Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 096 - Bequest of Evil

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BEQUEST OF EVIL
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE KIDNAPERS
? Chapter II. MENACE EXPLAINED
? Chapter III. THE EARL OF CHESTER
? Chapter IV. MONK WALKS OUT
? Chapter V. THE HOMELY ONE
? Chapter VI. DISAPPEARANCE
? Chapter VII. MURDER AT MAYFAIR
? Chapter VIII. NICKERSON LOCATES MONK
? Chapter IX. ANNABELLE
? Chapter X. DEATH ISLAND
? Chapter XI. THE SEARCH
? Chapter XII. CLUE TO DOC SAVAGE
? Chapter XIII. WITHOUT DIRECTION
? Chapter XIV. DOC MAKES A PLANT
? Chapter XV. CAVERN PRISON
? Chapter XVI. HOPELESS VIGIL
? Chapter XVII. THE DEVIL’S DEVICE
? Chapter XVIII. THE DEATH TEST
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE KIDNAPERS
THE car was long, low and built for speed. Its driver was not.
He was about as wide as he was tall—if he had been standing up—and he took up most of the front
seat. The dapper, well-dressed man seated beside him was practically jammed against the right-hand
door.
The car came out of a side street, swung left into Fifth Avenue, and almost took the fenders off a car
parked near the corner.
Then a broad grin hit the face of the homely-looking driver. He was squinting ahead, down the wide
avenue.
"Wow!" he said. "Fifth Avenue deserted. Watch this!"
It was true. The most traveled thoroughfare in Manhattan was empty of traffic. The street should have
been crowded at this hour of the morning. It appeared like a phenomenon.
The driver stepped hard on the gas. The car shot ahead like a frightened hare, directly down the center of
the street.
The machine was an open model, and the dapper man seated beside the driver had to hang on to his
pearl-gray hat with one hand while he gripped a slender black cane with the other.
"Dunce!" he snapped. "Are you trying to break our necks?"
The homely fellow behind the wheel looked worried. "Blazes!" he exclaimed. "Maybe you’re forgetting
we were supposed to meet Doc."
He took his eyes off the road to glance at his watch. The car careened wildly. "We’re ten minutes late
already."
The man beside him gasped as they missed the curb by inches. Then the fast car straightened out and
continued its dash. The driver grinned. His mouth threatened to join his ears.
"I can’t figure it out," he commented. "But it’s a break."
"There’s somebody that’s going to figure it for you," put in the passenger who was clinging to his
expensive hat.
It was a traffic cop, standing in the roadway directly ahead. He was waving his hand warningly.
The driver slowed the car, but did not stop. He shot past the intersection.
The dapper-looking passenger yelled, "Hey! That cop wanted you to stop."
"Hell with him!" announced the driver. "The light was green. Why should I?"
There was a traffic officer at the next corner, too, and though the light was also green, he was waving his
arm at the homely-faced driver.
But he did not stop. He kept going at a good clip down the street. Ahead, more lights were green.
At each corner there was a cop, and all tried to flag down the car.
THE man with the cane almost choked. He glared at the driver and said icily, "They want you to stop.
There must be something wrong. Funny, there’s no traffic at all."
"A break for us," said the squattily built driver. "Yippee! Imagine having a street all to yourself in New
York!"
Then his homely face looked suddenly worried. The passenger looked worried, too.
He said, "Now, look!"
Ahead, at the intersection of Fifty-ninth Street, were a whole lot of traffic cops. They formed a
blockading row directly across the street, from curb to curb.
It was necessary for the driver to come to a complete stop—or else run down an officer of the law.
One uniformed man—he was wearing gold stripes—stepped forward and looked menacingly at the car
driver.
"What the hell’s the idea?" he demanded. "Can’t you read?"
"Read what?" asked the man at the wheel.
"The signs, you dope!" said the officer. He waved an arm to indicate placards tied to street lamps along
Fifth Avenue. The signs all read: "No Parking In This Block Today."
"Well?" rapped the cop.
"Well, what?" asked the driver.
He was given a sharp punch in the ribs by his companion, who whispered worriedly, "Quiet, you ape!"
"Get this damned crate off this street and stay off!" roared the traffic cop. "There’s a parade coming.
