Doc Savage - Mystery On Happy Bones Part 9

Doc asked, "Why do you think they are stealing your planes?""It is the work of that wench, Hannah!" Stony Smith yelled. "My kingdom against a . . . a . . . a snap of the fingers that it is!"

The statement about a kingdom was ridiculous enough to make Johnny Littlejohn, who was not easily moved by humor, grin slightly.

"Can you prove Hannah is behind this?" Doc asked.

"Why, anybody who knows vixen would know-" He stopped, was silent, chewed a lip, and shrugged.

"I sooth, I cannot prove a thing," he said. "But when one's chickens are coming up missing and there is a hawk flying around-" He shrugged again.

Johnny asked him curiously, "What put you down so on the girl?"

"All over the Caribbean," said Stony Smith, "she is known as the descendent of those pirate Hannahs, and as testy a Hannah as there has been."

"Just why," Johnny asked, "do you need two seaplanes?"

Stony Smith blinked at them. "My sh.e.l.l business, naturally. It is cheaper to transport my sh.e.l.ls by air."

"What kind of sh.e.l.ls?"

"Sea sh.e.l.ls, I have told you."

"Sea sh.e.l.ls don't usually make up airplane cargoes."

"They are carved sh.e.l.ls. You will understand when I show them to you." Stony Smith eyed them grimly.

"You understand, of course, that I am going with you in pursuit of those planes."

Johnny expected Doc to put his foot down and veto that immediately. But the bronze man made no objections.

"They are my planes," Stony Smith said. "I am going to help get them back-and get at the bottom of the mystery."

"One question we would like to ask you," Doc said.

"Verily, ask it."

"What do you know about a green parrot and its nest?"

Stony Smith blinked at them.

"If there be such a thing, I know nothing of it," he said. "But I will say, i'faith, that it sounds about as sensible as a fish in a tree."

DOC SAVAGE'S private plane, in which they took off for the pursuit of the two seaplanes, was an experimental amphibian design. Doc had developed the craft as part of his work in the war effort.

It was Doc's private feeling that designing planes and other fighting gadgets was not the way he should be in the war. He liked action too well to be satisfied with that. But his numerous attempts to get in the shooting war had not been successful. He did not understand the War Department's insistence that heshould confine himself to special jobs-of which this might possibly be one. The War Department, on the other hand, professed to not understand why Doc thought he was not seeing enough action. They contended he should be satisfied.

The amphibian plane was designed to be what few combination land-water planes were, a craft that had the speed to cope with Zero and Messerschmitt fighters. Because of the need for such s.h.i.+ps, the design already was in production. Doc was using the craft whenever possible, and using it as roughly as possible, in order to iron out bugs and add fine points as they occurred to him.

As soon as he was in the air, he contacted Renny Renwick by radio. They had a short-wave length which they normally used.

Doc spoke Mayan, and Renny replied in the same tongue. Mayan was the language they had learned on one of their earliest adventures, the language of the ancient Central American civilization of Maya, and they used it when they did not wish to be understood.

(This Mayan adventure was "The Man of Bronze," the first of the book-length Doc Savage novels, of which more than one hundred and twenty have now been published.) In Mayan, Renny said, "We are in the air now. Those men took off in the two seaplanes. Monk and Ham landed in their s.h.i.+p and picked me up."

"You are following the two seaplanes?"

"Yes."

"Where are they heading?"

"Straight out to sea, a little to the south," Renny explained. "That is, they took care to miss the defense area around Norfolk."

"Report again in an hour."

"O. K.".

"Beam the report," Doc said.

"Right," Renny agreed. "Where do you want it shot at?"

Doc consulted the Atlantic Coast chart. "At Georgetown, South Carolina," he said.

The business of beaming radio signals in any direction from a plane was another one of Doc's experimental projects. The directional transmission of radio signals was certainly not new, but effective directional transmission from a plane was something else. The device on which Doc was working, once he got it stabilized, would shoot a thin, pencillike beam in one direction only, greatly facilitating the matter of war planes conversing without the enemy overhearing.

Doc now put his plane in top speed. This was around four hundred miles an hour.

He exchanged the Atlantic Coast chart for a large-scale map of the Caribbean, one which included the Bahama Islands group north to and including Great Abaco, which was shaped somewhat like a deformed Scotty dog, and its detached pup, Little Abaco.

Stony Smith came and looked over Doc's shoulder."Why, faith, you're heading for Geography Cay," he said.

Then he frowned at Doc.

"Or would it be my island, Happy Bones, you chose for a destination?" he asked suspiciously.

"Neither just now." Doc put a finger on Little Abaco. "Here."

He did not give reasons. But, when they were a little south of Georgetown, South Carolina, and had picked up Renny's radio report that the planes they were trailing were heading south slightly east toward Little Abaco, Doc set an immediate course for the Abaco group.

THE following is a note from the West Indies Pilot, the "bible" of the Bahama Islands group: There are several channels between the cays. But as they are very intricate and foul, no directions can be given for them; the eye must be the guide.

