Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (39 page)

There was a pneumatic raft stowed on board. Doc inflated it and he and Long Tom used it to paddle close to the island, under the cover of the turbulent wind-driven fog bank. Long Tom still wore Renny’s oversized clothes, his own not having dried sufficiently. This did not improve his commonly sour mood.

They had left Cadwiller Olden behind in the cabin, along with Habeas Corpus, the pig. It was perhaps the least desirable alternative, but absolutely necessary given that they planned to scout an unmapped island held by enemies. Experience had already shown that Doc Savage would be unable to render the tiny man unconscious through chiropractic manipulation of his spinal nerves, and after going through his carry-all vest, the bronze man failed to discover an alternative. He would probably need all of his gas-producing gadgets for the battle ahead, and the vest lacked a hypodermic needle or sedative.

“I’ll fix his little wagon,” Long Tom had fumed, taking great pains to lash Olden to a seat. After Doc tested his bonds, they disembarked, leaving Habeas Corpus to stare accusingly at the miniature man like a guardian Cerberus.

As they approached the rocky isle, Doc Savage and Long Tom saw a big foreign airplane come ripping along the lake surface and vault into the sky, only to do a nose-over and crash into the water, then sink from sight.

They elected to avoid the wreck when they heard the sound of a speedboat motor starting up.

“What about survivors?” breathed Long Tom.

“There was no one at the controls,” said Doc. “So it is improbable that anyone was on board.”

Long Tom did not question that. The bronze man possessed the penetrating vision of an eagle.

Landing on the leeward side of the island, they concealed their raft in the scrubby brush and split up, deciding that way they could cover more ground during their search.

Thus it was that the bronze man was entirely unaware of the misadventure into which Long Tom Roberts had stumbled.

Moving like a wraith through the milky murk, Doc made virtually no noise and encountered nothing more than scuttling rats. Obviously, the island had gotten its name from the local rodent population, which appeared unchecked. Bushes twitched and moved unexpectedly, indicating their furtive movements.

As a hideout, Rat Island was very clever. Boaters landing on its uninviting shores were unlikely to tarry for very long.

Doc Savage discovered the hidden workroom almost as soon as he noticed the ledge that concealed it. His alert eyes perceived the faint difference between the gray of the rock and the paint-camouflaged door.

Ground disturbance told him that there was a pivoting entrance, and he listened for only a moment before testing it with his weight. He cracked it, then hooked the tiny grappling hook he always carried to the edge, paid out line, and retreated to the shelter of a large boulder. As an extra precaution, Doc donned a gas-proof hood. Pulling steadily, he got the door open. No explosion or squirt of gas greeted this operation, so the bronze man reclaimed his hook and entered confidently.

The interior proved to be a fully-equipped photographic darkroom. Doc prowled among the equipment for some minutes, but discovered nothing more enlightening than the existence of the workroom itself. He did not remove his gas-proof hood until his examination was complete.

Cautiously, the bronze man exited and re-closed the pivoting door, rolling a large rock in place to keep it from being used by anyone without a pry bar and a strong back.

Doc moved on.

Among the senses which Doc Savage had perfected over a lifetime of diligent exercise was that of smell. His olfactory awareness was as keen as those of many animals.

The smells of the island were limited to its rough foliage and the odors associated with rats. There were seagulls, too, but these were not aloft in the fog.

The harsh tang of fresh blood came to Doc’s nostrils. It might mean anything, but the bronze man immediately veered toward the scent.

So it was that he came upon two men standing over a third. They were unusually similar in size and build, the greatest different between them being their hair. One was carrot-topped, while the other displayed a shock of premature white that had gotten very dirty. They were armed with a Winchester rifle and a double-barreled shotgun. The third lay on the ground, unmoving. He appeared to be wearing clothing several sizes too large for his undersized frame.

The bronze giant swept in like a fog-shrouded spectre of flexible metal, so utterly soundless that the two armed men failed to detect his approach. They were not very cognizant of their surroundings, anyway, being immersed in discussing the prone person.

Doc was upon them before they detected metallic hands emerging from the grayness to snatch their rifles from their grip.

