emerging from below. “This ain’t Europe!”

Doc Savage, pushing the
Stormalong
hard, attempted to come around in an effort to head off Hornetta Hale, who had already climbed back into the cockpit of her yellow-and-black amphibian.

The engine was still warm, so Hornetta got the propeller spinning smartly. It sounded like a buzzsaw getting ready to rip through timber. She propelled the trim ship across the face of the Caribbean, got smartly on step, and went howling up into the sky.

The headstrong she-hornet pointed her amphibian in the direction of the retreating warplane.

“Brave,” muttered Monk.

“Foolish,” retorted Long Tom, who was no admirer of the distaff sex.

Grimly, Doc sent the
Stormalong
charging after the fleeing planes.

“At least,” said Monk with undisguised relish, “we got us a trail to follow at last.”

Chapter XX

DEAD END

AS A RACE, it was not much.

Despite being armored and no longer encumbered by its undercarriage bomb, the foreign warplane pulled away from the speedy
Hornet,
which was hampered by the fact that the latter ship hauled two plump Edo pontoons on its underside.

The warplane was soon lost from sight.

Taking up the rear, the yacht
Stormalong
was no match for either aircraft, given the fact that it was thundering over placid waves. Friction drag of the sea ensured that its streamlined hull was no substitute for wings slicing freely through the air.

Still, Doc Savage refused to give up. He kept the yellowjacket amphibian in sight at all times, as steely fingers like a bronze vise held the yacht wheel locked in a dead-reckoning position.

Before long, the bronze man’s eyes began shifting to the turquoise waters. A flicker of a concern touched his metallic features.

Ham scrambled to pore through the charts. He sensed what was coming.

“We are approaching the region where the waters are extremely shallow—dangerously shallow,” warned the dapper lawyer. “There are blackheads, coral reefs. If we’re not careful, we could tear the bottom out of our keel.”

Hearing that, Monk Mayfair rushed below and manned the hull-bottom porthole which looked down into the amazingly clear waters.

There was a speaking tube down there. He used it.

Monk’s voice bellowed upward, “I can see the bottom plain as day. Blackheads everywhere you look. This is gettin’ dangerous.”

Doc Savage called into the speaking tube, “Guide me best you can.”

Monk worked his way around so that he could shine a light ahead of the boat at an angle. It was not much warning, but it was something. He yelled into the tube, “Hard to starboard!”

Doc Savage flung the wheel, carving a new course. Then Monk called up, “Now sheer off to port!”

Doc rocked the wheel in response. The yacht again changed course.

They got about five nautical miles in twisting fashion, losing headway, as the yellowjacket amphibian dwindled to a black dot in the azure sky.

Finally, Monk called up, his voice twisting, “Back off! Back off! Blackheads everywhere you look!”

Doc Savage reversed the engines. The ship shuddered. He sheared off, and probably by scant inches, avoided scraping bottom by the barest of margins.

Monk came climbing out of the lower deck to join the others watching the yellow amphibian vanish into blue nothingness. The high drone of its engine had already ceased to echo over the waves.

Long Tom stared after the departing aircraft.

“Mark my words. She’s gone for good this time. If we catch up to that high-flying hussy, I’m going to turn her bag of tricks inside out for good.”

Monk turned to Ham and said, “My money’s on Long Tom. He don’t like women much and this one’s gotten his goat for sure.”

To which the dapper lawyer responded, “Twenty dollars says that Hornetta Hale will pick Long Tom’s pockets without him suspecting it.”

They shook hands on it, each man convinced he would get the better of the other.

A profound gloom descended upon deck. Doc Savage brought the
Stormalong
to a dead stop.

They looked at one another. Monk and Ham exchanged sharp glances, as if on the verge of a new quarrel. However, their spirits were by now very low indeed. No argument commenced.

Ham Brooks examined his sword cane thoughtfully and asked a supercilious question. “What do you suppose Hornetta Hale is going to do if she manages to overhaul that warplane? It could shoot her down on a whim.”

Doc Savage replied, “No doubt but she is attempting to locate the warplane’s landing strip. Evidently, that base may be the key to this entire mystery.”

“What buffalos me,” Monk muttered, “is why that warbird just didn’t turn around and blast her out of the sky on general principles.”

“It is something to ponder,” returned the bronze man thoughtfully.

Ham Brooks said, “The Count and his crowd have stopped at nothing, not even wholesale murder and destruction, yet they won’t lay a hand on either of these Hale women.”

“Nor, it is to be hoped,” said Doc, “Pat Savage.”

They were going over marine charts, trying to come up with a solution to their vexing problem of having no clear destination, and no way to get to that destination if it lay in unusually shallow waters, when a sputtering came to their years.

“Someone’s returnin’,” warned Monk.

Ham and Long Tom grabbed binoculars, and began scanning the seemingly endless horizon.

Long Tom was the first to spot it. “Hornetta’s crate! Must be she ran out of gas.”

Minutes later, the yellow-and-black amphibian came scooting over the waves, struggling to stay aloft. One wing dipped alarmingly, then righted. The other started to sag. It was, to all appearances, low on fuel.

Then the engine gave the final pop, and the propeller jerked to a halt. Now it was gliding.

By expert manipulation of the controls, Hornetta Hale managed to pancake the bumblebee amphibian onto the surface of the Caribbean Sea. It was a good job. It helped that the water was smooth. Of course, the Caribbean Sea is almost always smooth, other than during hurricanes.

They watched as the tiny
Hornet
bounced along a bit and began wallowing. Then the hatch popped open.

Out came a stick decorated with a white rag.

Long Tom grinned widely. “She’s surrendering!”

Doc urged the
Stormalong
over to the helpless amphibian, and eased up alongside, reversing the throttle, and bringing the heeling cruiser to a slow, sliding halt.

The vessel bumped the pontoon, and Monk reached out to take hold of a wing strut, arresting the
Stormalong’s
tendency to drift.

“I guess I can’t shake you, so I might as well join you,” Hornetta said disconsolately. “That bum got away from me.”

This time no one offered her assistance to board the yacht. Hornetta jumped up from the pontoon, and managed to do it with an agility that didn’t come from playing tennis on the courtyards of the wealthy. She bounded over the rail nimbly, showing her fiercely sunburned legs.

“I’ll bet you want me to start at the beginning,” said Hornetta in a forlorn tone. Her shoulders were sagging. She wore an air of utter defeat.

Doc Savage said, “We already heard the beginning, take us to the present. There is no time to lose, unless I am very much mistaken.”

“You? Mistaken?” scoffed Hornetta, a little of the former fire returning to her voice. “The Man of Bronze is hardly ever mistaken, from what I hear.”

“Enough of your tart tongue,” snapped Ham. “This is a very serious matter.”

“Yeah,” seconded Long Tom. “Bottle that sass and give out with some dope.”

HORNETTA HALE’S crystal blue eyes sharpened cunningly, and it could be seen that she was thinking hard.

“Tell you what,” she said slowly. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Ham sniffed, “She sounds like Pat.”

“You stay out of this, you overdressed dude!” Hornetta snapped back.

Ham clenched his cane angrily while Monk Mayfair grinned at the cutting jibe.

Curling her lip in Monk’s direction, Hornetta added, “What are you dreaming of—banana and coconut soup?”

Monk glowered while Ham brightened.

Doc Savage interjected cautiously, “What deal do you propose?”

“You tell me how you got out of my van, and I’ll get around to spilling the beans.”