Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 094 - The Men Vanished

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THE MEN VANISHED

A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson

http://www.blackmask.com

? Chapter I. THE MAN WITH THE FACE

? Chapter II. THE MISSING MAN

? Chapter III. THE TOUGH MR. MASKET

? Chapter IV. THE TRICKY MR. MASKET

? Chapter V. TRAIL

? Chapter VI. TROUBLE LEADING TO JUNITH

? Chapter VII. THE RED MAN

? Chapter VIII. DEATH BOUND SOUTH

? Chapter IX. STOWAWAY

? Chapter X. WEIRD JUNGLE

? Chapter XI. THE UNKNOWN

? Chapter XII. DANGEROUS DECOY

? Chapter XIII. THE SUN CAT

? Chapter XIV. SACRIFICE IN THE SUN

? Chapter XV. BAD LOSERS

Chapter I. THE MAN WITH THE FACE

THE man with the ugly face was lying. He walked up to the doorman of the Explorers League—the

doorman at the service door, not the man who was accepting the engraved invitations at the main

entrance—with a confident manner. He carried a press camera, a carton of photoflash bulbs, a tripod; he

had a card that read PRESS stuck in his hatband.

"Photographer from the News-Press," he said.

He had a voice that was stilted, unnatural, somewhat strange. His words were sounded queerly, as if

there was something wrong with his tongue, or as if he was not familiar with the English language.

The doorman was not suspicious. "Press section in front, to the left," he said.

Then he took another look, and his mouth became round with shock. It was a little appalling, his first

look at the face of the man who had just said he was a photographer. The man’s face was really two

faces—that is, the left side of it was radically different from the right side. The right side was an ordinary

face, rather young, almost handsome. The left side was heavy, thick-lipped, darker of cast, with an

aboriginal cast to the features. The line of demarcation—the line where one half face left off, and the

other began—was sharply defined, like a line drawn down through the middle of the forehead, down the

nose, and on down the middle of the chin.

"Say, what done that?" The doorman was looking at the face.

The other man pointed at his camera. "Remember that powder they used to use to take flashlight

pictures?" he asked. "Ever think what would happen if that stuff fell on a man’s face as it burned?"

"Oh," said the doorman.

"You should have seen it," the man with the face said, "before the plastic surgeon worked on it."

"Oh," repeated the doorman. "Yeah. Well—uh—the press section’s in front, and to the left, like I said."

The man with the ugly face strode on into the Explorers League.

His lip, the lip of his right face, curled scornfully.

"The gullible fool," he muttered to himself. "He would believe anything." He touched his face. In a

secluded spot, he got out a hand mirror and looked at his face. The lip of his right face hooked up

fiercely on the end; the one on his left face got a sardonic warp. In returning the mirror to his pocket, he

touched the spot under his clothing where a revolver was hidden, to make sure the gun was still there.

Well satisfied with himself, he entered the auditorium. The place was normally the large main lounge of

the Explorers League, but it had been converted, for the purpose of this meeting, for the presentation of

the Explorers League Ten Year Medal, into an auditorium by the placing of folding chairs. The man with

the ugly face made himself inconspicuous—not in the press section—by standing against a wall.

THE auditorium was packed with a distinguished gathering. Probably there would not, for another ten

years at least, be another as distinguished. Famous explorers, noted scientists, could be found in the

Explorers League clubrooms any evening; but this conclave tonight was a special occasion, one so

outstanding that it came but once in each ten years.

The chairman of the board of presentation was speaking.

He had finished his preliminary words. He was pausing regretfully.

"We are sorry," he said, "that seven of our most valued and brilliant members cannot be here tonight. I

refer to young Daniel Stage, the explorer who was lost more than a year ago in the South American

jungle. And I refer also to those members of the Explorers League who went on expeditions to find

Daniel Stage, and never came back, and have not been heard from. Those six are Joseph Branch, Elmo

Walker Eagle, Tom Kennedy, Baron Edouard Corby, Felix Point-Mackey, and Jock van Biltmore. To

those six, the history of science and exploration owes a great deal, for they were more than six wealthy

men. They were men who devoted their lives to progress in science and exploration, and, when called

upon to do so, went unhesitatingly into the face of unknown peril in the hope of rescuing Daniel Stage.

