Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15)

The Secret of Satan’s Spine

A Doc Savage Adventure

by Will Murray & Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson

cover by Joe DeVito

Altus Press • 2015

The Secret of Satan’s Spine copyright © 2015 by Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

© 2015 Condé Nast. The Doc Savage character is © Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. d/b/a Condé Nast. “Doc Savage” is a registered trademark of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. This book is published under license from Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

Front cover image copyright © 2015 Joe DeVito. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by Matthew Moring/
Altus Press

Cover illustration commissioned by Victor De Long

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The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage

Special Thanks to James Bama, Jerry Birenz, Gary A. Buckingham, Condé Nast, Jeff Deischer, Norma Dent, Dafydd Neal Dyar, Elizabeth Engel, Steve Holland, Dave McDonnell, Matthew Moring, Ray Riethmeier, Richard Weyland, Christopher Wood, Howard Wright, The State Historical Society of Missouri, and last but not least, the Heirs of Norma Dent—James Valbracht, John Valbracht, Wayne Valbracht, Shirley Dungan and Doris Leimkuehler.

Dedication

For Charles Moran, the Doc Savage editor who killed this idea back in 1943….

Chapter I

CHANCE ENCOUNTER

TWO MEN WERE walking down a noisy New York City street, enjoying an argument in the sweltering summer heat.

There was nothing unusual about two men sharing a disagreement in Manhattan. Men—not to mention women—frequently have outdoor arguments in Manhattan. As for the noisiness of the street, during the day the city’s streets are perpetually bustling.

This particular street was, to be candid about it, exceptionally noisy. It was so loud that it was difficult to overhear the argument between the two men strolling along.

The street in question was a side street, rather short as New York blocks are measured. Virtually every storefront on either side, with only a few exceptions, sold commercial radio receivers.

Radios being the modern and indispensable device that they have become, each proprietor filled his window displays with the most recent models. Since a mute radio draws little attention by itself, affixed to the façades of the storefronts were loudspeaker horns, all of which were reproducing a broadcast program of one sort or the other.

One establishment, which sold elegant console radios, was playing classical music. Across the street, a more down-to-earth shop boasted a loudspeaker that was blaring swing music. It peddled so-called “midget” radios.

Further up the block, war news bulletins were competing for attention, detailing the latest on the invasion of Europe. From still another radio store came a creepy laugh signifying one of the popular mystery horror programs that have come to dominate the airwaves.

It might have been an omen, that weird laugh.

Into this cacophony, strolled the two arguers.

They insulted, hectored and upbraided one another with the familiarity of brothers. These two men were not brothers. It was not even conceivable that they could be cousins. For they were as unalike as a bear and a squirrel.

The shorter of the two was homely, while the taller individual was rather handsome in a snooty way. The homely man was extraordinarily homely, being short, wide, snub-nosed, and furred with reddish bristles that almost resembled rusty finishing nails. A mouth so big it seemed to hook over his ears gave him the rather pleasant aspect of one of Snow White’s pals.

His handsome companion was dressed to the nines. Were he still living, Beau Brummell could conceivably have matched him. The latter was as impeccably dressed as his homely companion was sloppily attired.

They could hardly be related; in fact, they appeared to be the most unlikely of friends. As they strolled along, it could be heard above the raucous squawking of many loudspeakers that they were arguing about lunch.

“There is a fine restaurant around the corner,” remarked the dapper man, flourishing an elegant cane, which concealed a thin sword blade.

The homely man brightened. Fishing into his trouser pockets, he removed a quarter, giving it a spin. It flashed in the noonday sunlight.

“Match you for the check,” suggested the homely one.

The dapper individual appeared to take offense at that. For he said sharply, “The last three times I matched you for a restaurant check, I ended up paying each time.”

“In that case,” grinned the other, “your luck is bound to turn. Tell you what. Let’s order the most expensive dishes on the menu, and if you end up winning, the bill will probably equal those last three checks.”

The handsome man frowned darkly, but it could be seen by the shadows in his dark eyes that he was extremely tempted to take up the homely one’s offer.

“I have a better idea,” he countered. “Why don’t we match for the check now, and if I win, you will do exactly as you say. But if you call the turn correctly, we will eat more modestly.”

The homely man hesitated. “That don’t seem exactly fair,” he muttered.

“What is not fair about it?” returned the other. “Did you not suggest that we match in order to give me a chance to square up accounts against your previous winnings?”

“Yeah. But I’m hungry enough to eat a tree, like a beaver.”

The other scowled. “In other words, you intend to fill that rain barrel you call a belly to overcapacity.”

