Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (11 page)

“Be thankful for small favors,” he told himself forlornly.

Long Tom judged that more than an hour had passed, inasmuch as Janet Falcon had shrugged off the anesthetic effects of the mercy bullets, and was back on her feet. But that was all he understood. Why the woman had been so recalcitrant and why she didn’t wish to speak to him remained a baffling mystery. Her fiancé had been murdered visiting Doc Savage. It stood to reason she would want to know the whys and wherefores.

Instead, she had disappeared into the night, to hide out like a common criminal.

It took another twenty or so minutes for Long Tom to feel up to standing, and when he did, he weaved a little. Experimentally, he attempted to walk to the wash room, barking one bony shin against an end table, but managed to stumble to the sink, where he drew running water. This he splashed on his face, which helped somewhat.

Long Tom had flipped on the lights upon entering. This enabled him to make his way back to the rather dilapidated horsehair chair and dig out the strange gun which he had brought with him.

The pistol was apparently in good working order. It could be seen that the curled ram’s horn magazine still jutted from the grip. A numerical indicator told that the weapon held a significant quantity of ammunition.

Ordinarily, Long Tom would have made a thorough search of the woman’s apartment, looking for clues. But he did not feel that he possessed the mental presence to do so.

Instead, he decided to take his leave, return to his hotel and get word to Doc Savage. Doc would know what to do next.

But Long Tom Roberts was destined not to return to his hotel that evening. Just as he was making his way to the door, the vestibule buzzer sounded again.

At first, the sound hardly penetrated his headache. He had a faint ringing in his ears, which did not help, either.

Finally, the noise got through and Long Tom diverted to the wall panel housing the inter-communicator.

“Who is it?” he asked foolishly. Realizing that it was probably not the wisest thing to answer someone else’s door, he made a sour face.

A gruff voice barked, “Police. Let us up. It’s about Ned Gamble.”

Long Tom could hardly decline to admit a Chicago police officer. So he pressed the electric door-release button, and went to the apartment door. This he threw open.

Clinging to the door frame, the pale electrical engineer awaited the arrival of the police.

The two men who stepped off the elevator wore plainclothes and the stolid expressions habitual with city detectives. One sported the heavy beard growth of a man sorely in need of a shave.

“Are you the cops?” Long Tom asked.

The blue-jawed arrival nodded curtly and demanded, “Who the hell are you?”

“Thomas J. Roberts, one of Doc Savage’s men.”

Hearing that declaration, the two men acquired startled expressions. No doubt they had heard of Doc Savage. Few in the civilized world had not.

Instead of greeting Long Tom as a respected associate of the Man of Bronze, the two stolid-looking men drove their hands into their overcoats and drew out stubby revolvers.

“In that case,” one snarled, “you’re coming with us.”

“Am I under arrest?” stammered out Long Tom, taken by surprise.

“You’re going to wish you were,” said the other. “We ain’t cops, wise guy.”

Now Long Tom was really flummoxed. “Who are you birds?”

“I’m called Blackie, and this here’s Blue. We are a team—kind of like a vaudeville act.” He wiggled his revolver barrel, whose barrel had been bulldogged until it protruded barely an inch in front of the fat cylinder. “There are six lead honeys in there, brother!” he confided laconically. “Every one has been scratched on the nose and rubbed in garlic.”

Long Tom gulped, found his voice.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

“Makes blood poisoning,” Blackie elaborated genially. “Gangrene. You get slugged with one of these and you’re same as in the dead box.”

“What’s the idea?” Long Tom asked indignantly.

“No idea at all,” rasped Blackie, moving closer. “Now come with us.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere,” chuckled the other, then both he and Blackie laughed loudly.

“In that case,” returned Long Tom, “count me out.”

The men stepped up and took positions on either side of Long Tom, their stubby .38s digging into his scrawny ribs.

Blue taunted, “We’re kind of a couple of tough eggs. Are you a tough egg, too?”

“Yeah,” said Long Tom, making hard fists. “I’m plenty tough.”

“Is that right? Then show us how tough you are, tough guy.”

Long Tom did not need a further invitation. He took a seemingly wild swing. It was a bolo punch—combining a hook and an uppercut. It connected with the nearest man’s jaw, rocking it backward.

