DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (11 page)

“Indeed. I am also a student of human nature, and the character of men. Take yourself, for instance. By reputation, you are one of the most brilliant minds in your chosen profession.”

Ham’s sharp features came away from the window. Interest showed in his expression. “I am given to understand so,” he admitted.

“You are also a fastidious dresser. A veritable modern Beau Brummell.”

“I take justifiable pride in my appearance,” allowed Ham.

“And so you should. You are a man of renown. It is only appropriate to cut a proper figure. It is incumbent upon a man of your station in life, and education.”

“I consider myself fortunate to count myself among the most noted alumni ever to come out of Harvard Law School,” Ham returned, warming to the subject.

“Quite so. With your keen mind and clever ways, I will wager that you were born in the month of May, or possibly June.”

Ham’s voice grew thin. “Why do you say that, my good fellow?”

“As I told you,” said Startell Pompman, “I am a student of human nature. And of the stars.”

“You are an amateur astronomer?” questioned Ham, puzzled.

“Not quite. I study the stars, true. But my interest is not in heavenly bodies, but in their effect upon mankind.”

“Are you speaking of… astrology?” asked Ham.

“I prefer a more dignified term, namely, Solar Psychology,” confided Startell Pompman.

“Do tell,” said Ham thinly. Abruptly, he excused himself and got up.

Going forward, the elegant attorney tapped Monk Mayfair on his burly shoulder.

“I will take over now, ape.”

“It ain’t your turn yet,” growled Monk.

“Nevertheless, I think you should listen to what our guest has to say about your personality,” Ham informed him.

“What’s he been sayin’?” grated Monk.

“I refuse to stoop to such language. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I’ll do just that,” said Monk. Hoisting himself out of his seat, he worked back to the rear on bandy legs.

“What’ve you been tellin’ that shyster about me?” demanded Monk without preamble.

Startell Pompman said with injured dignity, “Merely that I am a student of personality. I have been observing you. I would wager that you were born in the month of April, if not May.”

“What makes you say that?” Monk demanded.

“The way you carry yourself. Your bullheaded attitude. You are a man who charges into things. You seize opportunity by the throat. Obviously you—”

“I might seize you by the throat if I took a mind to,” growled the hairy chemist.

“Spoken like a true Taurus.”

“A—what did you say?” muttered Monk.

“You are undoubtedly born under the sun of Taurus. It is written all over your bovine face.”

“My face ain’t none of your business,” Monk retorted. “So mind yours before I pop you one.”

Monk rushed forward to the cockpit.

“This guy’s an astrologer!” he bellowed over the engine vibration.

Doc Savage said nothing.

Ham offered, “It is a superstition I take no store in. Hence, my invitation to you to keep the bounder company.”

Monk barked, “Out of that seat, shyster. I’m reclaimin’ my due.”

“Nothing doing!”

They began arguing, but Doc Savage cut them off.

“Monk, get in touch with the authorities in Singapore. See if any late word of Renny has been learned.”

“Gotcha, Doc.” Monk repaired to the radio station, got busy at the dials.

“I do not like that Pompman person,” Ham muttered. He lapsed into silence. The mention of Renny Renwick had reminded him that the hulking engineer’s fate was entirely unknown. Ham addressed this concern.

“Doc, do you think that mummy we left back in New York is—”

“The evidence is so far contradictory. But Renny’s fate remains uncertain.”

A worried frown troubled the dapper lawyer’s eagle-like profile. “But it does not guarantee that Renny remains among the living. He has been out of communication for a deuced long interval.”

“It might be best,” replied the bronze man gravely, “to be prepared for any eventuality, come what may.”

Several minutes later, Monk spoke up from the radio set.

“Singapore police say they’re still lookin’ for Renny. But so far they admit that they ain’t got a clue. ”

Gloom descended upon the spacious cabin. No one spoke.

Reluctantly, Monk returned to the empty seat near Startell Pompman. He had something on his mind.

“Astrology,” he said flatly, “is a bunch of hooey.”

Pompman eyed him aridly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me. Hooey. Hokum. Otherwise known as the bunk. The stars are far away. They don’t affect people. And that’s that.”