Greater courage than that, no man has."

The speaker paused. There was somber silence. The man with the ugly face had a look of sardonic evil.

Suddenly realizing the expression that must be on his visage, he wiped it off.

"Having touched on this sad note," continued the speaker, "I will leave it. But I will pause for a few

moments, and I know that each of you will pray silently that Daniel Stage and the six who have tried to

find him will be able to return safely to us."

The man with the face started to sneer, caught himself. He moved back a step, to a spot where it was

darker. His eyes roved over the audience.

"Tonight," said the speaker, "we are presenting the Explorers League Ten Year Medal. Each year, as you

know, we make a presentation for the most outstanding achievement in the science or exploration for the

year. And each ten years, we present the League’s Ten Year Medal. As you know, this is the highest

honor the world of science and exploration is able to pay to any man. In the past, only men of the caliber

of Thomas A. Edison and Admiral Richard E. Byrd have earned distinction worthy of its bestowal."

Although his eyes still were on the audience, the gaze of the man with the ugly face had become fixed. He

had singled out two stocky men. They were seated together. They saw him, stared at him. When he

shook his head, they looked away quickly.

"This time, there were many worthy candidates for the award," continued the speaker, "but the board of

presentation, upon its final vote, was unanimously for the award going to Clark Savage, Jr."

An apish-looking gentleman in the front row suddenly applauded loudly. His companion, a very dapperly

dressed man, gave him a jab in the ribs. "Monk, you lout, this is the wrong time to applaud," snapped the

dapper man. "Everybody already knows who got the award. It was on the invitation." These words rang

out in the stillness, and everyone laughed; then there was applause that rose to deafening volume.

The speaker smiled, waved his arms for silence. It was some time before he got it.

"Please, please!" exhorted the speaker. "Let me tell you something of Clark Savage." He smiled and

turned toward the newspapermen. "The gentlemen of the press happen to be particularly interested,

because they have in the past seemed to be somewhat baffled by Mr. Savage. So much so that they refer

to him as the man of mystery, or the man of bronze."

The reporters grinned.

"Gentlemen, I will refer to Clark Savage as Doc Savage, because we all know him as Doc," said the

speaker. "I will also be brief. Doc Savage is probably more of a scientist than any of us, because he is a

product of science. As most of you know, he was placed in the hands of scientists in childhood, and

throughout youth and until early manhood, underwent rigorous training at the hands of these scientists.

Most of the things the newspapers"—the speaker glanced at the press row again—"print about Doc

happen to be true. They call him a mental wizard, a physical marvel. And this happens to be true. Within,

of course, human limits. Doc is no fantastic, inhuman creation, as we, who are well acquainted with him,

know.

"Doc Savage’s career is an unusual one. It is the rather strange career of righting wrongs and bringing to

justice those who are outside the law, particularly in the far corners of the earth. I imagine it is this unusual

work which has contributed to the mystery which surrounds him.

"Fundamentally, though, Doc Savage is a scientist, a surgeon, an explorer. His knowledge in many fields

is fabulous, his accomplishments of infinite value. I am not going to delve deeply into his work in science

and exploration, any one of which would more than warrant his receiving this honor."

The speaker took a deep breath.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I present a truly modest man—Doc Savage."

Doc Savage appeared from an adjacent room.

The dapper man on the front row punched the apish one. "Applaud now, you mistake of nature," he said.

The admonition was not needed. Applause was tremendous, continued for minutes.

Doc Savage was a giant man of bronze, but physically so well proportioned that it was not until he stood

beside the speaker, and shook hands with him, that his real size was apparent. A few small things—the

sudden leaping out of bars of sinew in his neck, the flowing cables of strength in his hands—indicated

fabulous physical strength. Tropical suns had given his skin a permanent bronze, his hair was a bronze

hue only slightly darker.