Evidently, the man on the receiving end of the powerful punch had sized up Long Tom as a lightweight. Long Tom’s hard knuckles striking home disabused him of that notion.

As he stumbled backward, Blue said to the other, “Slug him!”

Blackie’s bulldogged revolver lifted, chopped downward—and Long Tom was promptly brained for a second time. He went down like a sack of potatoes falling off a farmer’s truck. He did not get up again.

Methodically, the two tough men pocketed their revolvers. One grabbed hold of Long Tom’s ankles, while the other took him by the shoulders.

Hauling the insensate electrical genius over to the automatic elevator, Blue elbowed the call button, and when the door slid open, they threw Long Tom in as if he was no more than a sack of household refuse.

Fortunately for Long Tom, he did not land on his head.

The two tough men stepped aboard, closed the door and sent the cage sinking toward the foyer.

Since it was now the dark of night, they had no difficulty lugging the limp electrical expert out through the vestibule and into a flashy roadster parked at the curb. Long Tom did not receive the dignity of the back seat. Instead, they threw him into the rumble seat, slamming down the lid.

Taking seats in the front of the machine, one said to the other, “This is a hell of a note, Blue.”

“It is, at that,” replied the blue-jowled one. “But maybe it will work out all right in the end.”

“Where Doc Savage is concerned,” observed Blackie, “I’m not sure anything works out all right in the end, or otherwise.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a pal down in Cincinnati what got grabbed by Doc Savage. He disappeared for about a year. I ran into him one day. My pal, who I knew since I was a kid, didn’t recognize me at all. I called him by his right name, and he insisted that wasn’t his name. But I knew the guy. It was him. Only it wasn’t him anymore. Get me?”

“No, I don’t,” said Blue, rubbing his unshaven jaw.

“Doc Savage done something to him. Something horrible. Not only did he call himself by a strange name, but the guy had gone straight. Straight as an arrow. I couldn’t talk him into any crooked stuff. He gave me the air. And me, his pal since we were both squirts in short pants.”

Blackie got the engine going. It made a contented sound, indicating quality of manufacture.

As the flashy machine muttered into traffic, Blue groused, “That Doc Savage is a devil.”

“You got that right,” grunted Blackie. Then they fell into an interval of comfortable silence as they moved through city traffic.

Chapter X

“WATCH FOR DUKE”

DOC SAVAGE’S FATHER, a great humanitarian in his day, had laid out the course of his only son’s life when the latter was still in swaddling clothes. The aim was to fit the youngster for his life’s work. It commenced when Clark Savage, Sr., voluntarily placed the child in the hands of a seemingly endless parade of scientists and other knowledgeable men. Thus, while other children played with toys, young Clark had begun as intensive an education as any mortal had ever experienced. The lad was trained in many scientific disciplines. There existed no field of study the bronze man had not touched, and many he ultimately mastered.

Among them was criminology in all of its manifestations. As a scientist, he was an acknowledged wizard, a modern Mercury with a dash of Merlin. As a follower of clues and deductions, he passed for a latter-day Sherlock Holmes.

By modern means, Doc had determined that Duke Grogan was in Manhattan. But the trail had gone cold. There seemed no way to get on it again.

Thus it was to the mutual astonishment of Monk and Ham that their bronze chief suddenly announced, “If we act fast, we may prevent Duke Grogan from boarding the Twentieth Century Limited back to Chicago.”

Monk and Ham swapped befuddled glances.

Ham began to object. “But how do you know he plans to train back to Chicago?”

Instead of responding, Doc Savage said, “We have no time to waste.”

Monk beamed. “This might be a good time to bring along the special ammo I’ve been workin’ on.”

Ham asked waspishly, “What ammunition is that? I have heard nothing of this.”

Instead of replying, the homely chemist waddled into the laboratory and came back, lugging two metal cases. One was his portable chemical laboratory. The other was a bulky ammunition locker which the hairy Monk toted with simian ease.

Soon, they were dropping to the sub-basement garage and climbing aboard a subdued gray sedan.

The auto roared up the concrete ramp and jounced over the sidewalk and onto the avenue.