“I am curious,” said Pompman. “What is your leader’s birthday?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Idle curiosity,” replied the other suavely. “I confess that the tell-tale indicators pointing to his composite solar personality so far elude me. It is as if the big fellow partakes of all twelve signs of the Zodiac.” Pompman made a harrumphing sound deep in his being. “Patently impossible, as we all know.”

“Ask Doc, if you’re so durned interested,” mumbled Monk.

“I shall—in due time.” Startell Pompman lapsed into silence.

Monk Mayfair stared out into the night. He was a practical soul, and began wishing that he had brought along his pet pig, Habeas Corpus. But there had been no time to collect the remarkable shoat from the apish chemist’s penthouse digs. Doc Savage had also cautioned against it, which meant that the bronze man had already divined that they were all flying into a peril too terrible to risk bringing the pet.

THEY stopped over in Manila, in the Philippines, just long enough to take on aviation fuel, after which they resumed the arduous hop to Singapore, which is a substantial island at the tip of the Malay Peninsula.

Dawn found them dropping out of the Malayan sky. Doc Savage slanted the thundering transport plane in for a landing on Singapore harbor. He dragged the bay twice to warn the covered
tambangs,
bumboats, and assorted fishing craft to clear a path. They did.

The landing was smooth and when the laboring engines shut down, the silence was uncanny owing to the fact that they had become long accustomed to their song and vibration.

Doc nudged the gliding flying boat toward a jetty dock that had been made ready for them.

A contingent of British constabulary—Singapore was a British protectorate—were present to greet him. They stood assembled in their impeccable white uniforms like an honor guard.

Unusual deference was shown the bronze man and his aides. Doc had done the English government a good turn a time or two. They all but saluted him.

A police machine was made available, and they were whisked through crowded streets toward the Raffles Hotel. Assorted coolies and fowl scampered to get out of their way.

They arrived before the entrance to the Raffles Hotel in time to behold an interesting sight.

Two coffee-colored Orientals in blue turbans and tropical whites were exiting the side entrance, carrying a long wall mirror, evidently lately removed from a suite of rooms.

Doc Savage took note of them, and began to approach.

At sign of the big bronze man striding toward them, the two turbaned gentlemen almost dropped the mirror.

One spat something at the other and they tried to pick up the pace. But the mirror—it included the ornate gilt frame—proved too heavy to maneuver with any speed.

Doc Savage called out to them to halt in perfect Malay.

“Berhenti! Hilo-matt!”

Carefully, they set the mirror down and one held it while the other drew from somewhere on his person a weapon that was a cross between a short sword and a very long knife. A Malay
parang.

The knife wielder spat something pungent at the bronze man.

Doc Savage stepped in, feinted, and the blade began to describe dazzling circles in the early morning sunlight.

Somehow—the bronze man seemed hardly to move—the knife began pin-wheeling into the air, and the knife-man found himself looking at his suddenly empty fist. The expression on his face plainly showed that he had no idea what had become of his
parang
.

Doc caught the hilt as it came back down, made a conjuror’s pass, after which the blade disappeared from sight. It appeared magical. In fact, it was a maneuver known to stage illusionists as a “vanish.” The blade now reposed along Doc’s forearm, held in place by his coat sleeve, the hilt hidden by his closed fist. So fast did the bronze man’s hands move that all onlookers were confused by what had transpired.

The man shrieked, wheeled about, and attempted flight.

Metallic fingers drifted out and seized the Malay by the linen collar. Doc Savage lifted one great arm and the man was comically running on air, as if in a movie-house cartoon.

That brought the other Malay close to panic. He dropped the mirror. It struck the ground with great noise and force. Naturally, it shattered.

Then the man did an inexplicable thing. He plunged into the broken glass and attacked it as if to complete the job of destruction.

The glass was as sharp as daggers. Indeed, broken glass is sharper than any knife. With surprising speed, the man was bleeding from many cuts about his body. Instead of this dissuading him from doing any worse damage to himself, the Malay confederate picked up a particularly vicious shard and swiftly slashed one wrist. Gore gushed out in a flood.

Still holding onto his prisoner, Doc reached down and pulled the unfortunate man clear.