That’s why Fifth Avenue has been cleared. Now get going!"
The driver put the car in gear and started to turn right, but the traffic officer ordered him left. The
homely-faced fellow shrugged and obeyed instructions.
But when they had rolled on he swung on his dapper friend and said, "Now what’re we gonna do?
We’re supposed to meet Doc in that office building on Fifth."
"Go down Madison and park near Forty-eighth. We’ll probably have to walk."
"And be late," said the driver worriedly.
At each side street leading back toward Fifth there were cops, dozens of them.
"Every blasted cop in New York must be on duty for that parade," said the man at the wheel. "I wonder
what it is?"
The well-dressed passenger said, "I remember now. Only, I thought it was going to be on Broadway. It’s
a parade for some guy who just flew around the world. It’s practically a holiday for everybody who
works around this section."
At each side street that was one way toward Fifth Avenue, the driver tried to turn. Immediately a small
army of traffic cops waved him on. At Forty-eighth he managed to find a place to park.
"Come on," he said.
Both men piled out of the car.
They were an odd-looking pair.
ONE was tall, slender, wasp-waisted. Onlookers along the street turned and regarded his snappily
dressed appearance. He wore the latest in morning attire, that must have come from one of New York’s
most exclusive men’s shops. He carried the neat black cane.
His companion, the car driver, was squat and burly, and had the waddling stride of a gorilla. He could
have easily scratched his knees without bending forward an inch. All exposed parts of him were covered
with rusty-red hair the color of shingle nails that have stood too long in the rain.
The two men were arguing as they approached Fifth Avenue. Ahead, people jammed the sidewalks from
curb to store windows. In fact, some of the windows of the exclusive shops had been boarded up as a
precaution against the crush of people who were there to watch the parade. The overflow had even
backed up into this side street.
Unperturbed, the hairy fellow elbowed his way into the crowd. He dug a hole large enough for his
well-dressed companion to follow through.
But as they neared the curb the jam got worse. The two men were pushed around considerably.
"Ham," the homely-looking one said, turning, "would you be so kind as to get off my feet?"
The dapper man shrugged. "I’ll try. But it’s quite a walk."
This seemed to start more argument.
"Do you always tell such stupid jokes?" demanded the hairy fellow.
"No, Monk," said the taller man who had been addressed as Ham, " I just adapt myself to the company
I’m in."
Hairy Monk tried to swing at his companion and almost bowled a bystander over. Down the avenue, not
far away, there was the sound of bands playing and the tramp of marching feet. Obviously the
long-awaited parade was drawing close.
The bystander made some surly remark and Monk gave him a shove. Ham tried to intercede. There was
suddenly a lot of talking and cussing.
And immediately policemen arrived from various directions and grabbed the hairy fellow by the arm.
"Hey!" one cop yelled. "You’ll have to stand back. You can’t crowd out into the street."
Monk glared. "We’ve got to cross the street," he said in a piping, shrill voice. "We gotta meet somebody
over there."
One of the cops looked astounded.
"You trying to be funny?" he said. "No one crosses the street!"
Monk started to push past the cop who had spoken. And then drew up, staring.
Up and down the curb were lined more cops, dozens of them, almost elbow to elbow. There wasn’t a
chance of getting past.
Monk groaned.
"Blazes!" he said. "We’re late now! Doc’s probably waiting."
But on the far side of Fifth Avenue the man in the brown suit was not waiting. He was proceeding directly
to the twelfth floor of the large office building.
He gave the elevator operator somewhat of a start as he stepped into the waiting cage.
He was tall, built along the symmetrical lines of a well-proportioned giant. A very capable giant.
Besides the somber brown suit, he had brown hair, brown eyes, and almost brown features. There was
nothing exceptionally conspicuous about him except his size.
He emerged from the elevator at the twelfth floor, stepped quietly along the hallway until he came to a
door marked:
JAMES ADDISON
Civil Engineer
The frosted glass was marked as simply as that. And yet James Addison was probably the biggest bridge
builder in the country—in the world, for that matter. He was a millionaire.
It was he who had phoned and asked that Doc Savage drop in for a moment at his office at ten today.
Doc Savage was the man in brown. There was a reason for his simple disguise.