Both men let out howls of unbridled astonishment and whirled, empty hands clutching helplessly.

“Sh-h-h!” Doc Savage told them.

Seeing the bronze giant, they subsided.

“What happened here?” Doc demanded.

“I didn’t look close enough before I swung that rifle,” the white-haired one complained.

“It was foggy,” seconded the other, who so greatly resembled the first that they might have been twins, or at least brothers, except for their hair. “We’re suh-sorry,” he added.

On the ground, Long Tom Roberts groaned weakly. His thin lips were drawn back off his teeth, and a few drops of scarlet crawled like red bugs where the rifle barrel had hit.

The white-haired individual started to say, “My name is—”

“I know your name,” said Doc Savage, bending down to examine Long Tom’s scalp.

“You do!” gulped Gulliver, greatly surprised.

Taking from his clothing a small first-aid kit, Doc Savage ministered to Long Tom Roberts’ scalp. An ampule of chemical stimulant placed under his nose brought him around.

“What happened?” Long Tom moaned, looking about with slightly dazed eyes. Sitting up, he clamped both hands tightly to the top of his head as if to squeeze the confusion out.

“I made a mistake with that,” Gulliver said, pointing to the rifle which lay on the ground.

Face reddening, Long Tom sprang to his feet and made hard fists. “I’m going to turn your face into a mistake!”

Doc Savage said calmly, “It was an accident. Let it go, Long Tom.”

The pallid electrical wizard, who looked as if he was about to take on all comers, reluctantly subsided, although his face remained flushed with fury. He gathered himself together, seemed annoyed at rediscovering that he wore—or swam in, rather—Renny Renwick’s colossal clothes.

Spook Davis volunteered, “Mr. Savage, your men are being held prisoner on the other side of this island, along with some friends of ours, Petella van Astor and a man who calls himself Christopher Columbus.”

“Are they alive?”

“I confess I have only a grisly fear on that point,” Gulliver said, somewhat formally. The sudden arrival of Doc Savage had impressed him deeply.

“They—they’re down in the fishing camp,” added Spook. “Or they were until they kicked me out for being too good for their knots. They were to be killed, I think. But Ivan Cass—he’s their leader—was holding off.”

“For what reason?” demanded Doc.

“They took these special pistols off your men,” said Spook. “They seemed to think they were real prizes, or something. But they couldn’t get them to work. Cass was trying to pry the secret out of your men. When I was dragged out, they were beating one of them something terrible.”

Long Tom growled, “For now, the safeties on our supermachine pistols have them baffled. But we can’t let them get out of the country with the weapons. They would be worth a fortune to a foreign war department.”

“Cass is some kind of master spy,” inserted Gulliver. “There is a photographic darkroom hidden in a ledge near here, and a radio rig for long-distance communicating. They have been using the Silent Saints as a cover for their espionage operations. I finally figured it all out.”

Doc Savage took this in with no flicker of expression. It was as if all were known to him. Then the bronze man asked a question that showed this was not entirely true.

“A large foreign aircraft went down not long ago. What do you know about that?”

“I did that,” Gull admitted. “I set the controls and let her rip, hoping Cass and his gang would think we were dead. From the sound of their cheering, it worked out just that way.”

“Stay here,” Doc said.

“Eh?”

“You, too,” Doc told Long Tom Roberts. “Keep an eye on them.”

Gulliver asked uneasily, “What are you planning on pulling?”

“Just taking a look around,” Doc explained.

DOC SAVAGE left Gulliver and Spook with Long Tom Roberts, who took charge of the weapons. The bronze giant crept cautiously up the hill, then down the other side. He located the fishing camp. As Spook Davis had said, it consisted of two bungalows and a few shacks, apparently an island fishing camp; a perfectly innocent looking place.

There were a few of Cass’ men around. Doc lay in concealment and watched, occasionally flicking away a foraging rat. The place abounded with them.

Cass’ men began to enter the farthest bungalow. Soon, they were all out of sight. Doc hesitated, decided to take a long chance, and eased to the nearest shack. Listening, he heard nothing, then entered.