The other grimaced. “I got to keep my strength up, to get through this war.”

The handsome man’s scowl grew darker. “If they don’t let us get back into uniform,” he grumbled, “we may never see the end of this conflict.”

That brought a pause to the argument. Neither man was young enough to be of draft age, yet both appeared healthy and hardy enough to enlist, if they were of such a mind.

At the present progress of the World War, able-bodied men were becoming scarce in the streets of New York City. Most were in uniform. Those who had been classified as 4-F, looked their classification.

These fellows most assuredly did not. They had the demeanor of men who had knocked about the world some. In fact, they had been in U.S. Army uniforms when they first became friends, long ago.

The handsome individual, who was thin-waisted and fastidiously dapper, continued his argument.

“Either we match here and now,” he declared, “or we go Dutch.”

The homely one, who resembled nothing less than a bull gorilla crammed into a loud checkered sport coat, narrowed his tiny eyes as he thought speedily.

In his squeaky little-boy voice, he remarked, “I’m for matching now. Call it. Heads or tails?”

“Tails,” snapped the dapper one, pulling a silver dollar from his vest pocket and sending it spinning upward.

The homely one’s jaw dropped and his little pig eyes popped. He had been about to flip his own quarter, but the dapper one beat him to it.

“Wait a dang minute!” he growled. “I was going to use this here quarter.”

“But you were too slow,” returned the other as the coin struck the pavement with a ringing clatter.

Both men stared down as the heavy coin finished its jittering dance, revealing the tail feathers of the eagle.

The homely one’s face fell, while the dapper man’s handsome features lit up with unconcealed joy.

“I win,” the handsome individual said superciliously.

Stooping, the homely man snatched up the silver dollar in one hairy paw and examined both sides twice, beetling brows furrowing.

“What are you doing?” the handsome one snapped.

“Checking for the head side. There is such a thing as trick coins, you know.”

“While we are checking one another’s coins,” the other said skeptically, “kindly hand over that quarter, so that I may perform the identical inspection.”

The apish individual suddenly looked guilty. He hesitated. Then in the act of proffering the quarter, it somehow got away from him, struck the pavement, and rolled into a sewer grating.

“Dang!” he exploded. “Lost my lucky quarter.”

The other eyed him suspiciously, remarking, “It was
too
lucky, if you wish my opinion of the matter.” His tone was tinged with vitriol.

“No one asked your daggone opinion,” grumbled the homely human ape.

“No matter,” rejoined the handsome man jauntily. “Let us be on our way, for I myself am famished.”

“You go ahead,” muttered the ape. “I kinda lost my appetite back there.”

“Back where?”

“Back where my quarter rolled away from me. Losing money these days kinda takes away my yearnin’ for food.”

“The only thing that ever vanquishes your appetite,” the other spat, “is when you are dead broke. Are you telling me that you are once again penniless?”

“I ain’t sayin’ any such thing!” the man-ape snarled defensively. “As a matter of fact I got a lucrative deal to go to London and brew up some new chemicals for the British war effort.”

“Is that so? You had not mentioned this before.”

“It’s kind of hush-hush, if you want to know the truth. I leave tomorrow on a passenger boat, which docks in Southampton next week.”

The dapper one regarded the homely fellow unkindly. “You must be hard up for cash if you’re taking that job. What if something interesting comes up and Doc Savage needs us for an important mission?”

“Doc will have to do without me this time. The British have offered me a lot of dough.”

Mention of Doc Savage would have helped in identifying the two unusual arguers. For they have been associated with the remarkable adventurer for many years now.

Doc Savage was an individual as unique as any in human history. He was renowned as the Man of Bronze, as Doc Savage was called in the dignified newspapers. Papers which were not dignified called him a man of mystery, and sometimes things less complimentary. Doc Savage did not like publicity.

Doc Savage followed the rather strange profession of helping people who were in trouble, the kind of trouble with which the law did not seem able to cope. He accepted no pay for this work, for Doc was independently wealthy and one of the most philanthropic individuals of the modern age.

About him, the bronze man had assembled a band of equally remarkable experts in their respective lines. The homely man was known professionally as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, one of the world’s foremost industrial chemists. His gorilla-like physique had earned him the nickname, obviously inevitable, of “Monk.”

The handsome fashion plate was known in legal circles as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, more crudely referred to as “Ham,” a nickname he detested but was unable to throw off permanently. Ham was probably the most seasoned attorney Harvard University had ever matriculated. Not satisfied with that distinction, he was frequently voted best-dressed man of the year for many years running, something in which he took equal pride.