Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (15 page)

Ivan Cass did not stay in his room long, saying instead that he was going for a walk. His route took him to a vacant lot on the edge of town, near the highway, and to a dull gray trailer which was parked in this lot. He knocked twice, coughed, knocked once, then entered the trailer, sat down at the compact table, poured himself a drink from a square bottle, and lifting the glass, scowled at the other men in the trailer.

“To a bunch of prize goops!” he said.

“Sure, rub it in,” said the hound-voiced little man across the table, scowling back. The other men in the trailer—men of normal or better than normal size—also scowled. There were five of these.

“You apes,” Cass said. “That damned magician queered the frame we laid on the girl to draw attention from you. What do you think of that?”

The small man blinked. “Devil he did!”

“You runt,” Cass said. “You killed the telegraph agent, and you killed Box Daniels. But did you do anything about Gulliver Greene, the one guy who can mess us up? No, you didn’t have a gun. And he didn’t wait for that knife. He only saw the knife, that’s all, and recognized it was the same one that fixed the telegrapher. You do love to use those funny-shaped knives, don’t you?”

The little man leaned back, lifted one end of his upper lip and showed an eyetooth. He shook one small sleeve and another three-edged knife appeared. He waved it about, made it spin a bit, after which the dagger disappeared up his opposite sleeve.

“Of course you sold your bill of goods, master mind?” he asked casually.

Cass nodded. “They think I’m a private detective. As such, I didn’t get to dispose of the magician. But I did stop him from covering for the girl. In fact, I think the law now wants him for what you did.”

“Where is he?”

“Loose.”

The small man frowned. “How come?”

“He’s pretty good.”

The other snorted. “Gulliver Greene the magician, filling tanks with gasoline for four dollars a week and board, and you say he’s pretty good.”

“Know why he’s doing that? I’ll tell you. He’s holding out for five thousand dollars a week in New York City. They’ve offered him three thousand. I’ll repeat that—they’ve offered him three thousand. They’ll pay him five, and he knows it, so he’s taking a hideout vacation until they come across with a contract. That’s the guy old Box Daniels ran to for protection and help. That’s the one Daniels hoped would rescue Columbus from us, my sawed-off numbskull. That’s also the guy who is running around loose somewhere, sharpening his little hatchet for us.”

Ivan Cass’ hand shook enough to clatter the bottle against the glass as he poured himself more liquor, and his breathing was audible in the intervals of dead quiet between the great concussions of thunder in the night sky. One of the men got up, not saying anything, and opened a locker and took out a revolver, broke it to examine the breech for cartridges, then dropped it in his coat pocket.

“What do we do about it, know-so-much?” the runt asked viciously.

Lightning ran across the sky, making a reedy crackling that was audible a fractional moment before the thump of its thunder, and the thunder trailed off in the clouds above, seemed to start up again with renewed violence, and gradually trailed off again, leaving the unnatural pre-storm stillness.

“Gull Greene doesn’t know we grabbed Saint Pete,” Ivan Cass related. “He’s a bit puzzled about how we got her shoe, to use on Box Daniels.”

“Um-m,” said the little man sourly.

“We’ve got to clear out of here, pennywits,” Cass added.

The runt glowered silently.

“Old Box Daniels is dead, and nobody else really knows what the truth is. Small thanks to you, sawed-off-and-stupid.”

The little man showed all his tiny teeth fiercely.

Cass said, “I hie me now to the local bastille. Where I shall put a bullet in Spook Davis, just on the chance that he might be able to alibi The Great Gulliver on the murder of the telegrapher. Every little bit helps, eh, little baboon?”

He got up.

The little man got up on his seat, so that they stood almost face to face.

The two of them shook hands and grinned at each other and slapped each other on the back with the greatest of friendship, after which Ivan Cass eased out into the night and departed. The hound-voiced midget sat back in his chair, still grinning, and assured his men that Ivanhoe Cass was a great guy, the salt of the earth.

About this time, Gull Greene was crawling out from under the dull gray trailer, a location from which, between thumps of thunder, he had been able to hear just about everything that had been said.