Doc Savage put the plane down carefully, watching the water, which was so clear that it was deceptive.

He taxied toward a small knoll of white sand on which there were a few mangroves and lignum vitae, and one building, a long wooden structure.

"I fail to understand this," said Stony Smith. "Both Geography Cay and Happy Bones Island are still hundreds of miles to the south. Why land here?"

Doc Savage indicated the wooden building on the cay.

"Emergency gasoline store," he said.

Stony Smith shook his head. "I still fail to-"

"Those two seaplanes," Doc said, "do not carry enough fuel to make a non-stop flight from Was.h.i.+ngton to either Happy Bones Island or Geography Cay. But if they could stop here and refuel, they could make it."

"Oh, you mean they may buy gasoline-"

"Not buy gasoline," Doc corrected. "This is not an aerial filling station. The gasoline is here for use of the army, navy and the Civilian Air Patrol, in case of emergency. There is an observer stationed here with a radio outfit."

"If there is a radio here," said Stony Smith, "those fellows won't be showing up."

"They might plan to smash the radio and dispose of the observer."

Stony Smith thought it over. "Verily, it does not seem logical."

Doc made no comment. As a matter of fact, this was the only spot where the two seaplanes could get gasoline without trouble. If they could land and dispose of the attendant before he used the radio, the problem would be simply solved.

There was also the fact that this gasoline dump was well-known. It was no military secret, since it was just an emergency gasoline supply. There was both aviation gas and boat fuel, and civilian pilots with the necessary permission to fly the area were informed of the place, and it was shown on the airmen's chartsobtainable by any accredited flier.

The water was very flat. Doc beached the plane gently.

The attendant came down to meet them. He was a lanky, sunburned man wearing faded khaki shorts and canvas sneakers. He was not armed.

"Hi," he said. "I hope you guys have got some reading material you can donate. This place gets lonesome as h.e.l.l."

Doc told Johnny, "Take off. Fly west to Grand Bahama Island, pick a good place and land. Settlement Point should be a nice spot. Wait for Monk and Ham and Renny to show up in the other plane, then join them and help them trail the two seaplanes south. Or, if something goes wrong, pick me up. I will have a portable radio."

Johnny looked startled. But he did' not ask questions.

Chapter VIII. h.e.l.l ALOFT.

THE attendant in charge of the gasoline dump on the little cay looked on as Doc shoved the plane off the beach. Johnny gunned the craft around, then took it into the air, and the s.h.i.+p went off into the west like a noisy missile.

The attendant did not act suspicious.

But suddenly he stubbed his toe and did a good job of pretending to fall. He came erect holding a submachine gun which had been covered with paper and a sprinkling of sand.

"Neighbor, this don't look right to me," he said.

Doc Savage said, "In my hip pocket are some credentials that will show who I am. Do you want to get them, or shall I?"

The attendant watched him closely. "Go ahead," he said.

The doc.u.ment was official enough to convince the man. "O. K., Mr. Savage," he said. "I've got a brother in the navy, and he told me about hearing you lecture on aerial fighting tactics. What goes on?"

"A man named Major Lowell, who has an important post in the war effort, has been kidnaped," Doc said. "The kidnapers are in two seaplanes heading in this direction. They will be badly in need of fuel about the time they get here. It is possible they will land and get gasoline by force."

"Force, eh?" The attendant grinned with no humor. "I got some force myself. I been itching for some action."

"On the contrary," Doc told him, "the two seaplanes will be permitted to refuel."

"Yeah? Well, you could have just told me that. I can follow orders."

"I want to get aboard one of the planes," Doc said.

"They'll think you're a friend, you mean?"

"No.""Then," said the attendant, "you must mean you plan to get aboard without them knowing."

"That is the idea."

The other shook his head. "Some idea!" The attendant waved at the cay. "You can stand anywhere on this island and see a gra.s.shopper jump anywhere else on it, if there was a gra.s.shopper. Makes your job a little tough, doesn't it?"

"Possibly not, if you co-operate."

"Felix is my middle name," the attendant said. "That is an old Hibernian word meaning co-operate."

THE two seaplanes appeared about three hours later. They came in from the west, having circled out in that direction to approach the island without attracting as much suspicion. The Florida coast lay to the west.

Flying in close formation that gave them the manner of naval s.h.i.+ps, they did not circle, but came down in long glides and landed, the hull's knocking up spray. They nosed into the slight breeze with very little momentum, and planted the float keels on the beach.

They cut the motors.

Hull hatches were thrown back, and men stood looking at the wooden building which was the only structure on the cay.

"Ahoy the building!" one of the men bellowed. "Is this the gasoline dump?"

The attendant appeared around the corner of the shack. He still wore his khaki shorts and sneakers, nothing else.

The breeze, what there was of it, blew from him to the plane, and carried his words.

"That's right," he called. "Who are you guys?"

"Have you got any aviation gas?"

"Sure."

"All right, we want to refuel. Our tanks are empty."