Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace (45 page)

Doc Savage discouraged their defiance by the simple expedient of entering the surf out of range of their vision and swimming submerged until he was under the aircraft.

There, the bronze man began introducing an assortment of the tiny grenades he carried into the open cabin. These included tear gas cartridges and smokers. For good measure, he added the fountain-pen bomb, which did not detonate because it had contained no explosive charge in the first place. But it added to the psychological effect.

Those who were not immediately overcome came tumbling out of the ship, appropriately enough, like rats from a disturbed nest. Doc fell upon these men, his terrible bronze hands knocking heads together and depriving them of their senses in other ways. He was so efficient at this he suddenly had to suspend operations, and grab for collars, collecting bunches of heads in either hand. Otherwise, his defeated foes would have drowned.

Doc’s men plunged down from the rocks to take charge of the demoralized prisoners, dragging the incapacitated ones bodily onto the sand. They had no fight left in them.

“Quite a haul,” Renny boomed, flexing his battle-scarred fists.

“How are we gonna get all them babies to our college?” Monk wondered.

“They are not going to the college,” replied Doc gravely. “This affair is too serious for that remedy.”

Chapter XLV

TROUBLE, INTERNATIONAL

AT A LATE hour that afternoon, everything was fairly settled. The Coast Guard and certain grim federal government men had come and gone with the surviving prisoners. Notably absent was the wounded Cadwiller Olden, and unconscious Harvell Braggs. Doc Savage had placed the latter aboard his plane before the arrival of the federals. Both men were going to Doc’s Crime College. They had also taken along the thing which, indirectly, had been a cause of much of the trouble—the ingenious spy devices that were being manufactured on Rat Island. The newspaper press association wires would carry the story of the trapping of a gang of thieves who were responsible for the killing of several people. Thieves! That took Gulliver by surprise. So far as the newspapers and the public were to know, it appeared Ivan Cass had been running a nest of thieves from his St. Louis detective office. No mention was made of any devices of military value, such as fountain-pen grenades and camera-equipped cigars. No hint breathed of espionage. Not a word. Nor were the Silent Saints implicated.

Gulliver Greene was somewhat astonished at the subtlety of his own national government; his idle thoughts had always consigned such stuff to the pages of fiction, or international intrigue. This was his first contact with it, and he began to acquire an infinite respect for Uncle Sam. Apparently, the old boy wasn’t the gullible oaf he seemed to be. It was a very smooth bit of diplomacy, and doubly satisfying because Gulliver and Spook discovered they weren’t even to stand trial for the curious killings. This was avoided simply. The fingerprints of the missing midget showed that he had been the killer of the depot agent and old Box Daniels. So Gull and Spook were clear.

A hasty grave had been dug, and marked with the name MONZINGO BALDWIN. It was very small. The federals left it alone. That seemed to satisfy them.

The future looked rather rosy around five o’clock when Gull and the entrancing Petella van Astor came to a mutually delightful understanding over on the beach beside the big tri-motor plane. Pete had recovered from the shock of their ordeal; it was, on top of all that had happened, not so overpoweringly terrible.

“I can read your mind easily, dear,” Pete assured Gulliver. “You won’t stand a chance of fooling me with your magic tricks, once we’re married.”

“I’ll bet it’ll be tough,” grinned Gull. “But I’ll just have to make adjustments.”

They were adjusting to being in one another’s arms when Spook Davis trotted up. Spook’s arms were filled with rifles and revolvers.

“What on earth!” Gulliver exploded. “What happened to your phobia?”

“I’ve decided to start collecting ’em!” Spook grinned wisely. “You know when Cass poked his rifle in my tummy and pulled the trigger and a miracle happened and—”

Gulliver corrected the miracle impression. “Doc Savage had unloaded the rifle previously. Took it behind a rock and removed the cartridges before leaving it for Braggs to find.”

“Well, it didn’t go off,” Spook amended. “But boy, I went through the motions of dying anyway.” He tossed his guns into the rented seaplane. “When it didn’t go off,” he added, “I decided guns were my friends.”

Gull looked to Pete.