Chapter XIV

THE REVERSION

AFTER EXAMINING THE scalped man and finding no identification, Doc Savage made a low sound in his throat perilously like disgust.

“Big Neck must be recaptured without delay.”

They began to search the dirt floor of the forest for tracks. They found plenty.

“Moccasin prints for certain,” Johnny muttered, after applying his magnifier to them.

Monk Mayfair suddenly squeaked, “Hey, where’s Habeas!”

“Wasn’t he with you?” Ham demanded.

“Sure. When I got shot. The blast must’ve scared him off!”

“You don’t suppose that Big Neck made off with him,” suggested Long Tom, looking about sharply.

Monk seemed to forget about his bruised anatomy. He vented a howl and suddenly charged in the direction where the moccasin prints paraded.

The others hastily followed.

Doc Savage overhauled the hairy chemist, arrested him with iron fingers, cautioned, “We do not want to warn him.”

“Speak for yourself,” growled Monk. “If that bull-necked nature boy so much as bruises Habeas, I’ll peel his scalp from his skull and feed it to him. I’ll twist his fingers off, one at a time. Then I’ll come down on him so hard, his moccasin tops will be up around his chin!”

Seeing the way of it, Doc Savage released Monk.

THEY found their quarry in amazingly quick time.

Doc Savage spied him first. Big Neck was running at a dog trot. Tucked under one arm was the squealing porker with long wing-like ears and feet more appropriate for a hunting dog.

Monk squawled anew. His flat feet propelled him forward with ungainly speed. At intervals, he stooped and used his hands to propel himself along, anthropoid-fashion. The apish chemist’s arms were almost as long as his legs.

Big Neck—if that was indeed his name—peered over his shoulder and began to look alarmed. He picked up his brisk pace.

That did not help as much as he wished because, before long, the Indian prudently dropped the pig and redoubled his efforts. He was fleet. His pounding legs made excellent time.

But when he saw that he could not outrun his pursuers, Big Neck did a bold thing.

The brave stopped, spun about, and went into a crouch, similar to that of a wrestler facing an opponent.

Doc Savage reached him first. He began speaking in the man’s own lingo.

Big Neck spat back words that didn’t need to be translated. There would be no surrendering.

Doc switched to the Mayan language, the tongue they had learned long ago in the course of their first great adventure together, and gave his men rapid instructions that couldn’t be understood by the Indian.

Carefully, they surrounded Big Neck. Monk had scooped up Habeas, and was reassuring him. Otherwise, his wide face seemed to reflect a kind of gorilla ferocity.

Seeing Monk’s animal-like expressions, Big Neck began backing away. Evidently, he feared no ordinary man, but Monk’s simian physiognomy brought from his lips a growled word that Doc Savage translated for them.

“He thinks Monk is some kind of forest spirit. A bear man.”

Ham Brooks found that funny for some reason. He began laughing.

The Indian assumed that the laughter was directed at him, and took umbrage.

Ham became a casualty almost at once. His trust in his sword cane proved to be his undoing. While he was fiddling with the thing, attempting to unsheathe it, the Indian closed with him, picked the sword cane out of his hands, and bent it nearly double over Ham’s head and left shoulder. Fortunately, the blade was not out of its barrel, so Ham was not cut. But he shifted backward, stood with his back pressed to a tree, dazed enough that he would have fallen except for the trunk.

Big Neck suddenly found himself facing Doc.

Doc Savage was a man with many unusual qualities, and most of these unique abilities or traits were the result of his being placed in the hands of scientists when he was a small child, and who kept up the training into manhood. Many scientists had contributed to this training.

Among those had been experts in Judo, Ju-Jitsu and other exotic fighting skills. These experts had taught the bronze man to turn a foe’s ferocity against him.

Doc simply stood there.

The Indian lunged, hands clutching for the bronze giant.

The next thing Big Neck knew, he was flat on his back, a strange expression twisting his painted face. This bewilderment did not last long.

Springing to his feet, he came again. This time Doc tripped him. The Indian went sliding on his face, ending up with a mouthful of rich Missouri loam.

Spitting it out, the murderous redskin went into a crouch and attempted to butt Doc Savage in the manner of a charging bull.