Strength, power, vitality, all carefully reserved, was the impression he gave. His eyes in particular were

striking; they were like pools of flake gold being continually stirred.

The room was full of white light popping from press camera flashbulbs. Newsreel men had turned on

powerful spotlights. The engineers of two radio networks, having scuttled over to the rostrum, were

making last-minute placements of their microphones. Finally quiet was restored, the confusion subsided,

and Doc Savage began speaking.

The giant bronze man’s voice was modulated, reserved, charged with a vibrant resonance that filled the

auditorium. He spoke simply, and very briefly.

The man with the ugly face was looking at the two stocky men at whom he had shaken his head earlier.

He caught their eyes. Then he made, very slowly and deliberately so that the gesture would attract no

attention, a stroking motion with his hand over the left—the inhuman—side of his face. The stocky pair

nodded.

THE man with the face picked up his camera, his tripod, the other stuff, and left the clubrooms of the

Explorers League. He had taken no pictures.

IN the auditorium, departure of the man was not noticed, because Doc Savage was still speaking. He

was not saying anything particularly important; acceptance speeches at award presentations are never

vital. But the attention was rapt, because the bronze man’s voice and manner were like a vibrant

magnetic force in the room.

A tall, powerful man with a thick neck, occupying a seat on the center aisle, where he could see Doc

Savage clearly, was the first to applaud on several occasions. He did so loudly, and once the bronze

man’s flake gold eyes rested on him for a moment.

Possibly the powerful, thick-necked man’s vociferous applauding accounted for the fact that Doc Savage

saw something that happened when the gathering in the Explorers League auditorium ended.

The incident created no turmoil. It attracted no notice from anyone, in fact, except Doc Savage. The

bronze man saw it.

The two stocky men walked up to the thick-necked man. One of the stocky pair, keeping his right hand

in his coat pocket, gouged the powerful man in the back with a hard object in the pocket.

"This is a gun, brother," he said. "If you don’t want your insides to leak out, you better come with us."

The man’s face was toward Doc Savage when he said that, and the light overhead was bright. Doc was

watching the man’s lips. And Doc Savage was an adept lip reader.

No flicker of emotion crossed the bronze mars face to show that he knew what had been said. However,

he did politely excuse himself from the group where he was standing. He moved to the left, skirted the

crowd swiftly.

The two stocky men and their prisoner left the auditorium, the captive walking stiffly, his face fixed. They

reached the sidewalk, turned right, moved to the corner. They waited until a traffic light changed, then

crossed with it into the park.

The park was a luxuriant green lung in the center of the darkened city. Farther south, and farther north,

where the bordering district was less exclusive, there were people on the benches, some sleeping on the

grass. But here, the park was almost empty.

Doc Savage, moving like a bronze ghost in the murk, vaulted the stone wall, vanished in the shrubbery. A

moment later, the bronze man stepped from behind a bush onto the path.

The two stocky men were taken completely by surprise. One groaned involuntarily as the gun was

crushed out of his fingers by a grip of terrific strength. There was a loud ripping and snapping sound as

Doc Savage grabbed the other man’s gun—the weapon was in an armpit holster; Doc gripped it through

coat fabric—and tore it out bodily, snapping the holster straps. The man, wrenched sidewise by the force

of the bronze man’s strength, stumbled over a bush, fell heavily.

THERE was a moment of startled silence. Doc Savage said nothing. He took the two guns, one at a

time—they were revolvers—and broke them. The cartridges splattered into the grass. He threw the guns,

one after the other, off to the left, toward the mirrored gleam of water in the moonlight. Two chugging

splashes came back, and the water rippled and danced for a moment, then became flat again.

Doc said, "Stand close together, you two."

The stocky pair got together, stood with their hands lifted shoulder-high.

The bronze man eyed them. He looked at their prisoner, the big man with the thick neck.

"None of you belong to the Explorers League," the bronze man said. "How did you get in?"

The thick-necked man suddenly pointed a hand at Doc Savage. There was a stubby black two-barreled

derringer in it, and the twin snouts of steel menaced the bronze man.

"You stand still!" said the thick man. "If you as much as bat an eye, I’ll blow you open, so help me!"

