Doc Savage - Devils Of The Deep Part 1

DEVILS OF THE DEEP.

A Doc Savage Adventure.

By Kenneth Robeson.

Chapter I. A NEW FISH YARN.

DOC SAVAGE missed the start of it by only ten minutes. In fact, he was flying back from Central America at the time, and went right over the place where the "sea serpent" first appeared. But he was too early by just those few ticks of the clock.

That was the first bad break.

Doc did notice a party of fishermen as he swept up over the Gulf of Mexico headed toward New Orleans on his fast flight northward. But there was nothing unusual about the fishermen-then, that is.

There was nothing to warn him of the drama about to occur.

Those on the fis.h.i.+ng boat craned their heads upward as Doc's golden-colored s.h.i.+p flashed overhead.

There were ten on the boat besides the captain and his helper. Most of them were visitors from the North.

The captain shot a stream of tobacco juice carefully to leeward before he leaned back his weather-beaten face. Then interest flickered in his wintry eyes.

"That's Doc Savage's s.h.i.+p," he announced. "Saw it when he come through here two weeks ago headed south." Excited exclamations came from others on the boat. From all, rather, except one man. He was a tall man with a square face and ramrod back. He seldom spoke, but when he did his companions had noticed he seemed to have a faint accent, although he used perfect English.

The tall man had taken only one quick glance above him, then he had turned back to watch his line. At the sudden buzz of comment he looked up, puzzled.

"Who's Doc Savage?" he asked harshly.

The captain's jaw dropped. He didn't think there was anyone who hadn't heard of Doc Savage. He gave the tall man a hard glance.

"Doc Savage is one of the greatest men in the world," the captain said flatly.

The tall man looked mildly amused. "So?" he queried politely.

The captain opened his mouth to answer. He didn't get the chance. It seemed that every other man on the boat had the same idea. They all started to talk at once. They all talked about Doc Savage.

Doc Savage, it seemed, was a man who spent his life fighting evil. He had defeated many bands of desperate criminals and had had many thrilling adventures. In addition, he was a famous scientist and surgeon.

"He's been trained since he was a boy for the job he does," one of the fishermen explained earnestly.

"Every day he goes through a series of physical and mental exercises to keep fit."

"If I ever got into a jam, no matter how bad, and it seemed like no one in the world could help me, he's the guy I'd go see," another added solemnly.

The tall man shrugged, his restless eyes straying constantly toward the water. He apparently had lost interest in the subject.

The captain regarded him narrowly. There was something about the tall man that didn't ring quite true.

He'd been going out with fis.h.i.+ng parties every day for the last two weeks, but he didn't seem particularly interested in fis.h.i.+ng. Most of the time he just stood by the rail and watched the water. Hahln, he called himself. A peculiar name and a peculiar man.

Anyone, the captain thought savagely, was peculiar who hadn't heard of Doc and wasn't interested in him.

That was when the sea erupted under them. The captain forgot all about Hahln. He even forgot about Doc Savage.

ACTUALLY, the fishermen decided later, the gigantic marine eruption that occurred wasn't directly under them. They wouldn't have survived if it had been. But it was far too close for comfort.

That was the only thing any of the twelve aboard the boat did agree upon.

A startled scream from the man at the helm gave the first warning. The fis.h.i.+ng boat shook violently as its engine was thrown suddenly into reverse.

Then the water ahead of them was whipped into foam. What seemed to be huge, long tentacles flashed up from the depths only to whip down again instantly.

Eleven of the twelve men were screaming, eyes popping in terror. Even the weather-beaten features ofthe captain were panic-stricken.

The twelfth man was Hahln. He alone was silent-but he was far from inactive.

Hahln had been standing almost at the stern of the fis.h.i.+ng boat. The attention of the others was centered on what was going on ahead of them. No one was looking at Hahln.

Thus it was that no one saw him whip the camera from his pocket, focus it on the strange, terrifying scene.

The camera was an expensive one. It took pictures almost as rapidly as if it had been designed for movies.

A surprised, almost incredulous look was on Hahln's square face. He pressed his finger on a b.u.t.ton and the camera went to work.

The sea was even more disturbed than before. There was a faint, rumbling sound also, barely discernible above the roar of the boat's engine. A huge object seemed almost to be jumping up and down not far below the surface of the water. It sent big waves cras.h.i.+ng against the fis.h.i.+ng boat.

