Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (22 page)

Captain McCullum interrupted, “You failed to mention that fact before.”

“I didn’t think it was important before. I only remembered it now because I’ve noticed other passengers wearing similar rings.”

Don Worth’s eyes went to Doc Savage’s and between them the importance of that observation did not go unnoticed.

“Go on,” invited Doc.

“Well, you see, when I woke up, I needed water, and I saw the statue. It felt cold to the touch But when we returned to the cabin with the Captain, it didn’t seem to Don to be there. At first.”

Doc asked, “What do you mean—at first?”

Worth began, “It was—”

“Let me tell it,” interrupted Captain McCullum. “From where he stood, Bosun Worth declared that it was not there. Yet Seaman Dexter and I saw it clearly. Apparently, when you look at the damned thing from different angles, it disappears and then reappears.”

Doc Savage’s eyes went to the crystal relic, and briefly the golden flakes that forever swirled in suspension within their depths quickened.

Doc shifted on his bunk as he listened, and in that shifting, the angle of his gaze also altered. His weird trilling, sounding like a ghostly wind through the rigging of an old clipper ship, filled the stateroom, signifying that the bronze man was perturbed. It seemed to come from no definite spot in the room, but rather from everywhere.

“I no longer see it,” he said, rising to his feet.

“See what I mean?” exclaimed Dex.

Doc went over to the statuette, and lifted it in both metallic hands, making the figurine seem dramatically smaller than before.

“I would be exceedingly careful with that,” cautioned the Captain. “I held it for two minutes, and I had to soak my hands in warm water to get any feeling back.”

Doc gripped the statuette as he examined the workmanship, then scrutinized the chiseled features of the crystalline face of the subject.

“This does not appear to be Greek,” he advised.

“Looks Greek to my eyes,” stated McCullum. “What makes you say otherwise?”

“There is a general resemblance to the Grecian toga, but the cut of these robes are very different and the features of this man are not Grecian.”

“You sound very sure of yourself,” the Skipper said dubiously.

Doc Savage replied not to that, for he was feeling the chill of the crystal as it crept into the flesh of his metallic fingers.

“The longer I hold it,” he said thoughtfully, “the colder it seems to become.”

“Well, that was my experience,” allowed McCullum. “It feels like ice, but it’s not slick like ice and, obviously, it does not melt in your hand. So what is it?”

Abruptly, Doc Savage replaced the figurine on the table, and said frankly, “I do not know.”

“You don’t!” blurted the Captain. “What kind of an expert are you?”

“One who is honest enough to admit that he has encountered something unknown to him,” admitted Doc.

Captain McCullum cleared his throat, then said, “I understand that you are an expert in everything from modern medicine to mineralogical matters.”

“That is my reputation,” allowed Doc Savage. “But in this instance all I can tell you is that this object appears to be cut from some exceedingly clear crystal, but it is not behaving like ordinary crystal. Crystal would not be this cold to the touch, nor would it disappear when an observer changes position.”

No one said anything for a long time.

The Captain asked, “Well, what do you make of it?”

Instead of replying directly, Doc Savage offered, “After we sailed, someone left a present outside this cabin, a sealed pouch. My aides, Monk and Ham, picked it up, and after they opened it, they were overcome. I found them in a severely weakened state.”

“Why didn’t you report this to me?”

“My investigation had not progressed very far,” admitted Doc. “But the object that seemed to have exhibited the weakening influence is in that oilskin sack over there.”

Captain McCullum went over to the bag, and picked it up.

“I would not open that were I you,” warned Doc.

“I am the master of this ship,” McCullum retorted bitingly, “and I will open anything I deem necessary.”

Setting down the oilskin bag next to the crystal statuette, Captain McCullum undid the wire fastening, and pushed down the edges of the bag, revealing the clenched fist of black stone with its upraised fingers.

“Ugly thing,” he muttered.

McCullum picked it up, found that it was cool to the touch but not cold, and a moment later seemed to weave on his feet.

Doc Savage rushed over to catch him before he toppled. Then the bronze man laid him on the bunk.

“Seal that up,” directed Doc.

