Doc Savage - Devils Of The Deep Part 4

He raced downward, toward that faint pounding noise. And then he saw the bombs.

It seemed to Juan there were bombs everywhere. Actually there weren't so many, but they had been so placed that they would blow the vitals out of the s.h.i.+p, would sink it within seconds.

Juan tried to put out the fuse in the first bomb he encountered. He saw he couldn't do it. The fuse was inclosed in a metal tube. He had to have help.

Desperately, frantically, he raced toward the sound of the pounding. Now he could hear men shouting, screaming.

He reached a barred door. It was the steel door to the stockroom. A huge iron rod locked the door from the outside. More than the rod was there now. Chains had been wrapped about it and padlocked.

And there were no keys.

Juan Lucke knew terror then, knew despite his youth that there was no hope for those men behind the door, and probably little for himself.

But he tried. He threw his tiny strength against the rod and chains and padlocks. He added his screams to those of the men inside.

It was one of those men who saved him, a hero never identified. The man recognized Juan's voice, understood what was happening.

"Run, nino! Run, lad!" the man shouted. "We are gone. Save yourself!"

Juan ran. He grabbed a life preserver just before he leaped overside to swim wildly from the doomed S.

S. Bellina.

Then the world came to an end in a series of terrific blasts. When Juan recovered consciousness he found that the life preserver had saved him.

But the S. S. Bellina and the submarine were gone.

Juan was picked up next morning by a big cruise liner en route to Havana. His terror-stricken story was flashed to New York in time to make the early editions of the afternoon newspapers.

That story created an international sensation.

Chapter VI. ANOTHER PAYS.

MONK was first to reach Doc's office with a newspaper telling of the Bellina's sinking. The headlines read:SUB SINKS ARGENTINA BOAT IN U.S. WATERS.

KILLING NEUTRAL CREW.

"We didn't find action in New Orleans, but daggonit we oughtta do somethin' about this!" the hairy chemist howled.

"It could mean war," Long Tom rapped excitedly.

Ham grabbed the paper from Monk's hands, scanned the story beneath the headlines swiftly.

"Yes, but who with?" he asked logically. "The sole survivor was a cabin boy. He saw a submarine, but he saw no markings to indicate its nationality."

"What difference does that make? We can go find out, can't we?" Monk bellowed.

A low, trilling sound filled the office suddenly. It was a peculiar sound, vibrant and carrying, yet seemingly coming from everywhere, not one particular spot.

It was a sound Doc Savage made unconsciously when he was surprised.

The bronze man's three aids spun, startled. Doc had appeared from an inner room, but so silently had he moved that none of the three had heard him.

Without a word, Ham handed the paper to Doc. The bronze man's gold-flecked eyes whirled strangely as he read of the terror that had struck so close to the sh.o.r.es of the United States.

"Dang it, Doc!" Monk burst out. "This is really somethin' we should get busy on. That sea-serpent thing was a bust-"

"Yes, we could find nothing in New Orleans. The story must have been a hoax," Ham put in.

"For the first time, Monk and Ham agree on something, and I'm forced to admit I concur," Long Tom added maliciously.

Doc said nothing for the moment. Then he turned to Monk. "I am not so sure," he said gravely. "Let me see that picture that was sent us from New Orleans."

Monk's face turned crimson. Even his ears got red. Ham snickered outright, and even Long Tom had difficulty in keeping his features straight.

The homely chemist pulled out the picture, handed it to Doc. The bronze man produced a magnifying gla.s.s, held it so the others could see the enlarged image it made.

"You will notice," he explained, "that there are several tentaclelike objects in the foreground. Close examination I believe will prove those 'tentacles' really are cables of some kind. But behind them, almost hidden, is another object. Look closely."

Ham leaned forward excitedly. "It- Blamed if it doesn't look something like the conning tower of a submarine!" he blurted.

"Yes," Doc Savage agreed. "That is what I thought when I first saw the picture."HIS aids looked at each other quickly. They were accustomed to having surprises pulled out of the hat, but they hadn't expected this one.

Monk was the first to see the answer. "Dang!" he howled. "That pilot. The one that fell against me."

Comprehension dawned on the others. The grimy-faced pilot who had taken them to New Orleans had been Doc Savage.

The bronze man was a master at disguise, but even so he occasionally put over one that his closest friends could hardly credit.

"I agreed with you Monk that the 'sea-serpent' story needed investigating," the bronze man was explaining. "But there was nothing to indicate that it might prove as serious as this. However, although you did not seem to want me, I decided to go along."

For one of the few times in his life, Monk felt humble. Then he brightened. At least, no matter what happened, Doc had been along. And that was something.

Then he thought of something else. "But that stop in Was.h.i.+ngton-"

"I had not seen the picture then," Doc reminded. "However, I knew the navy often experiments with new inventions secretly. I thought it best to check with high officials so that we would not go blundering in where we did not belong."

"But this picture-" Long Tom began.

"Look," Doc said simply.