First object he saw was a large metal box. Recalling the deadly box back at the Silent Saints encampment and being wary of booby-traps, the bronze man left it strictly alone. He peered about the place, inspecting its other contents.

This was a workshop. Whatever objects manufactured here were small, judging from the equipment. Doc moved about, taking an inventory. The remains of a tiny lady’s wristwatch got his attention. The mechanism had been removed, and two electrical contacts soldered, one to the hour hand, the other two to a movable disc which had been substituted for the dial. The wires from the contacts ran to the smallest dry-cell battery he had ever seen, an equally minute coil, and into what seemed to be a tiny steel rod—the latter a tube which had been filled with dark composition at each end. All this apparently was destined to go into an ordinary man-sized fountain pen.

Doc scrutinized the pen; it was European manufactured, a popular one. Another bomb close by was apparently designed to explode when the filling lever was raised preparatory to charging with ink.

There was a regular chemical laboratory, the contents labelled. Doc examined some of the bottles and recognized the contents—he’d had a bit of experience concocting invisible inks. He went back to the fountain-pen-infernal-machines, then cast about in search of the stock of explosive from which they had been charged. No luck. He pocketed one. About to leave, Doc’s interest became riveted on an incredibly tiny camera which was being built into a cigar. A very nice bit of work.

Rat Island, obviously, was the source of various devices espionage agents might use.

Doc left the building furtively, was not observed, and went back to where he left Gulliver Greene, Spook Davis, and Long Tom Roberts.

“We have the advantage of Ivan Cass and his group not knowing that we are at liberty,” Doc told them. “It may be possible to work out a plan to free the prisoners.”

“Don’t be so sure of that,” said Gulliver.

“What do you mean?”

Gull looked sheepish and seemed to have trouble forming words.

“Out with it,” prodded Long Tom.

“Well, I–I’m a professional magician and I’d sooner eat my rabbit than admit this—since before today I never believed in this crazy stuff—but some of Cass’ men can read minds.”

Doc Savage looked at Gulliver with steady golden eyes. “Read minds?”

“They call it extrasensory perception,” added Gull. “Saint Pete has it, too. She told me to try to stay alive until you got here—although some of Cass’ men were saying that you were already dead and had been longer than we had lived. Whatever that means.”

“It means,” said Doc Savage grimly, “that this spy ring may be the most dangerous of its kind ever formed.”

Chapter XLI

EXECUTION PARTY

IT WAS THE morning of what promised to be a difficult day. The sun had arisen with plenty of light but not much warmth.

Doc Savage was saying, “An espionage ring whose members possess extrasensory skills would have the ability to acquire the deepest secrets of other nations without those governments being aware of any loss.”

“You don’t believe in that malarkey, do you?” Spook Davis inserted with a trace of indignation.

“We have encountered this phenomenon before,” Doc replied gravely.
⁹

“Really?” said Gulliver. “Where and when?”

“None of your business, bushwhacker,” Long Tom said sourly.

Doc Savage did not elaborate, other than to say, “Make no mistake, extrasensory perception may be rare, but it is very real. And there is no known defense against a skilled practitioner. Hence, we must move swiftly to rescue the others before Cass and his group suspect or sense our presence on this island.”

“If they haven’t already,” muttered Spook.

“Can we storm the big bungalow cabin?” Gulliver wondered.

“Better to attempt to smoke them out,” returned Doc. Reaching into his carry-all equipment vest, he began producing grenades of different types. Some were metallic cartridges.

With the natural curiosity of a magician toward unfamiliar gimmicks, Gulliver Greene observed these carefully. Tiny timers on the sides showed how they were actuated.

“Smoke?”

Doc nodded.

“I call them ‘dragon eggs’,” Long Tom said grimly. “When they hatch, everything turns black as Erebus.”

“Once they are flushed from shelter,” said Doc, “we will employ anesthetic grenades to overcome them.”

“We’ll have to work mighty fast,” warned Gull.

“We will,” said Doc.

But they were already too late on that score.

As they crept toward the mock fishing camp, the fog had begun lifting and men became visible gathering before the main bungalow cabin.

“That’s our group!” muttered Long Tom, recognizing Ham, Johnny and the others. All had their hands tied behind their backs.