Don Worth rushed in to comply, and in doing so made a discovery.

“There’s something else in this sack,” he declared.

Reaching in, he pulled it out. It was a lump of metal. It had no particular shape, but was roundish without being a sphere. From the opposite side grew two horns, which came to sharp points. Between these sinister protrusions was cut a cleft, like the cloven hoof of popular depictions of the Devil, but reminiscent of a weird eye that was not entirely circular, but resembled a quarter moon with the horns turned upward.

The minute he seized it, Don Worth’s hand began to feel strangely. A tingling overcame the fingers.

“This thing is doing something to my hand,” blurted Don.

Paling, he seemed to lose his presence of mind.

Lunging in, Doc Savage took the object from him, glanced at it briefly, tossed it in the sack, dropped in the black volcanic hand, then sealed up the entire works.

The bronze man made a quick examination of Don’s afflicted hand and asked, “How does it feel now?”

“Like I took hold of one of the devil’s horns,” admitted Don sheepishly.

“It is possible that I made an error earlier,” admitted Doc.

“Error?” blurted Seaman Dexter.

Doc nodded somberly. “I failed to investigate that bag thoroughly because I was preoccupied with the weird condition of my men. The mysterious depleting influence came, not from the rocky fist, but from that weird stone.”

“Why would a stone draw the life out of a man?”

“A lodestone is capable of drawing iron particles toward it. Perhaps this is some form of lodestone science never before encountered.”

Doc did not mention the disquieting fact that the matching horns and inset eye suggested that the black stone had been shaped by human hands.

Don Worth had fetched a glass of water for the Captain, who drank it down, but confessed that he was not feeling any better than before, just less thirsty.

Sitting up, McCullum said, “It is high time we take action.”

“It could be dangerous to act in haste,” suggested Doc.

“You may have a lot of pull in Washington,” growled the Captain, standing up. “But on the
Northern Star
, I am the first and last word. And we will do things my way.”

Turning to Don Worth, he said, “Boats, follow me. We will round up every passenger wearing one of those gold rings, but we are going to do it quietly, one at a time, until we have them all firmly in hand.”

“Yes, sir,” said Bosun Worth.

Doc Savage inserted, “I am more than willing to help out.”

“You are confined to quarters until I say otherwise,” returned Captain McCullum sternly. “If I have need of you, I will request your assistance. But so far your counsel has proven to be deeply disappointing.”

With that sharp reprimand, the Skipper took his departure, Seamen Worth and Dexter in tow.

AFTER the door slammed shut, Doc Savage walked over to the statuette and made a circuit of it, much like a wizard of old addressing a crystal ball before attempting to divine the future. In this case, the bronze man was attempting to discern what possible natural crystal could possess such weird properties as intense inner cold and shifting visibility.

The poker face that the bronze man habitually wore did not change expression very much. But to those who knew him well, there were clear signs—an apparent slowing of the perpetual agitation in his flake-gold eyes and a fixed twist to his mouth—that told of his innermost mental machinations. Doc Savage appeared baffled.

After a time, the bronze man went to the equipment trunks stored in the stateroom. Excavating one, he undid its latches in an unusual progression, opening, closing and reopening the last latch three times. This actuated a cunning magnetic lock mechanism that could not be defeated except by this specific combination. Had anyone attempted otherwise, a chemical irritant would have been expelled from concealed vents at either end, discouraging further exploration.

Lifting the lid disclosed several layers of translucent material on the order of cellophane, but much heavier. Doc lifted out the top layer, which proved to be a garment fashioned along the lines of a cape that fell to his heels.

When he stood up, the glassy garment became difficult to discern. It might have been a trick of the weak cabin lights, but that was hard to say, since only Doc Savage was a witness to the phenomenon, and he did not appear perturbed by the performance of the plastic material. The bronze man’s perpetually poker face did not register any outward emotion as he examined the peculiar garment. But his unusual golden eyes seemed to sparkle quietly.

