Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 097 - The All-White Elf

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THE ALL-WHITE ELF
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE OGRE
? Chapter II. THE ELF
? Chapter III. DEATH RAN AWAY
? Chapter IV. THE ELF AND A GIRL
? Chapter V. TWO TO DIE
? Chapter VI. THE DEVIL FEARS FIRE
? Chapter VII. THE SILENT GIRL
? Chapter VIII. THE WRONGED MAN
? Chapter IX. TWO AND TROUBLE
? Chapter X. BLITZKRIEG
? Chapter XI. TRAILS GOING NOWHERE
? Chapter XII. THE N. E. LIGHT
? Chapter XIII. SINISTER SHIP
? Chapter XIV. DISASTER IS A WHISTLE
? Chapter XV. BREAD ON THE WATERS
Chapter I. THE OGRE
THE man stopped his black coupé in the street in front of the apartment house. He looked at the
apartment house, then glanced up and down the street, looking particularly for a policeman. There was
no cop. Relieved, the man wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
He felt of his hip pocket.
Then he got out of the coupé and headed purposefully for the apartment-house entrance.
He was a man made of bones and dry, brownish hide. His suit was dark and new, apparently being worn
for the first time. He had made a mess when he tied the knot of his dark tie. He had eyes like a tiger.
He ran a finger up and down the doorbells until he located one— Arnold Haatz, Apartment 4F.
To get into the apartment house, the man used an old gag. He pressed several buttons at once. He did
not ring Arnold Haatz’s bell, however. When the lock release buzzed, he entered.
The elevator was a self-service type—there was no operator. The man rode it to the fourth floor, pulled
off his overcoat and rolled it into a ball, used the ball to block the elevator door so it would not close.
The elevator would remain there as long as the door was blocked open.
He felt of his hip pocket again. He stood with his hand on the pocket for a while after he reached the
door of Apartment 4F.
He was perspiring. His face was white. His chest felt heavy, as if his lungs were made of lead.
He was afraid to kill Arnold Haatz here, he realized. It was too public. The sensible thing to do, and the
only alternative he saw, was to decoy the man into the country.
He knocked on the door.
"Mr. Arnold Haatz?"
"Yes."
"You are the Haatz who works for the government—you are in Russel Kinner’s office, connected with
the superintendent of prisons?"
"That’s right."
Arnold Haatz was a placid-looking goose of a man. His skin was pink, his eyes were as pale and
pleasant as August sky. His body was thick, and his hands were small hams.
"I’ve got a message for you, Mr. Haatz."
"Message?"
"From Audine Million. You know her, don’t you?"
"If it’s Jerry Million’s sister you mean—yes, I know her."
"That’s the one. She’s in a jam. She wants you to help her."
Haatz narrowed his blue eyes. "Where is she?"
The man who was made of bones and dry brown hide hesitated for a grim instant.
"She’s at a tourist camp north of town," he said.
Haatz did not answer immediately. He was puzzled. "I don’t understand why she should send for me," he
said.
"I was just around handy, so she sent me."
"What is this trouble?"
"Don’t know. She didn’t tell me."
"Is it her brother who is in trouble?"
"I don’t know."
Haatz said coldly, "I wouldn’t give that brother of hers a drink of ice water if he was in hell. Jerry Million
is no good. I would rather help a snake."
"It ain’t her brother."
"Jerry Million is as low as they come." Harshness was in Haatz’s voice. "A man who would do what he
did should be hung."
"It ain’t her brother."
"I thought you said you didn’t know what it was," Haatz said.
"I just know it ain’t her brother."
The puzzled frown left Haatz’s forehead. He looked at the other man. "What did you say your name
was?" he inquired.
The other hesitated.
"Smitty," he said. "Call me Smitty."
"Well, wait a minute, Smitty," Haatz said, "and I’ll get my hat and coat."