Doc Savage became rigid, motionless.

"Search him, Lon," ordered the thick-necked man. "And be damned careful. The guy is poison."

The stocky man, named Lon, patted his hands oven’s Doc’s clothing, reaching far out to do it, and his

hands, whenever they were on the motionless bronze man, trembling.

"Clean," he said. "He’s clean, Tiny."

Tiny said, "You go get the car, Bat."

Bat, frightened, said, "We’re calling too many names."

"It won’t make any difference," said Tiny grimly. "Go get the car."

Bat went away, breathing heavily. He headed in the direction of the street which bordered the park, and

his footsteps died away.

The large man with the thick neck, Tiny, watched Doc Savage intently.

"Nice trick, didn’t you think?" he asked.

"A good trick," Doc agreed.

"It took you in, didn’t it?" Tiny laughed the laugh of a scared man who was feeling desperate. "By

applauding, I got you to noticing me in the hall. When Bat and Lon closed in, they did it when they were

sure you would notice. But the lip-reading part of it was best of all, don’t you think?"

"You knew I could read lips?"

"Sure."

"What is the idea behind it?" Doc asked.

Tiny said, "Shut up!"

There followed three or four minutes of silence, then Lon muttered, "Here comes Bat with the car." Lon

sounded as if he was a little ill. He kept feeling of his ribs, his shoulder, where the holster straps had

bruised him when Doc snapped them. "I think I got two broken ribs," he said.

The car was a sedan, not an obtrusive one. It was black, with some chromium trim, and white-sidewall

tires. They got in. Lon sat on the right of Doc Savage; Tiny straddled the jump-seat, facing the bronze

man with his gun.

"Take that drive that cuts in toward the center of the park, Bat," Tiny said. "There won’t be any traffic

there this time of night."

The car moved. The muffler was loose, or the exhaust manifold, because the engine made a little more

noise than it should have. Otherwise the car seemed to be in good condition.

Doc Savage asked, "What is behind this?"

"You said that once before," Tiny growled. "Shut up."

"You intend to kill me?"

"Oh, no, no," Tiny said. "No, of course not."

He did. There was lie all through his voice.

Doc said quietly, "You might tell me why."

Lon growled, "Because a guy was going to come to you for help, and we didn’t want it that way. That’s

why."

"Shut up, Lon," Tiny snapped.

Doc Savage leaned back on the cushions and squirmed a little; he seemed to be relaxing. His feet were

close together, and one of them rubbed the other. A moment later, the heel came off his right shoe

without making enough sound to be noticed above the exhaust mutter of the engine. Doc stepped down

on the heel rather hard.

Then the bronze man’s body became slack, his eyes closing. He lay that way, his head rolling to the side.

"What the hell!" exclaimed Lon.

"Careful!" warned Tiny.

Lon leaned over, very cautiously, and put a hand over the bronze man’s mouth and nose. He held the

hand there for some moments.

"He ain’t breathin’!" Lon exploded.

"He’s fainted."

"They keep on breathing after they’ve fainted," said Bat. "Maybe it was his heart?"

Tiny growled with satisfaction. "What’s the difference? He’s out. Pull over on the side, Bat. And hand me

that thing of yours."

Bat asked, "You mean my knife?"

"Yes," Tiny said in a low voice. "Give me your knife."

And that was all they said.

Chapter II. THE MISSING MAN

PHIL O’REILLY was one of the younger members of the Explorers League, and he was proud of his

membership, although painfully aware that he probably had accomplished less than anyone else who

belonged to the League. He hoped to remedy that. He was a wide, powerful young man, rather serious,

with a good academic knowledge of general science. He happened to be quite wealthy.

He had been proud to receive an invitation to the Ten Year Medal presentation ceremonies.

For almost an hour now, he had prowled through the league clubrooms, seeking Doc Savage, and not

finding him.

He accosted a steward. "Have you seen Mr. Savage? It is rather important that I talk to him."

The steward shook his head. "I believe he’s gone."

