Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (31 page)

He continued running toward Spook Davis, but it took more sheer forcing than anything he had ever done. His legs felt about as efficient as rubber hoses full of milk; marvel of it was that they carried him at all. The rain roared and threshed. He couldn’t see, but his dull heavy-feeling feet telegraphed faint jars, so he knew he was still going down the highway pavement. He carried Cass’ revolver. It felt as though it weighed a ton, and it was useless, because it was now empty. If anybody shot at him, two things could happen; either the bullet would kill him instantly, or he’d turn, and not stop running for hours.

It seemed like a devil of a lot of emotion to feel over something that characters in fiction and actors in movies typically took in stride—these actors were shot at, they shot back, and that was that. But The Great Gulliver, having been shot at for the second time in as many days, was having a case of compound jitters as a result.

Lightning ran a grizzled streak of flame in front of his face; thunder seemed to knock the level of the earth down several feet. In the scarlet roaring moment, Gull saw that he was abreast with the spot where he had left Spook Davis, Saint Pete and Ivan Cass.

None of the three were there.

“Gull!” a voice piped up tremulously.

Spook’s voice! It was off to the left, in a grove of maples. Gull slogged down into the roadside ditch, tossing handfuls of water, dug mud up the other side, took hold of a barbed wire fence thinking what would happen if lightning struck the fence just then, got over it, and reached Spook’s side.

Spook Davis hugged close to a tree and gurgled noises which he finally made turn into words. “Are they guh-guh-gone?” he wanted to know.

“Where’s Pete?”

Spook winced from a particularly bright lightning burst. “They tuh-took her.”

“Cass?”

“Him tuh-too. They took ’em both.” Spook grabbed Gull’s soggy coat with both hands. He seemed to have a grievance. “Why in huh-huh-hell did the G-Men run them guys in this direction?”

“G-Men?”

“They kuh-kept yuh-yelling that the G-Men were after them,” quavered Spook.

The rain seemed to suddenly slacken and the thunder went cackling away in the night. Water fell out of the trees in thinning dribbles, but gurgled and rushed over the ground in volume.

“You better tell the G-Men to chuh-chase them birds!” Spook yelled.

“I was the G-Men,” Gull explained.

GROWING calmer, Spook Davis advised that Ivan Cass’ men, after they had rescued their chief and abducted the girl, had continued on toward the Promised Land. Gull then realized that it might be a good idea if Spook and he were not to be found in the vicinity. Also, it occurred to him they might find weapons around the roadster and the trailer. He put that thought into words.

“I don’t want any guh-gun,” Spook explained. “What I want is to get out of this mess.”

However, they ran back to the trailer, hurried feet knocking up sheets of water. The pasture was like a lake, across which they waded into the trailer. On the chance that there might be an enemy lurking inside the trailer, Gull shouted, “This is Cass! Come on out!” But no one appeared, and the interior was dark; someone had turned out the trailer light during the gunfight, an incident which had gone unnoticed in the fracas. Gull felt inside the door, presuming the light switch would be located where light switches are to be found in houses, and sure enough it was, so he brightened the interior.

Gull looked inside the trailer. No one here. But—his gaze became fixed. His whole long body grew tense. His face must have showed concern, too, for Spook Davis pushed in beside him, looked, then snorted.

“Huh!” said Spook deprecatingly. “Just a box.”

To Spook Davis, it would seem to be just a box, for Spook hadn’t seen it before. He didn’t know that this box of wood, about four feet square, height two and a half feet, with a hinged lid, held grisly death. Obviously, it had been conveyed here for some reason.

Lifting the lid, Gull let Spook have a look inside the disquieting box.

Now it was Spook’s turn to register astonishment. He did so most effectively. Spook’s eyes popped.

“Suffering Robinson,” he breathed, dazed by the vicious-looking three-edged daggers he saw within.

“It’s a murder box,” explained Gull quietly.

“I can see that. But what—?”

“Take a gander at the rest of stuff,” suggested Gull.

Spook peered about, and began noticing the expensive cameras, and other unusual optical instruments.

“I think,” Gulliver Greene said grimly, “Cass and his men are high-class crooks.”

Spook’s eyes grew wide. “You mean—?”