HAATZ stepped back and shut the door. The moment he was alone in his apartment, he flung to the
telephone, riffled through the directory, found a number, and called it, dialing with nervous jerks of his
stubby forefinger.
"Hello. Miss Audine Million’s home? . . . Can you tell if Miss Million is there? . . . Oh, it is! You are Miss
Audine Million?"
"Yes, this is Audine," the young woman said. She had a throaty, pleasant, earnest voice.
Haatz scowled at the hall door. "Have you been home all evening?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are you in trouble? Do you want help?"
"No. Why, of course not." The girl sounded completely amazed. "What . . . what on earth is this,
anyway. Who . . . who are you."
"Arnold Haatz. You remember me?" Haatz considered, frowning. Then he said suddenly, "Listen, where
is that brother of yours?"
The change in Audine Million’s voice was stark. Terror came rushing with her words.
"Oh, mother of mercy! Has Jerry been— Did they find him, and— What has happened to him?"
"Were you expecting something to happen to your brother?" Haatz countered.
"I don’t know. Something strange is going on, and I was afraid—" She stopped with that, and was silent
a moment. Then she said, "Oh, I shouldn’t have said that." She laughed, but it was not a hearty sound of
mirth. "I was just kidding."
Haatz was puzzled enough to nibble at his lower lip.
"You say something strange is going on?" he asked.
"No, no, I was just—well, being facetious," the girl said swiftly.
She’s a very poor liar, Haatz thought. And very upset.
He said, "I like for people to tell me the truth."
Audine Million’s answer was slow coming.
"Really, Mr. Haatz, aren’t you presuming a little?" she said finally. "After all, we hardly know each other."
"Yes, we hardly know each other," Haatz agreed dryly. "As a matter of fact, that’s why I called you."
"I don’t understand."
"And I," said Haatz, "don’t understand that remark about your brother and something strange going on."
Again, there was a silence. This time, the girl did not reply. She hung up. The click was a slow one, as if
she had placed the receiver on the hook very thoughtfully.
Haatz stood and bit at a thumbnail for a time. Then he went into his bedroom, and got two heavy woolen
socks. He put one sock inside the other. Then he entered the kitchenette, poured a box of common salt
into the socks, and smacked the result against the palm of one hand. He had a very good blackjack.
He opened the hall door. Smitty was standing there. Haatz hit Smitty with the salt-filled socks. He tried to
land the blow on Smitty’s temple, but the man ducked. The blackjack, glancing off the top of Smitty’s
head, knocked the fellow to his knees.
Haatz grabbed the socks with both hands and wound up like a baseball pitcher and did his best to brain
the other man. More by accident than design, Smitty got his head out of the way and the socks hit his
shoulders, so that there was a loud report and a white spurting of salt as the socks split. Smitty flattened
out on the floor. He pulled a gun out of his clothing.
The gun made a deafening noise. The bullet made cold the left side of Haatz’s face, went on up and made
a neat round hole in the ceiling plaster, and, on the floor above, started a woman screaming.
Haatz jumped back, slammed the door. The only gun he had was a .30-06 caliber big-game rifle. There
is a Federal regulation about the ownership of a gun with a barrel less than sixteen inches long, but this
one certainly didn’t come under that prohibition.
He got the rifle, clipped some of the cartridges—they were almost the size of fountain pens—into the
magazine. He tossed a chair against the door. The man outside promptly fired a bullet through the panel.
With the .30-06, Haatz proceeded to blow channels through door and wall.
The man outside ran.
HAATZ heard the man’s feet rapping the corridor floor, and peered through a hole he had blown in the
door. He saw Smitty scoop up his balled topcoat, which had been holding the elevator door open, leap
into the cage, close the door. Lunging down the hall, Haatz reached the elevator door. He lifted his rifle.
For a moment, he calculated where he should aim; then the rifle blasted flame and lead against the sliding
metal door.
