Doc Savage - The Monsters Part 2

"Detective!" laughed Caldwell. "Doc Savage is not a detective."

Carl MacBride's jaw fell. He was shocked. The article in the magazine was all he knew of Doc Savage.

He had judged Doc Savage to be a detective, for the story was one telling how Doc and a group of five a.s.sistants had ferreted out a gang of villains seeking to seize the nitrate industry of the South American country of Chile.

Believing Doc Savage to be a detective, MacBride was now on his way to ask him to investigate the death of Bruno Hen.

"Not a detective!" he gulped.

"Not exactly," smiled Caldwell. "He is more in the nature of what you would call a trouble-buster. He goes to the far corners of the earth, metes out justice to evildoers, and helps those in trouble."

Carl MacBride breathed a little bit easier. Doc Savage might be interested in Bruno Hen's death, after all.

"What do you know about Doc Savage?" MacBride asked. "This magazine story didn't tell very much."

"No one seems to know a great deal about Doc Savage," replied Caldwell. "It is general knowledge, however, that he is a man who has been trained from the cradle for his present purpose in life. The training was done scientifically by his father, who is now dead. As a result, Doc Savage is almost a superman, both in physical capabilities and in mentality."

"How do you mean -- physical capabilities and mentality?" Carl MacBride asked vaguely, befuddled by the -- to him -- high-sounding phraseology.

"They say that Doc Savage has developed his muscles until he is the strongest man ever to live," Caidweil explained. "He has also studied intensively in every branch of science. He has become a mental marvel.

In other words, he knows about everything."

The plane dipped sharply.

Caldwell looked over the side. "We're nearing New York City." Carl MacBride showed little interest in New York City, although he had never seen that impressive metropolis before. "What else do you know about Doc Savage?" he asked eagerly.

"Well, not much more," Caldwell rejoined amiably. "Doc Savage has five men who help him. Each one of these is a world-famous expert in some line. One, according to what I've heard, is a chemist, another a lawyer, and a third is an electrical expert of ability. Of the other two, one is an engineer and the other a geologist."

"Sounds like some crew!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the big woodsman.

CaIdwell eyed Carl MacBride. "You seem rather interested in Doc Savage?"

"I am," MacBride grinned. "I'm on my way to see him." Caldwell looked properly impressed at this, his brows rising in astonishment.

"Imagine!" be e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "Say, that is the most interesting thing I've beard in a long time."

Carl MacBride expanded before the flattering tones. He wanted to talk about the strange demise of Bruno Hen, anyway. He proceeded to do so.

He told the story in detail. Drawing a newspaper from his pocket, he exhibited it.

"I cut that from the Trapper Lake CIarion, as you can see by the name at the top of the sheet," he explained.

CaIdwell read the clipping.

"It says here that a peculiar tornado dipped down and demolished Bruno Hen's cabin, killing the breed,"

he remarked.

"That newspaper feller done some tall guessin'," MacBride said confidentially. "My cabin ain't very far away from the breed's place. There weren't no daggone tornado. I'd have heard it. Anyway, the sky was as clear as crystal."

Caldwell returned the clipping. "And You are going to New York to get Doc Savage to investigate?"

"That's right. Bruno Hen gave me the money to do it. It's only fair that I should live up to the promise I made him."

"Quite true," Caldwell agreed; then broke off to watch a young woman who came down the aisle from the washroom.

Carl MacBride also eyed the girl. She was a striking vision. She had hair the exact hue of steel. Her traveling costume, while neat, was somewhat worn. MacBride's contact with pretty girls had been largely from their pictured faces in magazines. This young woman was as entrancing as any photo he could recall having seen.

The girl pa.s.sed the two men without a glance. Her eyes were a steel color that about matched her hair.

She took a seat forward.

A battered traveling bag reposed on the floor beside the girl's seat. Carl MacBride possessed eyesight an Indian would have envied. He read the writing on the tag appended to the young woman's bag: JEAN MORRIS THE WORLD'S PREMIER WOMAN LION TAMER THE ATLAS CONGRESS.

OF WONDERS "Atlas Congress of Wonders" had a line drawn through it. Immediately below the circus name was written: "New York City."

Carl MacBride scratched his head. He remembered that the Atlas Congress of Wonders was the circus which had gone broke in Trapper Lake many months before.

MacBride recalled one particular morsel of gossip. There had been three pinhead savages with the stranded circus. These had wandered off and mysteriously disappeared.

"There's the New York airport," said Caldwell, interrupting the woodsman's thoughts.

IN THE excitement of disembarking, Carl MacBride lost track of his friendly traveling acquaintance, Caldwell.

Had he been able to watch Caldwell, he would have received a surprise. Caldwell scuttled around to the deserted side of the field operations office. Hidden there, he opened a large bag which was his only luggage. He unearthed two large, blue automatics, and slung them in bolsters under his armpits. Next came a hand grenade of the small, fluted type used in the world war. He pocketed this.

The bag yielded a banjo. The round body and the neckpiece of the musical instrument were in separate sections which clamped together. The banjo actually held an ingenious, silenced gun, which could be fired simply by plucking one of the banjo strings.

One who knew how could aim this unusual weapon with accuracy, without seeming to do so.

Working rapidly, Caldwell combed out his waxed mustache. He applied a chemical to it' and smeared more of the same compound in his hair. Mustache and hair turned black. He drew a ragged coat from the bag and donned it. He sagged his shoulders as he walked.

A stooped musician with a stringy black mustache and black hair got in one of several cabs waiting near by.

New York is a city harboring many curious people. The taxi driver thought little of it when his face querulously commanded him to wait a few minutes before starting.

