Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (6 page)

Ham Brooks stated, “We will check your story out, Mr. Lee.”

“Ah expect you to do so. You’ll find the Lee family is of impeccable character, and above reproach.”

“I imagine that I will,” Ham said smoothly.

“Well, now that you have my story, Ah am obliged to take my leave and catch up with my wayward daughter in Richmond.” He bowed his head in Monk’s direction. “For now, please accept my sincere apologies, Mr. Mayfair. Ah do not know what Ah will do with my only daughter. She is too old to turn over my knee and administer a fatherly reprimand. Perhaps Ah will seek out a psychiatrist on her behalf. These embarrassing antics must cease; the family will never live it down otherwise. And we have long-lived reputations to uphold.”

With that, Mr. Raymond Lee exited the reception room, the door opening and closing behind him, operated electrically by Ham Brooks from the desk.

AFTER the visitor had departed, Ham looked sternly at Monk and announced, “I expect you to pay for that damaged cane.”

“You can have whatever is left in my wallet,” said Monk hollowly.

“Well, hand it over then,” demanded Ham.

The billfold went sailing across the room, landed in Ham’s cupped hands, and he riffled through it, producing not a single dollar bill.

“What! Are you that broke?” asked Ham in an injured tone.

Monk’s neckless head sank between his sloping shoulders, and he looked at the floor. “Broke is the least of my worries right now. I canceled my trip to England.”

“Doesn’t your ship sail tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but my luggage is on its way to Shreveport.”

Ham eyed Monk severely and said, “Let this be a lesson to you. In the future, you should be more skeptical of women, especially of the blonde variety.”

Monk backed up to a comfortable leather chair and slammed his broad body into it, looking crestfallen.

The hairy chemist looked so dejected that the dapper lawyer decided not to pursue the point. Instead, he asked, “Where is Doc Savage?”

“How would I know?” Monk said miserably. “I ain’t seen him in two days.”

“Nor have I since yesterday. But no matter. I am sure he will return presently.”

They sat in silence for several minutes until abruptly Monk Mayfair sprang to his feet. He leveled a hirsute finger at Ham Brooks.“Say, if you witnessed that rumpus at Pennsylvania Station, why didn’t you follow them?”

“Why, I did. But I lost them in Brooklyn.”

Monk made curious faces and asked, “Why would they go to Brooklyn?”

“Of course,” Ham said thinly, “I have no idea.”

“That Raymond Lee looks like he has dough, and if he was stayin’ in New York, he’d put up in the city, wouldn’t he?”

Ham Brooks considered this for a moment, then said, “If his daughter is visiting Manhattan, he might be lying low in Brooklyn to avoid encountering her by accident.”

“It’s a big city, and if he was following her, why would he make it harder to get on her trail?”

“You have a point,” Ham admitted. “Still, his story stacks up.”

“Yeah,” growled Monk. “Like a stack of jokers. And I ain’t buyin’ it. I think he kidnapped Davey, stashed her somewhere, and came by to give us the breeze.”

“You mean to say that display was all an act?”

“It was,” returned Monk savagely, “a polished version of the bum’s rush.”

Picking up the telephone, Ham snapped, “I’m going to look into his story.”

“You do that little thing,” growled Monk, charging for the door. “I’m gonna see if I can’t pick up his trail!”

“Try not to blunder into any more trouble than usual, you magnet for the mentally impaired.”

“The trouble I got in mind,” Monk gritted, “is the kind I dish out, not the kind I collect from others.”

The door closed behind the hairy chemist, and Ham Brooks briskly began dialing the telephone number.

Chapter V

GRIM GENTLEMEN WITH GUNS

FOR MANY YEARS now, Doc Savage had maintained a secret institution in the heavily forested wilderness of upstate New York, nestled in sheltering mountains renowned for their remoteness from habitation.

This establishment did not have an official name, but among Doc Savage and his associates, it was euphemistically called the “College.” The College was perhaps the most unique educational establishment in the world. For it transformed criminals of all types into upright citizens.