The one-hundred-and-eighty-grain bullet had a muzzle energy of twenty-nine hundred and fifteen
foot-pounds. It tore through the sheet metal and ripped the safety switch off the inside, opening the
circuit. The opening of the safety circuit instantly cut the current out of the motors at the top of the shaft,
and the cage stopped.
The moment he was sure the elevator had halted, Haatz ran for the stairway. He took the steps in a series
of downward jumps, holding the rifle ready.
The elevator had stopped between two floors, in such a position that, when the doors were opened,
there was a crack at the top through which a man could crawl to freedom, although the crack was very
narrow and difficult to reach.
Haatz saw the man crawling out of the elevator. He saw this without being noticed. He hesitated, half
lifting the rifle. Then he changed his mind.
Running down another flight of stairs, and out of the door, Haatz looked about for a hiding place. There
was only one car parked in the block, a black coupé. Haatz started to climb into the machine; then it
occurred to him that the car might belong to his quarry. Smitty had said he had a car waiting.
Haatz tried the baggage compartment in the back. It was open, and it was roomy. He climbed in with his
rifle, and lowered the lid. To keep it from locking, he jammed his handkerchief into the slot which the
lock tongue normally entered. This not only kept the lid from locking, but caused it to remain open a
crack, through which he could keep a watch.
Grim curiosity was causing Haatz to do what he was doing. A stranger had come to him and lied to him,
apparently in hopes of decoying him into the country. Haatz was going to trail him.
Haatz wanted to know why. What was going on? At heart, he was a man who liked excitement, although
he looked meek and, he well knew, a little like a pink pig. His fondest memories were of his army days,
the war, of a hitch he had served with the Villa revolutionists in Mexico. These things were in his youth,
and he did not talk about them much any more. People did not believe him. No one could think, after
looking at him, that he had done deeds of daring and peril, and would like to do them again.
It was luck that put him in hiding in the back of Smitty’s car.
Smitty dashed out of the apartment house a moment later, dived into the machine and drove it away.
THE car went fast. The bouncing made dust rise up and get in Haatz’s soft pink nostrils. He ground a
finger against his upper lip desperately, but in spite of that remedy, he had to sneeze twice. Luckily, the
car made so much noise that he was not heard.
Soon the car traveled at a more leisurely pace. And eventually it stopped. Through the crack around the
edge of the lid, Haatz watched Smitty cross the sidewalk with nervous haste and enter a drugstore.
The drugstore had a side door. Haatz reached that. He held the rifle straight up and down at his side, so
that it was as inconspicuous as possible, and eased inside the door.
Smitty was in one of a bank of three telephone booths.
Haatz stepped into the adjacent booth without being noticed. He could hear some of what was said.
"—and I got into the apartment house all right," Smitty was saying. "I knocked on the door, and this
Haatz opened it. I had me a story all ready. I told him Audine Million was in trouble, and wanted him to
help her."
Smitty sounded whining and uncertain. Obviously, he was making explanations to someone he feared.
"I couldn’t just fill him full of lead when he opened the door," he wailed. "There was a cop in front of the
place a minute before. I knew the cop was somewhere in the neighborhood. And how was I to know the
guy wouldn’t fall for the story about the girl wanting his help? . . . What’s that you’re saying? Oh, why
didn’t he fall? I don’t know. He said he was gonna get his coat and hat, but when he came back, he cut
loose on me with a club. I was damned lucky to get away from there alive. That Haatz guy may look soft
and pink, but he’s hell on wheels."
Haatz was warmed by this praise of his ability. He had been thinking about calling the police. But now he
changed his mind.
He would enjoy some excitement. His daily employment, the hunched-over-a-desk job which he had
held during recent years, was monotonous. For a long time, his life had been dull to the point of despair.
Now he felt a sudden consuming desire to take another whirl at the kind of life he had once led.
He heard the man in the adjacent booth say, "What do you want me to do now?"
Haatz strained his ears.
"What about my car?" Smitty asked. "But that jellopy cost me—Oh, sure. Sure. I wasn’t trying to argue.