It was too late. An artery had been severed. Turning pasty as a brown ghost—if there could be such a thing—the man went limp in the metallic giant’s grasp.

Doc rapped, “Monk. Get the lantern from your case.” Monk had brought along a case of special equipment. He ran back to the police machine and brought back a folding camera of a thing. He opened it, disclosing a purplish lens.

Monk and Ham surrounded the crimson-stained mirror.

“You know what to do, Monk,” the bronze man directed.

Monk and Ham got between the sun and the shattered mirror and made shade. Monk then pressed a button. Nothing seemed to happen.

But among the blood on the fractured glass, eerie blue letters showed. The words inscribed were difficult to read. They appeared to say:

PIRATE IS

“That is Renny’s handwriting,” Ham breathed.

Doc nodded. “Investigation should show that this mirror was removed from Renny’s hotel suite.”

“But what’d he mean by ‘Pirate Is’?” demanded Monk. “Is what?”

Ham Brooks separated his slim stick, revealing it to be a sword cane, and applied the tip of the blade to the nose of Doc Savage’s captive, saying, “I’ll wager this beggar knows.”

If he did, they did not learn it. For, amazingly, the Malay took the tip of Ham’s sword into his mouth and impaled his tongue on it. Perhaps he saw the sticky brown substance coating the point. Perhaps not. But he was soon insensate in Doc Savage’s clamping grip.

“You tort!” Monk squawled. “Look what you done!”

“I did nothing!” Ham snapped back. “He did it—to himself.”

Ham carried an antidote to the sticky anesthetic, but seemed unconcerned as to the fate of the door thief. Doc lowered the unconscious one to the pavement, where a slow red wormlet crawled out of his open mouth.

Addressing the amazed police, Doc Savage inquired, “The Macassar Strait is infamous for pirate activity. Is there a locality there known as Pirate Isle?”

“Pirate Island,” corrected a constable. “It lies far beyond the Gulf of Siam, in the Tiger Islands of the South China Sea. Beastly bad place. Den for red-handed rotters, corsairs and cut-throats. I can provide you an excellent marine chart, showing its precise location.”

Doc nodded. Turning to his men, he imparted, “We will go there.”

“His Majesty’s Constabulary offers its service and its protection to you,
Tuan
Savage.”

“That will not be necessary,” said Doc Savage. “We will handle this matter ourselves.”

The police politely deferred to the bronze man. They conveyed the party back to the waiting seaplane and, after Doc supervised refueling operations, the flying boat was climbing back into the brilliant blue sky.

“This new development could mean that Renny is still alive,” Ham offered hopefully.

Just to be contrary, and not because he believed it—or wanted to—Monk Mayfair groused, “Don’t mean any such thing. They could have hauled Renny off to Pirate Island before… doin’ what they done to him. Them heathens was just coverin’ their tracks, is all.”

Doc Savage offered no opinion on the subject. His metallic face remained composed and unreadable.

NIGHT WAS CREEPING over the disreputable spot known as Pirate Island.

In the harsh tropical sunlight, the island had been a riot of blinding hues—orchids of incredible beauty and variety decorated the verdant isle. Wild fruit hung ripe and heavy from barbaric-looking trees of all descriptions. Too, wildlife crept and crawled with an abundance that dazzled the senses of those unused to its splendid luxury.

All that was fading now as the sun dipped below the water like a tired face falling into slumber.

If the dying of day presaged a lessening of the humidity that had plagued the daylight hours, the first part of the evening failed to live up to that promise. If anything, it felt warmer. Mark and Mary Chan lay on thin pallets on the rough floor of the rude longhouse structure that had been erected on stilts. Its principal and perhaps only virtue being that its stilt construction held it well above the ground, which was prone to flooding in the violent monsoon rainstorms that characterized this part of the globe. Additionally, they served to hold its occupants high above the various lizards and insect vermin which prowled the vicinity for food.

A snarl from somewhere near brought that unsettling fact to mind.

“Sounds like a tiger,” Mark muttered, dark eyes switching about.

“Yes, a tiger,” Mary agreed. Her voice was subdued.

They were both thoroughly dispirited.

For a week now—longer it seemed—they had been held captive in this longhouse. At first they had been fed. But the feeding had been punctuated by many questions.