The bronze man turned the picture over. The back apparently was blank. Doc produced a pair of colored gla.s.ses, handed them to Long Tom.

A howl came from the electrical expert. The gla.s.ses had been especially made. They brought out secret writing that ordinarily could be read only under infraray light.

"There's a message here," Long Tom shouted. "It says: 'I am at the Kirkland. If I am gone, check on Gadberry.'"

Ham's jaw dropped. "Gadberry. That was the inventor who was killed just before we got to New Orleans."

"Exactly," Doc agreed.

It is doubtful if anyone could look more crestfallen than Monk. Monk was a chemist, and a good one.

And he had failed to detect the secret message.

Ham and Long Tom were shouting questions.

Doc explained briefly. He told of his investigations in the guise of Jack Warren, and of his visit to Hahln's rooms at the Kirkland. His instructions to his aids over the phone had been transmitted by a phonographic device.

"But who is Hahln?" Ham asked.

"A spy," Doc said flatly. "I found traces in his washbasin of a secret-ink chemical used only by one country."His aids didn't ask how Doc knew that. Doc had been to Was.h.i.+ngton and to Central America on an undercover mission for the government. And among his many abilities was that of being among the best "black-chamber" experts in the world.

Monk's big shoulders lifted and fell. His homely features were still crestfallen, but he was beginning to see a light.

"Was it Hahln that killed Gadberry?" he asked.

"At least we are safe in a.s.suming that murder, the sea-serpent story and the attack on the Bellina are related," Doc answered quietly.

DOC wasn't alone in that opinion. One of those who shared it with him knew it to be more than a theory.

He knew it to be a fact.

He was a distinguished-appearing man. He wore a small black goatee. His dignified clothes of black bore the label of an expensive tailor.

But not many nights before he had been one of three men in the bow of a cabin cruiser. He had worn a slicker then. He had joined in using a rod and reel. And it had been he who had caught the huge "tin fish."

Now he was slipping down a busy New York street. The street was crowded, but Turner Vineland's actions were furtive. And his eyes showed fear.

Occasionally he darted a quick glance over his shoulder, trying to determine if he was being followed.

One hand clutched the b.u.t.t of a small gun in his pocket.

In his other pocket was a newspaper. It was one of those whose headlines screamed of the "Bellina Outrage." It was because of those headlines that Turner Vineland was on his way to see Doc Savage.

Because of that, and because Vineland feared death!

Only a few days before there had been three of them. Now there were only two. Gadberry was gone.

And that mysterious voice over the telephone only a few minutes before had told Vineland he was to be next.

Vineland hadn't stopped to figure that the threat might have been designed to draw him out into the open, put him where he could be killed.

He knew only that he couldn't go to the police. He knew of only one other place to turn. That was to the bronze man.

Vineland was rapidly nearing the towering skysc.r.a.per where Doc had his office. His pulse slackened its pounding; he began to breathe easier.

If he could only reach the bronze man, tell him what he knew, then Doc, if anyone, could stop what yet was to come.

Behind him, scarcely half a block away, a delivery truck was moving along slowly. The truck was loaded with sc.r.a.p iron. The iron made a great deal of noise as the truck bounced along.

Vineland had noticed the truck, but that wasn't what he was watching for. He was expecting the killer, if there was one, to come from the crowds around him.His pace increased as his goal neared. And behind him, the truck loaded with sc.r.a.p iron also speeded up. The driver spoke briefly over his shoulder.

"You were right, boss. He's headed for Doc Savage."

The man hidden in the inclosed part of the truck nodded. He was a tall man with a square face and ramrod back. He brought out a gun, peered through two holes cut in the body of the truck.

It was then the sc.r.a.p iron clattered particularly loud. The sound drowned out almost completely the sharp bark of the gun.

VINELAND went down. He felt as though he had been kicked by a mule. He had heard no shot. It was seconds before he knew what had happened to him.

A curious crowd had formed about him. Someone was helping him to his feet. Others were asking what had happened to him.

A dark splotch started to form on the side of his coat. Vineland's hand covered it. He knew he was dying. But he knew, too, that he had to go on.

"D-doc S-savage," he gasped weakly.

Those about him thought he was either drunk or had suffered a heart attack. But all had heard of the bronze man. Willing hands sped him forward. He found himself in a high-speed elevator, being shot rapidly upward.

The elevator starter had put Vineland in Doc's private car. Then he had pressed the b.u.t.ton that signaled those above that a visitor was on the way.

Doc and his aids heard the elevator arrive. They waited for a few moments, but no one came to the door.

Instead, there vas a faint, crawling sound.

All leaped for the corridor. The bronze man did not seem to move fast, but he was far in the lead when they reached the door.

For a second time that day Doc's low, compelling, trilling sound filled the air. The bronze man leaned down.

Vineland's eyes were glazed, but he still was trying to crawl ahead.

"S-stevens," he gasped. "S-see Stevens. H-he knows-" The voice ceased.

Turner Vineland was dead.

Chapter VII. HOW ONE HUNDRED DIED.