The bronze giant surprised his foe. Bracing his feet wide apart, Doc stood his ground. As part of his training, the bronze man had learned to stiffen his abdominal muscles, allowing boxers in training to use his midriff as a punching bag.

The result was that Big Neck’s skull bounced off Doc Savage’s heavily-muscled abdomen. He reeled backward, holding his head in his hands, looking as if he had collided with an oak tree.

The Indian stamped around in small circles, evidently attempting to shake off his concussion. His eyes became strange, as if seeing stars.

Monk remarked, “Looks like Geronimo has had enough.”

That observation proved premature. Wildly, Big Neck shook his head, and that seemed to clear his dazed senses. Growling, he turned to face the bronze warrior who had so far defied his skills.

And then it dawned on Doc that the other was somewhat unscientific in his approach to fighting. The Indian liked to rage and snarl as if making noise was sufficient to overpower a foe. Perhaps at certain times, it was. For he was very good at making faces and issuing forth cries calculated to intimidate an opponent. Unfortunately for him, he relied a little too much on it.

Too, the brave may not be accustomed to man-to-man combat without benefit of a knife or tomahawk.

Doc moved in, and had a little better luck. The other hit the forest floor, and hard. He was back up, though, before Doc got hold of him again.

Monk shouted encouragement. “Knock ’im flat, Doc!”

Monk’s normally squeaky voice had become a howling battle roar. This caused Big Neck to swing his head about, eyes growing fearsome and fearful at the same time.

Doc Savage made his move then.

Seizing the man by his most prominent feature—his neck—the bronze giant found nerves and dug in his steely fingers. While the Indian squirmed and struggled mightily, unable to see what was happening, Doc kneaded flesh, found nerve centers and induced a disabling paralysis that caused the brave to cease his floundering struggles.

Doc held him long enough to be certain that his fierce foe was out of action, then stopped, letting Big Neck fall onto the ground. One bronze shoulder ached. The wily brave had attempted to pull that arm out of its socket at one point in the match.

“Well, that’s that,” decided Monk.

Then he noticed Ham Brooks, leaning against a tree with his damaged sword cane at his feet.

The dapper lawyer did not look like a man who had any fight left in him.

“Did you bring a spare cane, shyster?” asked Monk.

Ham Brooks simply mouthed his No. He looked as crestfallen as his sharp features could manage.

“That will teach you to laugh at your betters,” Monk snorted.

They did not have to go far to find the others. Renny and Long Tom and Johnny came trotting up to them, all but out of breath.

“That durn house,” puffed Renny.

“It’s back!” exclaimed Long Tom.

“Supermalagorgeous!” finished Johnny. He was grinning again.

Chapter XV

THE HOUDINI

THE JAIL OF the town of La Plata looked as solid as a concrete block, and consisted of one cell, into which Spook Davis was pitched. There had been some delay about his incarceration—the State Highway Patrolman had kept him out in front of the jail in their car while they asked him numerous questions, a catechism which they ornamented with precise and writhing details of just how capital punishment worked in the State of Missouri.

Spook Davis, an unstable soul at best, was wet with sweat when they pitched him into jail, slammed the door and went away, carrying off his handcuffs. It was very dark in the cell.

The night sky was making more and more light and noise, but as yet not a drop of rain had fallen. And Spook Davis soon grew conscious of the darkness, of his aloneness in difficulty, and it depressed him—depressed him terribly. His was a changable emotional makeup; his enjoyments bounded among the pinnacles and his intervals of gloom shot him to the depths. When low, he always remembered with profound remorse the different windies he had told lately, and invariably made a firm resolve to tell no more. At such times, he was prone to address an imaginary individual he called his personal devil.

“Devil,” Spook now said sourly. “This is a fine thing you’ve done to me. Here you’ve got me mixed up in some kind of an infernal mystery and two murders and nobody knows what more. Why can’t you lay off a guy once?”

“This is nothing,” said a voice. “Wait until I really begin to put it on you!”

Spook Davis’ heart nearly failed; like most people who know they have psychological complexes, he’d always been afraid he’d go insane. He had spoken to his imaginary devil; it had replied. He was crazy!

“Great Blackstone!” Spook gulped.