Sure. I’ll let the car set where it is. But what if the cops find it?"
The other lowered his voice, and it was more difficult to catch what he said. But Haatz gathered that the
man at the other end of the wire, who was Smitty’s boss, was going to send a third man, a man who had
an air-tight alibi for the time of the excitement at the apartment house. This third man would pick up the
car and see that it was run into the river in an obscure spot, where it would not be found.
Haatz grinned thinly. These men were clever. If he was going to take a whirl at excitement once more,
Haatz thought, these men would be worthy foes.
Haatz slipped out of the telephone booth. He left his rifle behind, because it was too conspicuous. He
wished he had a pistol.
Smitty was not difficult to follow. He used a bus, changed to another bus, then walked. After a time, he
joined a tall, cadaverous, bushy-haired man.
Haatz stared at the man whom Smitty had met.
"What a horrible thing!" he muttered.
He was so shocked that he felt a little sick.
THE man whom Smitty had met had the general aspect of an emaciated crow, and he attempted to
overcome this handicap by wearing bright clothing—his garb just now was gay tweeds, ox-blood shirt,
with emerald tie, handkerchief and socks—with the result that the effect was even more macabre. His
face was long, had the complexion of deceased fish; his nose was large and hooked; his eyes were
piercing black demons that roosted back in the caverns under the black caterpillars that were his
eyebrows.
He could have played the lead in a horror picture without much make-up.
Smitty met him in front of a house. The two turned, sauntered idly to a tobacco store a few yards away,
where they bought cigars. Then they returned to the house, and entered.
The pair had seemed well known in the store, so Haatz entered and made a check.
He bought a cigar. "Thought I knew those fellows who were just in here," he said. "Haven’t seen either
one of them for years, so I was a little bashful about walking up to them. It always embarrasses me to
make mistakes in identity." He looked at the clerk. "Happen to know them?"
"Oh, sure," said the unsuspicious clerk. "The tall one, the skinny one in the dark suit, is called Smitty. I
never heard him called anything else."
Haatz was a little surprised that Smitty had given his right name.
"It’s the other one I was really interested in," Haatz said. "You see, if he’s the man I think he is, he was
blind when I knew him."
"He’s the man you think he is, mister," the clerk said. "Milan Zinn used to be blind."
Haatz masked his excitement.
"Then that cadaverous man in the loud clothes is Milan Zinn?" he asked.
"Sure. Known him for years."
Haatz hesitated, then leaned over the counter. "What do you know about his character?" he asked. "He
looks like a sinister master mind out of some bloodcurdling thriller. Is he that type?"
The clerk scowled. "Thought you knew him, mister," he said suspiciously.
Haatz straightened up. He shrugged. "Skip it," he said. He smiled at the clerk. He did not want to attract
notice to himself by arguing with the fellow. "You see, I was just wondering what kind of a guy old Zinn
turned out to be after he was no longer blind."
"Oh, I get it." The clerk moved his shoulders. "I couldn’t tell you, mister. I don’t know a thing about him
except that he’s been living in this neighborhood for years, and he always comes in and buys a Fantesto
fifteen-cent cigar at this time every evening. Always says the same thing to me, too. He’ll walk in, and
he’ll say, ‘What’s good news today?’ He always says that."
"Thanks," Haatz said. "I guess I’ll look him up." He hesitated, then turned and left the cigar store.
THE cigar-store clerk stepped from behind his counter and went to the door, where he watched Arnold
Haatz going down the street. Haatz was not heading toward Milan Zinn’s home. The clerk’s suspicions
were aroused. They were not quieted at all when he saw Haatz begin running from the vicinity.
The clerk used the telephone.
"Mr. Zinn," he said. "This is Ernie Meeks. Quite probably you don’t know me by name, but I’m the clerk
down at the store where you buy your Fantesto cigars. I may be making a dope out of myself, but you’ve
been a customer of mine for a long time, and I want to show you that I appreciate it. . . . A minute ago,
some bird was in here asking about you, and acting funny while he did it. He just ran away."