Not until Carl MacBride had clambered into a cab and rolled in the direction of the business district, did Caldwell permit his machine to move. Issuing terse orders, he contrived to follow the hulking woodsman without calling his driver's attention to what he was doing.

When they had traveled twenty or thirty blocks, Caldwell became sure of their destination. It was Doc Savage's office. He ordered his conveyance to halt while he entered a telephone booth located in a tobacco shop. He got a number.

CaIdwell and the party he was calling recognized each other's voices. They exchanged no names.

"Exactly what we were afraid of is happening, boss," Caldwell informed the other. "This lunk of a backwoodser is on his way to see Doc Savage."

"You sure?" asked the voice at the other end of the wire. "He don't want to go to a lot of trouble taking care of him, unless it's necessary."

"It's necessary, all right, boss," said Caldwell. "I pumped the guy while we were on the plane. He never suspected a thing. Came right out and told me the whole story." "He told you he was on his way to get Doc Savage to investigate what happened to Bruno Hen?"

"That's exactly what he told me."

The voice at the other end swore violently. "We've got to stop him before he gets to Doc Savage."

"I've got a grenade, my gat, and that silenced pistol-and-banjo contraption. I'll be able to stop him at Doc Savage's office."

"Nothing as reckless as that!" ordered the other. "Can you keep MacBride in sight and nail him somewhere en route?"

"He's headed straight for New York on the main road. Guess I can overhaul him."

"Do that. Get him on the road somewhere." Caldwell, his deadly banjo tucked under an arm, dashed to his cab.

"Whoop it up, buddy!" be ordered the driver. "If you get me downtown fast enough, there's an extra twenty in it for you."

"Get the twenty ready," retorted the driver, and they were off.

Chapter 4. THE KILLER.

CARL MACBRIDE had never before visited a city of any consequence. So he stared with great interest as they approached the cl.u.s.ter of towering skysc.r.a.pers. The tremendous size of the structures caused a feeling of awe.

One building in particular reared like a great thorn of gray masonry and s.h.i.+ning metal above the spiked tops of the other cloud-piercers. Not only was it among the tallest, but its simple, modernistic lines made it far the most impressive.

Carl MacBride made a mental note that, before he left New York City, he would go to the top of the towering, modernistic structure to have a look at the town.

It had not occurred to the big woodsman that he might have difficulty in locating Doc Savage. Up in his woods country, one had merely to walk into town and inquire for an individual and some one would be able to point him out. Every one knew everybody else.

It occurred to Carl MacBride that he had better ask where Doc Savage resided.

"How do you find anybody in this town, partner?" he asked the taxi driver.

"Look in the phone hook is one way," was the reply.

"Maybe you know the feller I want to find -- his name is Doc Savage."

The taxi driver turned to eye his fare, and almost ran off the pavement. He straightened his machine out, then pointed ahead to the skysc.r.a.per which Carl MacBride had admired.

"Everybody knows that guy. He hangs out on the eighty-sixth floor of that building."

The fact that the driver knew the whereabouts of Doc Savage's headquarters did not impress earl MacBride as much as it should have. In New York, the average individual knows only his business acquaintances and immediate friends. "You got an appointment to see Doc Savage?" asked the driver, taking advantage of the obvious amiability of his fare to ask questions.

"No. Do I need one?"

It had not occurred to the lumbering woodsman that an appointment might be necessary. In the backwoods, a business appointment was a rarity. There was time for everything.

"I don't know Doc Savage personally," the taxi driver said. "I've seen him a time or two. He's a big shot, so you'd better get an appointment."

"How'll I go about doing that?"

"Phone him."

"Stop off somewhere," Carl MacBride commanded. "Guess I'll call him."

The cab pulled up in a filling station which displayed a public telephone booth sign.

A NEWSBOY loitering at the filling station in hopes of making a sale, ran out.

"Read the latest mystery advertis.e.m.e.nt about the coming of the monsters!" he shouted.

Curious, Carl MacBride bought a paper. The "mystery" ad was in black type in a square, white s.p.a.ce. It read: WARNING! WATCH OUT FOR THE MONSTERS!.

"What's this mean?" the woodsman asked.

"n.o.body knows," replied the newsboy. "Newspapers all over the country been gettin' them advertis.e.m.e.nts in the mail, along with money to pay for their insertion. It may be a movie stunt -- to get people talkin' about some picture that'll come out soon."

Carl MacBride frowned and tucked the paper in a pocket. He entered the booth and thumbed through the directory until he found Doc Savage's name.

The telephone was a dial type. He was unfamiliar with the dial device, and had some trouble with it.

Eventually, however, he got his number.

The voice which came to his ears was one so profoundly impressive that he knew instinctively that the speaker must be Doc Savage. The tones were deep, vibrant with controlled power. MacBride had never before heard a telephone receiver reproduce with such distinctness.

"I want an appointment with you, Mr. Savage," said the woodsman. "It's something mighty important. My name is MacBride.

"You do not need an appointment," Doc informed him. "Feel perfectly free to see me at any time."

MacBride reflected that the driver had given him some b.u.m advice.

"I'll be right up," he said.

"Is your business something you would care to discuss over the telephone?" Doc Savage asked.

MacBride was so impressed by the remarkable voice that he did not answer for a moment. "I'd rather tell you in person," he said finally.

"Very well."

The telephone conversation terminated.

MacBride went to his cab. The machine moved toward the towering skysc.r.a.per which was Doc Savage's headquarters.

Big Carl MacBride did not know it, but this chance pause to telephone was instrumental in prolonging his life. Caldwell had pa.s.sed without observing the big woodsman in the filling station phone booth. Even now, the murderous Caldwell was hugging his death-dealing banjo, and cursing.

"I've lost the big lunk somewhere," he gritted. "Well, h.e.l.l! I'll have to catch him at Doc Savage's office, after all."