Gull nodded. “The Silent Saints are a front for a roving murder gang.”

Gulliver Greene frowned as he carefully lowered the box lid. Good grief! Reading about such things in the newspapers, it always sounded sort of impersonal, like the Coronation. But now it was real enough. And clear? Well, reasonably. Ivan Cass and some of the others must be traveling with the Silent Saints’ mobile units, doing their dirty work—whatever it was. Evidently, they were assassins of some secretive kind. This must be what Saint Pete had learned, so that Cass had found it necessary to do something to keep her silent.

“What should we do, Gull?”

“If we weren’t wanted by the law, I would give all this evidence to the nearest State Highway Patrol barracks.”

“Maybe we should do that anyway,” Spook suggested.

“Are you growing horns, like a bull?” Gull asked.

Spook shook his head vigorously. “I’m thinking we can swap these mugs for a ticket home.”

Gull’s freckled features gathered thoughtfully.

“It’s an idea,” he drawled.

“We could borrow this rig while we’re thinking about it,” Spook offered hopefully.

“Even better,” said Gull suddenly.

SPOOK DAVIS remained in the trailer and Gull got in the roadster, belatedly wondering if the key would be in the ignition lock; the key was there. Rain had turned the pasture soft, and it was a small miracle when he got the rig onto the highway. He drove north. Rain stringing down kept wipers going
click-cluck
on the windshield for a while, then the rain thinned out entirely, after which driving was easier and Gull had some attention to spare for thinking. He seemed to be able to think quite clearly now that they had captured the death box. That surprised him, yet everything about the affair did align itself in his mind with something closer to approaching order. The reason this surprised him was because there seemed to be as much mystery as ever; the only thing that had been cleared up was that Ivan Cass was the leader of a gang of assassins traveling around the country ostensibly as members of the Silent Saints.

This did not mean all the Silent Saints were rascals—far from it; Gull was convinced that the majority of the evangelists were sincere men, earnestly endeavoring to spread the doctrine of simple living, moral restraint, and honesty—all qualities which it certainly wouldn’t hurt the country to possess in greater quantity.

Unfortunately, what the situation now possessed in clarity was completely overwhelmed by the additional trouble it contained. Gull twisted lean lips thoughtfully. Let’s see—he was wanted for murder, jailbreak, robbery, and for all he knew, kidnapping. Violent acts of lesser importance included shooting one or more of Cass’ men, assaulting Cass and robbing him, stealing this car and trailer, and possession of the deadly devices in the wooden box. It seemed a sizable array of charges to have collected just because Gull had innocently received a telegram from his long-absent Uncle Box.

In the middle of his troubles, Gull found time to sympathize with the girl. And to puzzle, as well, about her connection to the odd duck, Christopher Columbus.

Blast women, anyhow; particularly the pretty ones. They had no business up against the realities of life of the grimmer kind, such as the present situation. Their places were in the home; they belonged across from a fellow’s breakfast table. Pete did, at least. He was irked at her, rather than appalled, for not telling the police the truth. He understood exactly why she had not told the officers what he knew, that she had learned Ivan Cass was traveling with her Saints and doing dirty work.

Alternately, Gull wanted to wring Pete’s shapely neck, or take his sword and go forth and slay the dragon that was menacing her. She was sweet; she was honest. He’d lay his bets on that. The trouble was that she could be terrified into silence. This was an entirely human failing, Gull realized in more restrained moments. He might even be scared into silence himself, under the proper circumstances. But none of this contemplating of spilled milk was getting him out of the shadow of the gallows.

But if bringing evidence of a murder gang to the authorities would convince them to begin a search for Ivan Cass, he hoped that hunt would lead them to Saint Pete, in time.

The roaring violence of the wind was easing, but even more rain was coming down; it rushed through the headlight beams in squirming curtains. The road was surfaced with what the natives called blacktop; it was exceedingly slick. Gull gave his driving close attention. Lucky, so far, that they had encountered no State Highway Patrolmen. If fortune only persisted….

A small black coupé whipped past the roadster and trailer, continued down the road a hundred yards, and suddenly slowed. The driver threw the car into an expert skid. It stopped broadside of the road, making a blockade. A man jumped out of the far door of the machine. He leveled a revolver over the hood, and the gun muzzle began sticking out a red tongue.