“You better go get the rest of your guns,” he suggested to Spook.

Gulliver embraced Pete again. She returned this gesture warmly.

Spook began to retreat, but hesitated just before he vanished.

“Engaged yet?”

“Who said anything about—? Mind your own magic,” growled Gull.

“Saint Pete ain’t the only mind reader on this island,” Spook reminded knowingly.

Not long after, the chief special agent was reminding Gulliver that all that had transpired on Rat Island was to remain a secret, not to be divulged or repeated. And certainly not something fit for newspaper copy.

“Doc Savage has vouched for you,” said the federal man. “That’s good enough for me.”

Gulliver asked, “What country is Cass doing espionage for?”

The federal agent looked at Gull. “We’re in a peculiar position about that,” he said.

“How come?”

“This country is not at war.”

“Of course not.”

“It’s getting to be a custom for nations to conduct espionage on each other during times of peace,” the other advised.

“Not this country.”

“Don’t fool yourself— Well, we won’t go into that.”  The agent shrugged his shoulders. “Here’s the point. To avoid friction, there’s sort of an unwritten agreement between nations to mention no names in a matter like this. Once in a while, the dope slips out. Take those Japanese spy cases we’ve had during the last year. Newspapers happened to get hold of them. They caused a lot of international embarrassment, when, if the truth were known, nations besides Japan were doing just as much espionage over here.”

Gull frowned, “What are you getting at?”

“We have a clear idea of who employed Ivan Cass,” the agent replied. “Their tri-motor gives it away. I’m going to tell you. But you are not to repeat this. It wouldn’t do any good. Cass’ surviving men will be tried and executed for their killings. But there will be no international repercussions. It’s not good for peace.”

“I see,” Gull said.

“Promise to keep it under your hat?”

“Yeah—reluctantly.”

“You must never repeat this name in this connection,” the agent cautioned.

The federal gave the name.

Gull swallowed. He rubbed at his jaw. He shrugged. “You read about such stuff as this in the newspapers,” he remarked dully.

A year or so ago, Gull suddenly recalled, they had tried some fellow for selling U.S. military secrets, and he had followed the accounts as printed. However, he had read the stories with the same impartial feeling that digested the revolution in Spain, or a Soviet purge. It hadn’t seemed very close to home. That made it hard to credit what he was hearing now. Gulliver was floored. But then international finagling always surprised him, and often seemed quite foolish. This seemed foolish now. But he decided to drop the subject forever.

A LITTLE while later, as Doc Savage was loading up his plane to depart, Gulliver approached him.

“What’s going to happen to Columbus?”

“Do not worry about him,” advised Doc Savage. “He is going back where he came from.”

“I guess he and Pete are in there saying their goodbyes now. Say, that bunk about him being the real Christopher Columbus—”

“Bunk,” said Doc, “sounds like a fair description of it, don’t you agree?”

Gulliver nodded. He scrutinized the bronze giant with undisguised admiration. “I feel as if I know you, somehow,” he began awkwardly.

The bronze man regarded him without much expression.

“You would remember if we had met, would you not?” Doc asked.

“Well, sure. Sure I would. That’s not what I meant to say.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, I’ve been an admirer of yours for a long time. In fact, it’s because of you that my hair turned white. You see, I’m a magician, strictly professional, you understand, and as part of my act I used to impersonate you, doing a strongman routine.”

Doc Savage looked interested. “Why did you stop?”

Gull patted his unruly mop of hair. “I was smearing this infernal theatrical bronze greasepaint on my body, so that I shone like a man of bronze under the spotlights, but the stuff caused a reaction, and turned my hair white. So I had to stop.”

“Regrettable,” commented Doc.

“For a while I kinda blamed you,” Gull muttered vaguely. “You know, I just can’t shake the feeling that we met somewhere along the way. But ever since that auto accident a few years back, my memory’s been pretty punk.”

“You were in an automobile accident?”

“That’s right. Me and my stooge, Spook. We woke up in the same hospital room together, as a matter of fact. The doctors told us we piled into a tree and were lucky to be alive. They fixed us up good, helped us to remember who we were, and got us started in life all over again. Never charged us a dime, either.”