Milan Zinn was much interested. He asked several questions.
ARNOLD HAATZ ran four blocks, his head back, breathing easily—he was in good physical
trim—until he found a drugstore which had telephone booths. He had not wanted to telephone from the
cigar stand, because there had been no booth and the clerk would have overheard.
Haatz got his boss on the wire.
Haatz had no great degree of respect for his boss, Russel Kinner. But he felt he owed the man a warning.
Kinner was flighty, possessed of delusions of grandeur, inclined to be a bit short on scruples, Haatz
suspected.
"Listen, Kinner," Haatz said bluntly. "If you’re half smart, you’ll throw some clothes in a suitcase, sneak
out of the back door of your place, and catch a plane for Florida or the Maine woods or somewhere."
After a startled silence, Russel Kinner said, "Haatz, are you drunk?"
Haatz said, "Less than an hour ago, a man came to my apartment and tried to decoy me away and kill
me. I think you will be next."
"Me?" Kinner’s voice, ordinarily deep and pleasant, became shrill. "Why would anybody want to kill
me?"
"For the same reason they tried to knock me off."
"Why is that?"
"To shut our mouths."
"Huh?"
"I think," Haatz said coolly, "that we are the only two people in the world who know one certain fact, and
that very thing is going to get us killed."
Kinner was silent a minute. Then he began to laugh. "You sound like you had gone completely crazy," he
said.
Haatz’s voice was like something made by steel.
"You remember Milan Zinn?" he asked.
Kinner stopped laughing. "You mean the old duffer that looked like Frankenstein’s monster—the one
who said he had been blind for so many years?"
"I see you remember him," Haatz said grimly. "Well, get this through your head. That stuff he was talking
about that day he came to see us—he wasn’t crazy. You remember what he said that day, don’t
you?"
"Yes . . . but . . . but it’s so incredible."
"Zinn isn’t crazy, and the thing isn’t incredible," Haatz snapped. "The thing may be frightful, hideous and
astounding."
Kinner made gurgling sounds of astonished stupefaction.
"But—great grief! Haatz, you must be mistaken about this."
Haatz said, "If you’re half smart, you’ll get out of town, where you’ll be safe."
"I’ll do nothing of the kind," Kinner snapped. "I’m no coward."
"It isn’t a case of being a coward. It’s a matter of having good sense."
"I don’t like your brusque tone, Haatz," Kinner said sharply. "After all, I’m your boss."
Haatz lost his temper.
"Listen, you stupid braggart," he said, "you’re no longer my boss, because I quit! I resign. If the
government is dope enough to let you work for it much longer, I’m badly mistaken, too. I’m doing you a
favor, calling you up and trying to save your life. And what do you do? You get officious about it, and
start telling me who is boss."
To Haatz’s astonishment, the other man took this meekly.
"Now, now, let’s don’t fall out about it," Kinner said ingratiatingly. "After all, the thing is something of a
shock. It just kind of knocked me loose from my wits."
Personally, Haatz believed it would be very hard to knock Kinner loose from his wits. However, he
agreed, "Well, it is fantastic, all right."
"Zinn must be insane!" Kinner exclaimed.
"He may be a little abnormal. Being blind all your life, then suddenly being able to see, is liable to do
something to your balance." Kinner swore grimly. "It’s too bad the old reprobate didn’t stay blind. That
damned surgeon who brought back the old man’s eyesight should be shot."
Haatz started. A look of intense thought overspread his face. His lips shaped, "The surgeon who
operated on old Zinn," thoughtfully.
Aloud, he said, "Say, it was a man named Doc Savage who operated on Zinn, wasn’t it?"
Haatz sounded a little excited in spite of his effort at control.
Kinner said, "I don’t know."