During the course of his globe-girdling undertakings, Doc Savage had often collected the survivors of the criminal gangs which he smashed. Not believing in the concept of capital punishment, and knowing that prisons were incubators for further criminality, Doc erected the secret installation, where he sent crooks and murderers he captured alive.

Were it to become public knowledge, what ultimately befell these prisoners would have created a scandal of historic proportions. For first they were subjected to delicate brain operations, which wiped away all memory of their pasts, criminal and otherwise.

Once these men—and a sprinkling of women, too—were remade into human blank slates, Doc Savage’s staff assigned them new names, identities, and commenced a process of reeducation designed to remove all thoughts of future criminality, which was followed by any number of vocational training regimens until they were pronounced fit to be set free by the medical staff.

In the years before the war, these men were permitted to merge back into ordinary society, there to live out their lives productively in some law-abiding profession.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Doc Savage instituted a change in this regime of matriculation. Graduates who were able-bodied were channeled into the Armed Forces, thereby bringing whatever remnants of their old criminal skills into the mighty task of vanquishing America’s enemies.

In times past, some of these men had gone to work for Doc Savage, but since the new program was instituted, the bronze man had had to make do with the rehabilitated specimens who were found unsuitable for national service by the draft board.

There was a taxi stand in front of Doc Savage’s headquarters in New York, and several of the drivers, as well as the doorman, were graduates of the criminal-curing College.

Riding the speed elevator to the ground floor, Monk bolted out into the lobby and on through to the sidewalk, where he accosted one of these men.

“See anything of a gray-haired guy sportin’ a smoky pompadour?”

The starter said, “Sure, Mr. Mayfair. I put him in a cab.”

“One of ours?”

“Yes, sir. Harry was the driver. You remember Harry?”

Monk grinned. “Sure. Flat feet and a bum left eye.”

“That’s him. That’s Harry. Want I should call his dispatcher?”

“No, I’ll do it. I don’t want his passenger to know I’m doggin’ him. Thanks.”

The starter all but saluted as Monk dashed back into the lobby to find a pay telephone. The man had no inkling that in years past he had been one of the most vicious bank robbers in the Midwest. A man who had been written up in the same terms as John Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd. Now he was content to be a cog in the vast machine that was the Doc Savage enterprise.

Closing the pay telephone door behind him, Monk called the dispatcher of the cab company and spoke rapidly.

“When Harry Miller calls in, ask him where he took his fare. I’ll hold the line.”

“Yes, Mr. Mayfair,” said the dispatcher, who also worked for Doc Savage and had once masterminded a child kidnapping racket.

Monk fit more nickels into the slot, and began to worry. He was getting low on loose change.

Finally, the operator came on and said, “Please deposit an additional ten cents to keep this line open.”

“Hold your horses!” growled Monk, snapping open the booth door and grabbing the nearest passerby. “Hey, buddy, can you spare a dime?”

The fellow started. “All I have is a quarter, and I’m afraid I cannot part with it.” The man continued on, but Monk snagged him by his coat sleeve and pulled him into the wooden booth.“This is an emergency,” Monk growled. “Give me that quarter, then go up to Doc Savage headquarters on the eighty-sixth floor and a dude named Ham will give you a replacement quarter on my say-so.”

“Well, who the hell are you to rough me up like this?” demanded the other.

“Monk Mayfair, famous chemist, and even more famous as a Doc Savage associate. Now hand over that blasted quarter!”

The accosted man did not know what to think or do, but finally the quarter was produced. Monk dropped it into the slot, where it produced a satisfactory clink signifying acceptance by the mechanism.

Shoving the individual outside, Monk closed the door, and continued holding the line.

Finally, the dispatcher came back on the line, and reported that the fare was deposited in Brooklyn. “Here’s the address.”

Lacking anything with which to write it down, Monk committed it to memory, asking, “What kind of joint is it?”

“According to Harry,” the dispatcher said, “it’s an Old Sailors Home.”

“Old Sailors Home? That doesn’t sound quite right.”

“That’s what Harry said.”

“Thanks,” Monk said, slamming down the receiver and barging out.

On his way out the revolving front door, he got tangled up with the man from whom he borrowed the quarter.

“You got the coin okay?” demanded Monk.