The parade on Fifth Avenue meant exceptionally large crowds. Someone would have been sure to
recognize Doc Savage. And the Man of Bronze disliked undue publicity. In order to keep the
appointment and to remain merely an unusually large-looking man whom no one would recognize, he had
worn this outfit.
He opened the door and stepped into a large office outfitted with expensive, comfortable furniture and
thick rugs. The place looked more like a hotel lobby than the entrance to an office.
There was no one at the reception desk.
Doc Savage moved across the large office toward an open doorway to an adjoining room. He paused on
the threshold. Inside were two or three desks, obviously used by stenographers in this anteroom that was
the outer office of James Addison, the engineer. The room was deserted.
Just then, through open windows, came the martial tones of band music. A great shout went up from the
thousands of people watching in the streets below.
A shout also came from somewhere out along the corridor that led past this office.
Doc Savage returned to the corridor, saw a number of clerks and stenographers gathered at the open
windows far up the length of the hall. Peering over their shoulders were also two of the elevator
operators.
It looked as though everybody was watching the parade. Even the elevator boys were sneaking in a few
minutes. They figured, apparently, that there would be no calls for the next few moments.
Doc stepped toward the watching group, picked out a middle-aged woman he remembered as being
private secretary to James Addison. She looked around as he approached, gave a slight start at sight of
the giant figure behind her.
Drawing the woman to one side, Doc said: "You work for James Addison." It was a statement. Doc
Savage never forgot a face once he had seen it.
The middle-aged woman nodded. She was well-dressed, intelligent-looking.
"Mr. Addison made an appointment with me by phone for exactly ten o’clock this morning."
The woman stared.
"That’s impossible!" she exclaimed.
It was quite likely that Doc Savage had not yet been recognized. He said, "The appointment was with
Clark Savage, Jr."
This time the woman gasped. Her eyes mirrored recognition.
She said quietly, "That’s it! I thought there was something. You’re Doc Savage!"
Doc nodded, waiting.
"But there must be some mistake," the woman continued swiftly. "Mr. Addison has been out of town for
three days. He won’t be back until tomorrow. I would have known if he had an appointment, too."
Doc said quietly, "Thank you," and disappeared down the hallway.
The woman stared after him a moment; then, attracted by the noise from the street, turned back to the
window.
Doc returned to the office of James Addison. He passed through the reception room, the anteroom, and
tried the knob of the inner private office. The door was unlocked. He stepped inside.
It was a soundproofed, modernistically furnished room. A massive desk stood across one corner of the
office, but no one sat at the desk.
Suddenly Doc Savage tensed. There was something distinctly odd about there being no appointment.
Could it be a trick?
The door slammed behind him.
Doc whirled. A big man with a gun in his fist stood directly behind him. There was whispering movement
from across the room.
Doc spun back to face the desk.
Two men had straightened up from behind it. They, too, held guns.
Another man swiftly appeared from what was a closet doorway on one side of the room. He was
covering Doc as carefully as the others.
For tense seconds there was strained, heavy silence. Closing the door behind Doc Savage had shut out
all sound of the noisy parade. A clock ticked quietly somewhere in the room.
Then one of the men standing behind the desk spoke.
He snapped: "Perfect! We timed it almost to the minute."
He motioned toward a door across the room. It was evident to the bronze man that the door must lead
to a side hallway.
"Get going!" the leader said. "Keep your hands over your head. And remember, a gunshot would never
be heard along with that noise from the street."
Doc Savage was neatly trapped.
The four gunmen moved in on him from different angles, not too close, but at positions where a shot
couldn’t possibly miss.
He was ordered out into the corridor.
Directly across from the doorway, a large elevator door stood open. It was a freight elevator, shielded
from the regular bank of passenger elevators by an angle in the hall. The racket from the parading bands
was plain out here now. Doc, two gunmen at his back, two at his sides, moved into the elevator.
There was a fifth gunman waiting inside. He grinned as the bronze man stepped in.
The regular operator, bound and gagged, was lying on the floor of the large car.
Immediately, the sliding doors were closed and the fifth gunman worked the controls. The freight elevator
started downward toward the basement.
Someone said, "We sure kidnaped something when we grabbed this guy!"