The captain had stopped yelling long enough to grab the helm himself. He spun the boat around, and it was almost capsized when a wave caught it broadside. Then it righted itself, started racing toward sh.o.r.e.

Behind them, the water was quieting, but no one cared to suggest that they go back and investigate. All had the same idea. They wanted to get away from there, and they wanted to get away fast.

"It was a giant octopus battling a whale!" one of the fishermen yelled excitedly.

"That was no octopus," shouted a red-faced lawyer from Philadelphia. "That was a sea serpent! And it was headed right for us!"

The argument went on from there.

Opinion was divided almost equally between the sea serpent and the octopus theories. Those who favored the latter story cited the tentaclelike appendages that had threshed out of the water. The sea-serpent adherents insisted those had merely been arched loops of a big snake's back.

Hahln alone took no part in the arguments. His camera had disappeared, but his big hands worked nervously. His square features were taut, and his eyes bore a worried, anxious look.

When the fis.h.i.+ng boat reached its pier at New Orleans, he slipped over the side and hurried away.

HAHLN was the only one who did get away immediately. The captain saw to that. The captain had been doing a lot of thinking on the way back. He'd decided that this story, properly exploited, ought to get him a lot of business.

As soon as the boat was moored he herded his party of fishermen into a small office on the pier and called the newspapers.

At first he had difficulty getting anyone even to listen to him. Then he put a New York banker on the phone. The banker's name was enough to make news alone. That got action. Newspapermen and photographers swarmed to the pier.

The stories that appeared were frankly humorous despite the banker's solemn protestations of truthfulness. One started:SEA SERPENT-OR WAS IT AN OCTOPUS?-SEEN IN GULF.

A party of fishermen aboard the Conga returned from the Gulf today to tell a thrilling story of seeing a giant sea serpent-or perhaps it was an even bigger octopus-battling a whale. The sea serpent-or octopus-almost got the Conga as well when it stirred up such a rumpus that it created waves ten-or perhaps twenty-feet high.

Captain Teold of the Conga, who swears his pa.s.sengers drank nothing but water on their trip, bore out their story and added some details of his own. He said- One newspaper even hired a plane and took Captain Teold along to point out the exact spot where the sea battle was supposed to have taken place. Later it printed a picture of a placid section of water.

Nothing was to be seen, not even from the air. But that wasn't surprising, Teold pointed out, even if the sea serpent or octopus, or whatever it was, still was about. The water was deep in that particular place.

Teold wasn't taken seriously. The newspapers called it the best fish story of the year.

Teold didn't mind. He found that a lot of people wanted to go out and look at the scene of the battle just the same. His boat did a rus.h.i.+ng business, even though none of the curious saw any more than was shown in the newspaper picture.

There was one set of pictures, however, that would have created a real sensation had they been seen.

They were the pictures the tall man Hahln had taken. But the newspapers never saw those.

Hahln developed the films himself. He had a suite of rooms in the Kirkland Hotel and had fitted up the bathroom so he could use it as a darkroom. The hotel management thought he was an amateur photographer, evidently with a private income, since he never seemed to work. He also was known to tinker with radio some, but nothing much was thought of that. Lots of people did the same.

Perspiration was on the tall man's square face as he took the film from the fixing solution, rinsed it briefly, then held it up before a light. After that his eyes became stony and his lips set in a tight line.

When the film was dry, he made an enlargement of one of the pictures and studied it closely. Once he shook his head unbelievingly, but he could not dispute the evidence before him.

He put the picture aside and went to his radio set. The radio was his own property, not the one furnished by the hotel. He unlocked the cabinet and took out a pair of earphones and a small microphone.

When he spoke, it was in a foreign language. He talked at some length and the tone of his voice showed he was apologizing for something. After that, he listened. A voice crackled harshly in his ears.

Hahln's fingers were trembling as he removed the earphones. He looked like a man who had just been sentenced to death. He sat for a long time without moving.

IT was almost dusk when Hahln stirred again. He cleaned up the bathroom, emptying chemicals from many bottles. Then he went through papers he had locked in a suitcase. A great many of these he burned, making a small fire in the bathtub.

His clothes came next. Carefully he went over each suit he had, destroying tailors' labels and laundry marks. His face was a frozen mask.