The man grinned. “I asked for a dollar, and he gave it to me, so I made seventy-five cents on the deal.”

Monk moaned, “That means I owe that shyster a whole dollar.”

“Take it up with him. It’s between the two of you now,” returned the man, tipping his hat and taking off.

Grumbling to himself, “This has not been my finest twenty-four hours,” the hairy chemist jumped into the back of a cab and said, “Take me to the Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn.”

“Never heard of any such place,” replied the cabbie, looking puzzled.

Monk recited the address, and the car got into gear and took off into busy Manhattan traffic.

As the taxicab wended its way through vehicular traffic, the driver became talkative.

“I have a cousin in the Navy, and another cousin in the Merchant Marines, and I never heard of any Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn, or for that matter anywhere in these parts.”

Monk frowned and muttered darkly, “Well, we will soon see about that.”

“In fact,” said the cabbie expansively, “I got a dollar in my pocket that says there is no such place.”

“I have not been doin’ so hot with my money lately.”

“Does that mean you won’t take me up on it?”

“Take an I.O.U.?” asked Monk hopefully.

“Since you’re Monk Mayfair, I guess I will.”

Monk shoved a furry paw forward and they shook hands awkwardly. After that, the driver grew more intent upon reaching his destination.

THE SIGN in front of the decrepit building said in faded gold letters against a black background, OLD SAILORS HOME.

The driver muttered some choice profanity, and said, “The fare is three dollars, so you owe me two bucks.”

Monk suddenly realized he did not have the two dollars. He made an effort to fish around in his pockets, but the only thing he produced were three steel war-issue pennies, at which the driver sneered.

“Say, what
is
this? Are you trying to beat the fare on top of taking me for a dollar?”

“Tell you what,” suggested Monk. “Just drive back to Doc Savage headquarters and say to Ham Brooks that I borrowed three dollars off you. That way you get the full fare back. How’s that?”

“Fishy, I calls it. Mighty fishy.”

“Unless you want to call a cop, and let him sort it out,” countered Monk, “that’s the best I can offer you, pal.”

The cabbie sighed. “I guess I will take it.” Reaching behind to throw open the rear door, he snarled, “Now
out
, deadbeat.”

It was about the noon hour, and a working day for those who still toiled on Saturdays, so the residential area was rather on the deserted side. The Old Sailors Home had once been a residence. It obviously had been rededicated to a rest home for retired seamen.

Monk considered how best to attack the situation and decided that barging up to the front door and knocking was the most direct approach, and so it was the one he favored. Monk was the direct sort.

The hairy chemist applied his rusty knuckles to the front door, which was a Kelly green whose surface was so cracked that an older mustard-hued coat of paint could be discerned behind.

Monk knocked three times, very loudly, while slipping from an underarm holster a peculiar pistol. This weapon was an intricate little gadget, with a number of knobs and horns, a compact ammunition drum set in front of the trigger, and a barrel approximately the diameter of a pencil.

This was a supermachine pistol, a product of Doc Savage’s inventive genius. It fired all manner of rounds, but rarely lead slugs owing to the bronze man’s admonitions against killing foes.

Despite his sometimes thick-headed directness, Monk also harbored several cautious bones in his body. If there was to be trouble, the homely chemist wanted to be prepared for it. He unlatched several safety catches, and placed one hand behind his back, concealing the powerful weapon, while the other fist made the ancient door shake in its frame.

A voice bellowed from within, “Diamond! Are you expecting callers?”

“No,” a cold voice returned.

Both voices were muffled by the thick old door that had once been the color of dried mustard.

Monk applied one cauliflower ear to the panel and attempted to discern more of the conversation.

“Should I answer it?”

“How do I know?”

“Somebody make a decision!”

There followed a rough argument about the issue of whether or not to answer the door.

Listening, Monk tried to make sense of this argument. It seemed rather vociferous for such a small matter. If this was an Old Sailors Home, visitors might not be common, but neither would they normally produce an issue of admittance.While Monk was focusing on his cauliflower ear, two grim gentlemen with guns had crept around from either side of the house, stole up behind him and pressed the hard muzzles of their weapons against his broad shoulder blades.