Chapter II. MENACE EXPLAINED
THE big enclosed cage moved slowly. The elevator was large enough for the five gunmen to stand clear
of Doc Savage and yet cover him with their weapons at the same time.
"Getting this bronze guy here while the parade was passing was a swell idea," said one man.
Doc Savage stood with his hands above his head, motionless. He had made no attempt at an escape,
which was unusual.
But there was a reason for this.
At the moment, neither Doc Savage nor any of his five aids was involved in a mystery or trouble of any
sort. There had been no threats against the bronze man, especially anything that even hinted at a
kidnaping.
The height of the elevator cage was perhaps eight feet or so. Doc’s hands were still raised over his head.
Had anyone bothered to notice, they would have observed that the bronze man was slowly,
imperceptibly growing taller. This was accomplished by stretching out every muscle in his remarkable
body.
It was a trick that anyone can master, given time. In his daily course of rigid exercises, Doc Savage went
through exercises that made his muscles supple. He stretched probably six inches as he stood there with
hands raised straight above his head.
The overhead ceiling light of the car was directly above his hands. His fingers touched the globe.
And then there was a sharp pop and the descending car was plunged into darkness.
Violent action followed.
ONE moment the five men had been standing there carefully covering Doc Savage. Then two of them
were on the floor of the cage. They let out frightened yelps.
The other three slammed forward. One gunman cracked into another. They realized—with a start—that
there was danger of shooting one another.
While they were thinking about that, and under cover of the darkness, Doc grabbed two men, knocked
the weapons from their fists and cracked their heads together.
They fell down, senseless.
Somebody yelled frantically, "Get a light! Grab Doc Savage!"
The idea was good. Two of the gunmen had flashlights in their pockets. But they never got a chance to
use them.
They were knocked out with swift, blurred movement.
The fifth man, the one who had been standing near the elevator-control device, thought a cannon ball had
come out of the darkness. His head bounced back and struck the heavy steel sides of the elevator cab.
He sat down and went to sleep.
The elevator continued to the basement and came to an automatic stop. This had been its destination,
anyway.
The bronze man swung open the doors and let in light.
Three more masked men were lined up there. They held guns. They had Doc Savage covered before he
could make a move.
"I told you there was something wrong!" said one.
While Doc was kept covered, one of the trio stepped into the motionless car and started dragging the
slugged men to their feet. He slapped their faces.
As they revived, he snarled, "Dopes! I told you this bronze guy is dynamite!"
The men located their guns and came out of the cab and stood glaring at Doc Savage. Their expressions
said that, this time, they wouldn’t be caught napping.
Doc was ordered to lie on the floor. They were in a wide passageway—a freight entrance,
apparently—that led in from an areaway behind the office building. Near a doorway that led out to a
truck parking space a watchman lay unconscious.
It was easy to see what had happened.
The gang had taken over while other building employees were out on Fifth Avenue, watching the parade.
There was nothing to do at the moment, down here in the freight-receiving entrance, anyway. The side
street had been temporarily blocked off. Trucks were not permitted to enter until after the parade was
finished.
Doc’s hands were tied securely behind him. His feet, ankles, and legs were wrapped with heavy rope.
He was as helpless as a mummy.
He was lifted and carried through the hallway, thence out to the truck-parking space behind the
temporarily deserted basement.
The vehicle parked there was all black, with a closed body that did not contain so much as a window.
It was the type of car used by undertakers to pick up dead bodies.
Doc Savage, still guarded, was loaded into the rear and the doors shut and locked. It was possible to
enter the body of the truck from behind the driver’s seat. While one man drove, the others all piled into
the back, inclosed section with Doc Savage.
The truck moved out into the side street.
It stopped a moment. Someone spoke to the driver. It was a cop.
Words were exchanged.
"Got a dead man here, officer," the driver said quietly. "A guy dropped dead up in the Chalmers
Building."
"You can’t cross Fifth now," said the cop.
"Sure; I know. But if I can go back to Sixth—"
"All right. But take it easy. There’s a lot of people in the street here."
"O. K., officer."
The truck moved on again.
THERE was hoarse breathing all around Doc Savage’s prone figure. The gunmen were crouched near
him, in the darkness of the dead wagon. No one talked. No one said a single thing that would give the
vaguest idea why this kidnaping had taken place.