"What about his two associates who were here?" Phil asked. "Monk—I mean, Lieutenant Colonel

Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. And Ham Brooks—Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. Do you

know them?"

"Oh, yes, I know them," said the steward. "Monk was the fellow who sat on the front row and

applauded, and Ham Brooks was the well-dressed man who punched him in the ribs." The steward

chuckled. "You should hear those two argue some time. The things they call each other!"

"Are they still here?"

"No. They left a few minutes ago."

Phil was disappointed. "I wanted to talk to Savage about Daniel Stage," he remarked, more to himself

than the steward. "I think I’ll try to telephone him at his headquarters."

Phil got on the telephone, put in a call. He recognized the squeaky, childlike voice that answered—it

belonged to the apish-looking Monk Mayfair, who, Phil happened to know, was one of the country’s

leading industrial chemists, in spite of the fact that there didn’t appear to be room for more than a

spoonful of brains in his head.

"Doc ain’t here. I dunno where he went," Monk said with ungrammatical carelessness. "What you want

with him?"

"I want to talk to him," Phil said. "I have an enormous admiration for Doc Savage."

"So have I," Monk said. "So has everybody who knows him. Who did you say you are?"

"Mr. Philip O’Reilly."

"Oh, yeah. That young squirt with a lot of money who is trying to be an explorer. I remember."

Phil, angered, said, "I am an explorer."

"Oh, sure. You crossed Africa in a Rolls-Royce and a trailer, complete with refrigerator and lace

curtains. I heard about it."

Phil reddened with indignation. That African venture had been his initial whirl at exploring, and the

newspapers had mortified him by calling it a luxury cruise, a joy jaunt, a plush-lined caravan, and other

things.

He snapped, "I want to talk to Mr. Savage about Daniel Stage."

"You mean Daniel Stage, the explorer who has been lost in the South American jungles. What about

him?"

"Daniel Stage was my friend."

"Yeah?"

"I am thinking about taking an expedition to hunt for him."

Monk snorted.

"Listen, sonny boy, you better stick to plush-cushion exploring," the homely chemist said. "Down where

Daniel Stage went, you won’t be driving a Rolls and a trailer."

"I’m perfectly competent!"

"Sure, we all think we’re competent," Monk said. "It would be a tough world if we didn’t. But you’ll find

out there’s a good reason why several thousand square miles of country down there are still unexplored."

"I called you up," snapped Phil, "to ask you if Doc Savage was there. Is he?"

"No, he ain’t."

"Thank you," Phil said, and hung up with an ill-tempered bang. Then he grinned wryly at the instrument. "I

guess I did turn out to be kind of a panty-waist explorer the first time," he muttered. "But, you homely

clown, you wait until I get another chance!"

He had a grim determination to win his spurs as an explorer, and not have to feel uncomfortable every

time he approached a group of old-timers, because he thought he detected traces of sly grins on their

faces. It was this which had started him toying with the idea of organizing an expedition to hunt Daniel

Stage.

He was thoughtful about the venture during the ride to his apartment in a taxicab.

In his hall, Phil O’Reilly came upon the man with the ugly face.

THE encounter was brief. But it was a cat-and-dog thing while it lasted. Phil O’Reilly, being richer than a

young man really should be, occupied a marble home facing the park. Tourists usually thought the place

was a museum. He pushed open his door, surprised to find it unlocked.

The man with the ugly face was crouched over the mailbox. The mailbox was placed at the side of the

door, with a slot that opened outside the house.

The man with the face whipped erect, whirled and ran down the hall. Apparently he had been taken by

surprise.

"Hey!" Phil yelled. "Stop, you!"

He hurled his evening stick. The cane whistled over and over through the air, hit the fleeing man, and

knocked him off stride. He slammed into the wall, went to his knees, skated along on all fours. But he

heaved up again, went on.

"Jonas!" Phil roared.

Jonas was the butler.

Lunging in pursuit of the man, Phil hesitated momentarily to scoop up his cane. He threw it again. This

time, he missed.

The man with the ugly face came to a big window in the back of the house, wrapped arms around his

face, and ran through the window as if it wasn’t there. Glass cascaded to the floor, leaving a big hole in

the window.