“There are many excellent charity hospitals doing good work,” the bronze man reminded.

Gull was rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “One thing that still bothers me: What about that midget with the bullfrog vocal cords? I noticed that you did not turn him over to the federal men.”

“Better not to mention him, either.”

“I never did catch his name….”

“Forget that you ever saw him,” asserted Doc, “and his name won’t matter to you.”

“But—”

At that point, Petella van Astor came out of the aircraft and laid a calming hand on Gulliver’s agitated arm.

“What Mr. Savage is trying to say,” she soothed, “is that the matter is in good hands.”

“If you say so, honey,” said Gull, scratching his ivory locks.

Doc Savage addressed Petella van Astor. “What can you reveal about the cell of spies which had infiltrated your group?”

“Some of the Silent Saints—and certain of Cass’ men—have an uncanny ability to tell exactly what a person is thinking,” Pete supplied calmly. “As you now know, I can do it to a certain extent—as nearly the real thing as there is.”

“Not all of Cass’ men are genuine telepaths?” queried Doc.

“I do not know whether all of it is mind-reading, or also good character judging and guesswork,” she admitted. “Some are ex-fortunetellers, mediums, and so on.”

“Experts at getting information out of other people—whether they are genuine mind-readers or not, eh?”

Pete nodded. “Yes.”

“They probably made swell spies,” grunted Gulliver.

“They worked for whatever country paid them,” supplied Pete. “They have traveled all over the world, gathering military information, committing political assassinations—everything terrible that such an organization might do.”

“Sounds like they should have called themselves Trouble, International,” Gulliver remarked. “They probably had plenty of work, with things as they are in Europe now.”

Changing the subject, Doc Savage asked him, “Are you still interested in that engagement in New York—the one you declined?”

Gull brightened. “I’m getting married, so it would be a big boost.”

“It happens that the manager involved is an acquaintance of mine. This can be resolved, but at your old salary.”

“My old salary sounds great!” Gulliver enthused. “Thanks!”

“It will be arranged upon my return to New York,” promised the bronze man.

They shook hands, and Doc Savage climbed into his plane and closed the cabin door.

Gulliver and Pete stepped back as the propellers began turning over.

“Strange,” said Gull, plucking at his bruised lower lip.

“What is?”

“Everything. But it’s like I know him, even though we’ve never met.”

Pete gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “He is the greatest man who ever lived, and that is all you need to know.”

“I’m going to miss old Columbus,” mused Gulliver.

“That, too, is something we had better forget,” said Saint Pete, squeezing his arm again.

They watched the Doc Savage plane depart. It pushed off the island and began scooting along Lake Superior’s wind-rippled surface.

Gulliver Greene suddenly had a thought.

“Heck, how did he know about that?”

Petella looked at him with melting azure eyes.

“About your New York connection?”

“Yeah, how— Hey, how did
you
know? I never mentioned it to you, either!”

“Telepathy.”

“Is that like mind-reading?”

“Exactly like it.”

“Guess I’m going to have to take your word for it from now on. But that doesn’t explain how Doc Savage knew about it. Think he’s a mind-reader, too?”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” said the soon-to-be Mrs. Gulliver Greene. And suddenly she laughed merrily.

“What’s so funny?” Gull demanded.

“Your hair. I was just thinking—what if our future children are born with white hair?”

At that ridiculous thought, Gulliver Greene began laughing, too.

As the Doc Savage plane vaulted into the air, it banked, waggling a silvery wing in farewell.

They were too busy with one another to notice.

Chapter XLVI

MIRACLE BY SAVAGE

HOURS LATER, DOC SAVAGE had landed at the emergency government airfield in Millard, Missouri and secured an automobile for the drive to the weird Victorian house in the woods that had lured them all to what was probably, if not definitely, the most bizarre adventure of their hectic careers.

They drove as close to the house as they could, got out, and proceeded on foot through the cool forest.

By this time, Monk Mayfair was feeling well enough to start ragging on Ham Brooks, who was still bereft of walking stick, and not liking it one whit.