The darkness of the truck interior was an aid to the bronze man. His movements were silent. Besides,
had anyone seen, they would think the slight motion of the bronze man’s shoulders was caused by the
bouncing of the truck as it rolled along.
Doc Savage was half on his back, half on his side, his hands still tied behind him, his wrapped legs
helpless.
He worked his left shoulder against the hard flooring of the dead wagon. He managed to get a certain
point of his body against the floor.
The jouncing action of the truck slowly worked loose what was in the pocket of the special vest that Doc
Savage wore beneath his coat.
The gunmen had been careless in seizing the bronze man. They had overlooked the special vest. Within
its various pockets were many tiny gadgets of the bronze man’s own invention.
Tiny pellets dropped free of a small pocket near the shoulder of the vest. They spilled to the floor.
Immediately Doc Savage rolled on them and they broke with tiny explosive sounds.
Instantly blinding, intense white light flooded the interior of the truck. The gunmen blinked with temporary
blindness. They let out yells of warning to the driver.
But Doc Savage moved with flashing speed.
Each intense flare was caused by a tiny, burning spot of magnesium that was on the floor. Doc rolled,
jammed his bound wrists into the tiny flames. The burning stuff ate quickly into the ropes that tied his
hands.
His corded muscles applied pressure to the bindings. They snapped. Instantly he was working at the
ropes that held his legs and ankles.
All this took place in a matter of fleeting seconds. Doc had been prepared for the blinding white light. His
eyes, at its first onslaught, had been closed against it. Then, his lids half slitted, he had worked swiftly
while the others were still blinded.
He was on his feet, moving, by the time the first man knew what it was all about.
The fellow started to let out a yell of warning, his gun raising in his fist.
Doc Savage caught him with a sizzling fist. The man was hurled back against three of his companions.
The others piled toward Doc. The driver of the truck, startled at the racket, turned and flung open the
doorway that led into the truck interior.
The blinding light caught him unexpectedly. Blinking, he swung his gaze madly back to the thoroughfare
ahead.
But he could not see.
Before the driver got his vision back, the truck bounced over a curb, careened across a sidewalk and
crashed into a store front. Plate glass shattered and rained over the sidewalk and truck hood. People
screamed.
A cop’s whistle blasted shrilly.
THUGS inside the truck slammed into the rear doors and burst them open. The men spilled like
frightened rats out onto the sidewalk.
In a glance, Doc Savage saw that the truck had just been rolling through Times Square, headed west
toward the North River. Hundreds of people were in the congested area.
Taking advantage of this fact, the gunmen spread in assorted directions and were fast swallowed up by
the crowds. Doc had scooped up a discarded weapon. But there was no chance to use it. There was too
much danger of hitting an innocent bystander.
He leaped down from the truck—in time to be blocked by three burly policemen who came running up
to the spot.
"Hey, where do you think—" one of the cops started to yell. There was a gun in his hand.
Doc Savage worked rapidly. Moistening a fingertip on either hand, he applied them to his eyes. The
brown-shaded, small eye caps came free. His remarkable flake-gold eyes were revealed.
Next he pulled the brown wig from his head. The policemen saw that his unusual hair was only a shade
darker than his eyes and skin, which was revealed in its true bronze color as he quickly rubbed his hands
across his features.
One officer gasped, "Doc Savage!"
The other stared, as did pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Quickly, Doc explained. Two of the cops moved swiftly through the crowds. The third raced to a call
box and notified headquarters. Soon squad cars would be converging upon the smash-up scene.
Doc Savage said, "The driver—" and started toward the front of the truck.
But the man had escaped.
And a half-hour later it was evident that all the others had escaped, also. This was a comparatively simple
matter in the Times Square area. There were subway entrances, movie houses, hotel lobbies, the
sidewalk crowds—dozens of places where the men could have quickly taken cover.
摘要：

BEQUESTOFEVILADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEKIDNAPERS?ChapterII.MENACEEXPLAINED?ChapterIII.THEEARLOFCHESTER?ChapterIV.MONKWALKSOUT?ChapterV.THEHOMELYONE?ChapterVI.DISAPPEARANCE?ChapterVII.MURDERATMAYFAIR?ChapterVIII.NICKE...

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