Phil got his cane again, leaped out into the night. There was a small lawn, tufted with shrubbery; an

entry-way led around to the street, where it was blocked by a high iron gate. The gate was easily

climbed.

Taking aim, Phil hurled his stick at the man as he went over the gate. Another miss. The stick hurtled on

out into the street and broke the window of a taxicab. The cab stopped; the driver stuck his head out and

said some words that probably had never been heard on that street before.

The man with the face ran like an antelope, bounding up and down. He rounded the nearest corner.

Phil climbed over the gate, raced to the corner. The quarry had disappeared.

A policeman arrived on the scene. He was the patrolman on the beat; he knew Phil, and he was

respectful.

"What did this intruder look like, sir?" he asked.

"His face," said Phil O’Reilly, "was the most hideous thing I ever saw on a human being. One half of it

seemed to be completely different from the other half. One half was a white man’s face, but the other

was—well, different."

"Different how?"

"Kind of thick-lipped, and foreign, and—well—" Phil wiped his face with a handkerchief while trying to

think how to describe the face. "Say, Casey, did you ever see the faces on them little images they dig up

in South American ruins?"

"You mean them things they got in the museum? Them Inca things?" the officer asked. "Sure, I seen ‘em."

"Well, the other half of this fellow’s face was like one of those."

"Hm-m-m." Casey was confused. "He must have been a right active guy," he added, looking at Phil’s

height and squareness.

He knew Phil O’Reilly had been collegiate champ in several branches of athletics. Phil was also quite

handsome—it was Phil’s secret and horrible suspicion at times that he was pretty, and he dressed in a

rough, tweedy fashion to overcome this.

"The man with the face," said Phil, "was as tough as a brass gorilla, and as active as a real one."

"I’ll look around," the cop promised. "If I find him, we’ll see if he can outrun a hunk of lead."

"Thanks, Casey," Phil said.

Going back to the house, Phil looked in the mailbox, and found the letter from Obidos, South America.

IT was a queer-looking letter. The covering was grayish black and felt like a rubber boot. And it was

rubber. The letter had been sealed inside a coating of crude-processed native rubber. The address was

on a tag, which was attached.

Phil eyed the foreign stamps, the cancellation marks, the grime on the tag, the queerly stilted printing of

the address. Then he got a knife and chopped the crude rubber covering loose at one end.

His eyes got round as he read one of two letters that were contained inside.

It was written on some kind of animal hide that resembled buckskin. The ink was a rather strange,

deep-violet color. The letter read:

Dear Phil:

This is an appeal for help. I am getting desperate. Also, it is not likely that I will be allowed to go on living

much longer.

You see, Phil, I have made a fantastic discovery here in the jungle. It is the most amazing thing any

explorer ever found. But now I cannot get away unaided. I have sent out other appeals for help, and

those men have tried to rescue me, and failed. They are here now, all of them—Joseph Branch, Elmo

Eagle, Kennedy, Baron Corby, Point-Mackey and Van Biltmore. They are here, and as helpless as

myself.

Any attempt to rescue us MUST BE KEPT SECRET. You do not understand why now, but you will.

I am getting this out by Kul, a messenger who can be trusted. He will wait to guide you here, if he is able

to get out with this.

Our lives depend on help, Phil. And you must keep it secret. The others let it be known they were

coming to rescue me, and that is why they never came back.

Daniel Stage.

Phil O’Reilly gaped at the missive unbelievingly. He was astounded. He had been planning an expedition

to rescue Daniel Stage. And here was a letter from the man!

The other note was shorter. It was scrawled on parchment in the same odd handwriting that was on the

tag bearing the address.

The note informed:

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THEMENVANISHEDADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEMANWITHTHEFACE?ChapterII.THEMISSINGMAN?ChapterIII.THETOUGHMR.MASKET?ChapterIV.THETRICKYMR.MASKET?ChapterV.TRAIL?ChapterVI.TROUBLELEADINGTOJUNITH?ChapterVII.THEREDMAN?ChapterVII...

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