When everything else was done, he turned to the radio. For long moments he looked at it. Once itseemed he was going to don the earphones again. Then he changed his mind. He got a heavy boot and smashed the tubes and inner works until not even an expert could have re-a.s.sembled the set or could have told it could send as well as receive. After that he paced the floor, ten steps forward, a right-about-face and back again. His back was still ramrod stiff, but his eyes showed pain.

His mind flashed back to the events of the day. Once again he could see "tentacles" las.h.i.+ng the water, could hear the screams of frightened men.

It had all come so suddenly. Just a few minutes before a plane had pa.s.sed overhead, a plane piloted by a Doc Savage- Hahln halted abruptly. A strange expression flashed over his square features. Then he leaped forward, grabbed the picture he had printed, studied it once again. His lips split in a thin smile.

Ten minutes later he left the hotel. The night clerk nodded to him casually. Hahln smiled pleasantly.

At the corner he stopped. He took a big envelope from his pocket, dropped it into the mailbox.

The envelope was addressed to Doc Savage.

Chapter II. MONK PULLS A b.o.n.e.r.

THE envelope was delivered to Doc Savage's office on the eighty-sixth floor of one of New York City's tallest skysc.r.a.pers, the following afternoon. There was only one thing wrong about that. Doc wasn't there at the time.

That was the second bad break.

The envelope was received by a man who looked like an ape's first cousin. Or possibly a brother. He was heavy-set, with big shoulders, and long arms that reached below his knees. His fists were hairy, and his face was so homely that it usually won grins of sympathy. Tiny eyes were set in pits of gristle. His big nose had been flattened; his ears looked mournful.

It was easy to understand why Andrew Blodgett Mayfair was known as Monk.

Ordinarily, Monk had a most cheerful disposition. But he wasn't cheerful now. He felt abused.

Doc had just returned from two weeks where the weather was hot. It was cold in New York, and Monk had wanted to go along. Doc had thought otherwise. He was going on a confidential mission for the government. So Monk had stayed in New York.

Monk was one of Doc Savage's five aids. A famous chemist, he could have made a fortune in the business world. But he preferred adventure. And he was loyal to Doc. The only trouble was, he didn't know the importance of the envelope that came in the afternoon mail.

The mail came direct to Doc's office from the main post office by pneumatic tube. That was because Doc daily got such a huge volume of mail.

When this batch arrived, Monk glanced at it with distaste. For two weeks he had been doing nothing but receive and inspect mail. He was tired of it. There had been lots of letters-a majority asking money-but nothing at all that had held any promise of action.

Now he wearily took his feet off the desk and got up. He started toward the mail. Then he stopped. A sly grin crossed his homely features. He gave a low call.A pig waddled out from under the desk. At least it might have been called a pig. It had a razor back, a long snout and big ears. It also had a pair of unusually intelligent eyes.

"Habeas," Monk said solemnly, "the time has come to see whether you're any danged good."

The hairy chemist moved swiftly. He produced a small silk hat, jammed it on the pig's head. Then he gave a command. Obediently, Habeas Corpus reared up on his hind legs. Monk stuck a small cane under one of the pig's front legs.

Habeas strutted across the room. He was still strutting when the door opened.

The man who came in seemed to strut just like the pig. He wore a silk hat. He carried a cane under one arm.

MONK doubled over with explosive laughter. The newcomer halted, face frozen. But only for a moment. Then he dived forward, arms swinging.

"Blast you, Monk, you offspring of the missing link!" he yelled furiously. "Teaching Habeas to imitate me is the last straw."

Monk scuttled about the room, trying to evade the other's onslaught and laugh at the same time. "B-but daggonit, Ham!" he managed at last. "He does look like yuh."

Ham, otherwise Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard's fas.h.i.+on-plate gift to the world, grabbed the silk hat off Habeas' head, slammed it to the floor angrily.

"At that, Habeas did look something like Ham," a new voice put in dolefully.

Ham whirled, glared at the thin, sallow-complexioned man who had followed him into the room. "Et tu, Long Tom," he rasped.

Long Tom, the electrical wizard of Doc Savage's band, grinned broadly. Known to scientists as Major Thomas J. Roberts, Long Tom appeared a physical weakling. He was not very tall, his skin had an unhealthy tint-but those who had tangled with him in the past knew that appearances were deceiving.

"Imagine a lawyer knowing two words of Latin," he gibed gently.