THERE seemed to be only one man in the coupé. He was shooting, not directly at Gull’s approaching roadster and trailer, but in the air. A warning, obviously, to stop. Gull came down hard on the foot brake, yanked the hand brake back, and was promptly slammed forward against steering wheel and windshield. Brakes in car and trailer seemed to be very efficient. After the caravan stopped precipitously, Gull pushed himself back from the wheel and pulled breath back into his lungs.

“Braggs!” he yelled.

“Get outta there with your arms up!” Harvell Braggs roared.

There was no doubt about it being Braggs who had stopped them. The man’s head, beginning modestly at the top and widening out in innumerable amazing chins, was unmistakable. It was Braggs, the collector of Columbus artifacts. The black coupé was the machine Braggs had fled in, not many hours before. Gull recognized it now.

“It’s that damned magician,” Braggs gritted fiercely.

The roadster lights, shining on the mountainous man, disclosed that he was wearing a strained, fatigued expression, as well as grimness. He started when Spook Davis popped out of the trailer and took to his heels. Spook did not bother to look to see who it was. Braggs was just a shadowy figure with a gun that had stopped them, and Spook wanted to be far away quickly.

After Harvell Braggs fired in the air, he roared, “Stop!”

Spook Davis stopped, came back, pale and shaking, ogling Braggs’ gun.

“Raise your hands,” commanded Braggs.

Gull and Spook silently complied.

“Now call Christopher Columbus out of that trailer,” instructed the fat man.

“He’s not—” Spook started to say.

With a surreptitious foot, Gull kicked his mirror-image stooge in one ankle. Spook subsided, offered a shaky grin.

Gulliver called over his shoulder, “Come on out, Columbus!”

But Columbus did not come out, of course.

“He’s asleep,” Spook fibbed earnestly.

“Call him again,” Braggs insisted.

Gull and Spook took turns demanding that the unresponsive Christopher Columbus exit the trailer. They expended all their lung power in the fruitless effort.

“Must be a deep slumberer,” Gull said sheepishly.

“Or drunk maybe,” suggested Spook innocently.

Seeing no result, Harvell Braggs strode forward like a quivering mountain on teetering legs. He used the muzzle of his gun to prod Gull and Spook into opening the trailer door.

“He’s not really Columbus, you know,” Gull said as he turned the chromium door handle.

“That’s what you think!” snarled Braggs.

“Now, who’s the inebriated one,” Spook muttered to himself.

GULLIVER GREENE had no plan. He was just going to throw the door open and see what Harvell Braggs did. Maybe a safe opportunity to seize the gun would present itself.

It was just as well that The Great Gulliver had wasted no thought on planning.

For up the road came the bouncing headlights of another machine. The sound of it braking came, accompanied by the squeaking of springs.

A door opened. Out of the vehicle came an angular form, which stepped into the headlights and became recognizable.

“Cass!” shouted Harvell Braggs. “Just in time. I have cornered Christopher Columbus in this trailer!”

Cass snarled out an epithet. “You fat fool! We have Columbus. Now get in the back seat with the girl.”

A flash of scarlet lightning blinded everyone just then. Spook thought it was Braggs’ gun going off. He slammed himself on the ground, where he hoped no bullets would fly.

Ivan Cass threw an arm across his startled optics.

While everyone else was reacting, Gulliver Greene grabbed for Braggs’ pistol and got hold of it.

Lifting the muzzle to the sky, he began discharging the weapon in rapid succession.

This created further consternation. Braggs flattened. Cass threw himself to one side. Curses were hurled about.

While everyone was ducking and trying to get out of the way of imaginary lead, Gulliver sprinted for the Cass car, managed to avoid Cass himself, and fumbled for the man’s waiting machine.

Finding a door handle, he twisted, flung himself inside.

A deep voice like a hound dog baying began expostulating.

Reaching out with his free hand, Gull found a floundering figure that was about the size of a small boy. He applied the butt of the now-empty gun to the midget’s head repeatedly until the person ceased fighting back.

“Pete!” hissed Gull.

A muffled voice tried to say something. It was coming from the rear seat, so Gulliver got out and began rooting around in the back.