Chapter XXV

PHANTOM SUB

THE
NORTHERN STAR
steamed through the Caribbean, threading its ponderous way through deep-water channels, avoiding the treacherous shoals and shallows that could ruin the hull of a ship even as large as the former passenger liner. She was not blacked out, except insofar as all stateroom windows were obscured. Her running lights showed plainly. Out in the open Atlantic, this would be a problem, but here in the Bahamas it was a necessity, even in wartime, to avoid collisions with inter-island sea traffic.

The night air was sweltering, due to the prevailing pre-storm conditions. Consequently, such sailors who were not on duty loitered on deck in order to take advantage of the cooling ocean breezes. A few who were not on duty slept on hammocks. Air conditioning was not a feature of a Merchant Marine vessel.

A great many of the free crew were congregated at the fan tail, where a three-man gunnery crew stood ready at a 30-caliber Browning machine gun affixed there in a great flat pan of a gun platform. It was manned by a uniformed Naval Armed Guard gunner, assisted by two Merchant Marines. They were reasonably alert, but the look on their faces was that of vague boredom.

The big anti-aircraft gun was unmanned for the moment; the risk of submarines or enemy aircraft being very low and the gunnery officer short-handed. Earlier, they had engaged in some practice firing against a kite tied to the stern rail, with the result that the kite had been shredded. During this exercise, the Browning crew had used the black smoke clouds created by the A.A. gun for their own target practice. Now, the guns were being allowed to cool off.

It was one of those moonless nights that smothered you. Another reason the perspiring crewmen sought the relief of the open deck.

The
Northern Star
plowed steadily through calm seas, and so there was little rolling. All seemed peaceful. Men smoked and the glowing coals of their cigarettes in the near dark brought to mind fireflies flicking about lazily. The rule against smoking on deck was suspended until the ship reached open water.

The mutter of conversation was low, and had the air of idle gossip. From time to time, a man ducked in and out of the radio room to learn from “Sparky” the latest war news. For some unknown reason, all shipboard radio operators are called “Sparky” or “Sparks.” These tidbits were conveyed back and passed around, along with spare cigarettes.

Talk tonight was of the hurricane stalled off Cuba. It was still there, churning and growing in force and intensity in the vicinity of Navidad Banks.

“Bet she breaks south,” a mariner opined to no one in particular.

“With my bum luck,” grunted another, “she’ll come chargin’ up this way and chase us clear into the Atlantic.”

“What makes you say that, sailor?”

“I’ve been on two other boats in this man’s war, and had both of them blown out from under me. Just my luck to ship out on a third.”

“Don’t talk like that,” the other admonished. “You’ll jinx this hooker.”

“I pulled plenty of convoy duty,” the first sailor grumbled. “Don’t believe what you read in the papers. We lose almost as many ships as we send across.”

His shipmate sneered back, “Spare me that defeatist jabber. We’re winning this war. Handwriting’s on the wall.”

“Sure, we’re winnin’, all right,” groused the disillusioned one. “But me, my mind’s on survivin’. And I’ve had me some mighty close shaves on account of enemy raiders.”

The mention of Nazi U-boats caused both sailors to fall into a sober silence. At the height of the war, Liberty ships and converted liners similar to the
Northern Star
were being sunk at a frightful rate, with devastating casualties. Vital war material got through to England and Europe, despite the horrific destruction of vessels and crews. But losses had been alarming.

It was better now, but the wolf packs continued to prowl and Allied ships were still going down to watery graves on a regular basis.

During the strained silence, worried eyes flickered across the heaving water on either side of the ship’s agitated wake. Due to the absence of moonlight, this made the churning stern waters resemble the heaving back of some reptilian monster. Nothing could be clearly seen, except such waves as rolled.

Morbid, unspoken thoughts dwelled upon stories the crew had heard of wolf packs shadowing merchant vessels, sometimes surfacing in front of their cleaving bows in order to attack. The damage wrought by a single torpedo was often devastating. Lifeboats were often chopped to pieces by submersible deck guns. Sometimes, those unfortunates were the lucky ones. For lifeboats were often set adrift in the open Atlantic longer than a man could survive.

These dark ruminations were broken by the arrival of Captain McCullum, accompanied by Chief Warrant Officer Greer and the Master at Arms, who had recovered from his brush with Doc Savage in the brig.