Haatz, suddenly anxious to end the conversation, said, "You better get out of town until I get this cleared
up."
Then he hung up.
Haatz went to the cashier of the drugstore and changed two five-dollar bills into quarters, dimes and
nickels—coins which would go into a pay telephone. He went back to the telephone. He dialed the zero
for the operator.
"I want to get in touch with a man known as Doc Savage," he said. "It is very important. How do you go
about doing it?"
Chapter II. THE ELF
THE telephone operator said in a mechanical voice, "just a minute, sir. I will give you the information
operator."
There was a delay. Haatz compressed his lips in thought. He was in a dilemma—he had unexpectedly
found a menace, a ghastly danger, threatening not only himself but many others. It was hard to estimate
the scope of the peril, but it was great. His dilemma sprang from the fact that the thing was so fantastic.
He could hardly make the police believe him. They would probably laugh at him. If they did not laugh,
they would hardly be likely to give the situation the intense action it needed. All in all, this was a job for
someone with more agility and capacity for coping with the unusual than the police possessed.
"Information," a friendly voice said.
"Operator, this is Arnold Haatz calling from"—Haatz looked up and got the number of the
phone—"Arling 9-9-100. I want to get in touch with a man named Clark Savage, Jr."
After a moment, the operator said, "We have no Clark Savage listed."
"He probably doesn’t live in Washington," Haatz said hastily. "You see, I don’t know where he can be
found. But I’ve got to locate him. It is very important."
"I am sorry, but I am afraid we can not—"
"This is a matter of life or death for quite a number of people," Haatz said seriously. "I wish you would
understand that. It is very serious."
The information operator hesitated. "Can you give me any further information about this person?"
"He happens to be one of the greatest surgeons in the world, although he does not have a practice,"
Haatz explained. "He is also a scientist, a chemist, an electrical wizard, and a man of all-around
marvelous mental ability."
Haatz pondered a moment.
"But Doc Savage," he continued, "is best known because of an unusual career he follows, a career of
righting wrongs and punishing evildoers in the far corners of the earth. I understand that he was trained
from childhood for this strange profession.
"Savage," he finished, "maintains a corps of five assistants, all of whom are trained specialists, and they
have a headquarters somewhere. I do not know just where. Probably it is in a city. . . . Does that help
you any?"
The operator asked, "Did you say Doc Savage?"
"Yes."
"Simply call New York City, and ask for Doc Savage."
Haatz was impressed. He said, "Thank you." He had heard of Doc Savage at various times, but always in
the back of his mind there had been an impression that the man was overrated.
When Haatz heard Doc Savage’s voice—the long-distance phone connection went through quickly—he
was even more affected. It was a controlled, modulated voice that was as full of latent ability as
dynamite.
Haatz came directly to the point.
"I have just discovered a devilish thing," he said. "I need help."
"Who are you?" Doc Savage asked.
"Arnold Haatz. Employed by the government. The office of superintendent of prisons. I’m a minor
assistant executive. It would be a miracle if you had ever heard of me."
"What is your trouble?"
"An hour or so ago, a man tried to kill me," Haatz said steadily. "I was puzzled, so I followed the fellow. .
. . And I found out that I was to be killed because of something I happened to know. One other man has
that same information. He is Russel Kinner, my immediate superior in the office."
Doc Savage said, "Warn the other man, Kinner."
"I just did."
THE man who had called himself Smitty entered the drugstore. He came in cautiously, hat low over his
face, eyes roving. He spotted the figure in the telephone booth. The clothing told him the man was Haatz,
摘要：

THEALL-WHITEELFADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEOGRE?ChapterII.THEELF?ChapterIII.DEATHRANAWAY?ChapterIV.THEELFANDAGIRL?ChapterV.TWOTODIE?ChapterVI.THEDEVILFEARSFIRE?ChapterVII.THESILENTGIRL?ChapterVIII.THEWRONGEDMAN?Chapter...

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