Monk looked back at the garage door as it was closing.

“Heck! That green shadow is gone.”

Doc Savage’s active eyes flicked to the rear-vision mirror and noted that this was so.

“What happened to it?” blurted Ham.

“Action of direct sunlight may have obliterated it,” suggested Doc.

It was a short distance to Grand Central Terminal. During the drive, Monk asked Doc Savage, “What makes you think Grogan is lammin’?”

“In Ned Gamble’s billfold was a return ticket to Chicago. We can surmise that he was followed from Chicago. It stands to reason that the person doing the following occupied the same train or, at least, one not many hours behind it.”

“Makes perfect sense,” offered Ham.

“Having slain Gamble and warned us off, Grogan has no reason to remain in town. It follows that he would depart as quickly as possible. The next train to Chicago leaves in fifteen minutes.”

Monk eyed his wristwatch.

“Better step on it, then. It’s gonna be tough to run down one guy in all the hubbub at Grand Central.”

Doc Savage touched a lever and a concealed siren sprang into full voice, clearing the traffic as efficiently as any police prowl car.

Doc Savage had amassed a considerable fortune in recent years. Its source was a mystery to the general public. With the business depression, the bronze man had ploughed some of his funds into various businesses, helping them back on their financial feet. Among these enterprises were various railroad companies.

As it happened, Doc owned a large stake in the branch of the railroad that maintained the New York to Chicago run.

Parking in a spot reserved for bigwigs, Doc alighted, then entered the station. Monk and Ham followed close on his heels.

Doc Savage went directly to an office, and conferred with the station master in charge of Grand Central Terminal.

“There is reason to believe a known criminal is planning to depart on the Twentieth Century Limited,” Doc told him.

The station master looked aghast.

“I understand that you have the authority, but I am reluctant to have the train held up,” the official gulped.

“There is no need.” Doc produced a photo of Duke Grogan and added, “Have every red cap and conductor look for this man.”

“That will take several minutes,” the man pleaded. “And the train is due to depart momentarily.”

“There is no need to hold up the train. If Grogan can be taken off, the train may depart without him.”

Relief washed over the station master’s pale visage.

“At once, Mr. Savage,” he clipped.

“Discretion is of paramount importance,” cautioned Doc. “My men and I are too conspicuous to infiltrate the throng without being identified by Grogan.”

The station master rushed out to show the photo to his employees.

“This will be a lead-pipe cinch,” Monk chortled.

Ham frowned. “I don’t know. Duke has a reputation of being a wily customer.”

“Well, we’re more wily,” retorted Monk confidently. “We’ll get him.”

IT WAS not fear of Doc Savage, nor any inkling that the mighty bronze nemesis was on his trail, that compelled Duke Grogan to take certain steps once he had boarded the Twentieth Century Limited train.

Duke had secured a Pullman compartment, which was the epitome of luxury, for the simple reason that he liked to travel in style, and his nefarious activities had caused his picture to appear in a great many news sheets. That much of this exposure was limited to Chicago was not significant to Duke. He was in the habit of taking precautions wherever he traveled.

Grogan was walking down the aisle of the train, seeking his private compartment when Dame Fortune tapped him on the shoulder.

Coming from the other direction was a pinched face he knew well.

“Well, well,” Duke growled in a friendly manner. “If it ain’t my old pal, Ed Waco.”

The man thus addressed stopped in his tracks, and his crafty eyes lit with a challenging light.

“Duke! As I live and breathe. What are you doin’ in this burg?”

Grogan chuckled. “I’m on my way back home. Got a private compartment with all the trimmings.”

Ed chuckled back. “You don’t say! Same here. You sure come up in the world since you were an alky cooker.”

“Those were the days, eh?” Duke lowered his voice and said, “Do a pal a favor?”

Ed Waco looked crafty. “What’s the favor?” he asked suspiciously.

“I’m leaving town after finishing a big job. I don’t think the bulls are on my trail, but you never know. You said you got a private compartment and so do I. What say we swap?”

“Swap?”

“That’s right. In case any bull pats you on the shoulder, thinking you’re me, you could set them straight pretty quick. Cover for me. Get it?”