Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 092 - Devils of the Deep

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DEVILS OF THE DEEP
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. A NEW FISH YARN
? Chapter II. MONK PULLS A BONER
? Chapter III. A CALL FOR PAYMENT
? Chapter IV. A NOSY REPORTER
? Chapter V. A PIRATE RAID
? Chapter VI. ANOTHER PAYS
? Chapter VII. HOW ONE HUNDRED DIED
? Chapter VIII. A TRAP FOR DOC
? Chapter IX. SPIES CLOSE IN
? Chapter X. MONK AND HAM GO HUNTING
? Chapter XI. THE RAIDER REPORTS
? Chapter XII. ONE AGAINST THE WORLD
? Chapter XIII. DOC GOES FISHING
? Chapter XIV. A WARNING
? Chapter XV. AN ESCAPE ATTEMPT
? Chapter XVI. A BAITED TRAP
? Chapter XVII. TRAPPED
? Chapter XVIII. A SENTENCE OF DEATH
? Chapter XIX. TRAITORS DIE
Chapter I. A NEW FISH YARN
DOC SAVAGE missed the start of it by only ten minutes. In fact, he was flying back from Central
America at the time, and went right over the place where the "sea serpent" first appeared. But he was too
early by just those few ticks of the clock.
That was the first bad break.
Doc did notice a party of fishermen as he swept up over the Gulf of Mexico headed toward New
Orleans on his fast flight northward. But there was nothing unusual about the fishermen-then, that is.
There was nothing to warn him of the drama about to occur.
Those on the fishing boat craned their heads upward as Doc’s golden-colored ship flashed overhead.
There were ten on the boat besides the captain and his helper. Most of them were visitors from the
North.
The captain shot a stream of tobacco juice carefully to leeward before he leaned back his
weather-beaten face. Then interest flickered in his wintry eyes.
"That’s Doc Savage’s ship," he announced. "Saw it when he come through here two weeks ago headed
south."
Excited exclamations came from others on the boat. From all, rather, except one man. He was a tall man
with a square face and ramrod back. He seldom spoke, but when he did his companions had noticed he
seemed to have a faint accent, although he used perfect English.
The tall man had taken only one quick glance above him, then he had turned back to watch his line. At
the sudden buzz of comment he looked up, puzzled.
"Who’s Doc Savage?" he asked harshly.
The captain’s jaw dropped. He didn’t think there was anyone who hadn’t heard of Doc Savage. He
gave the tall man a hard glance.
"Doc Savage is one of the greatest men in the world," the captain said flatly.
The tall man looked mildly amused. "So?" he queried politely.
The captain opened his mouth to answer. He didn’t get the chance. It seemed that every other man on
the boat had the same idea. They all started to talk at once. They all talked about Doc Savage.
Doc Savage, it seemed, was a man who spent his life fighting evil. He had defeated many bands of
desperate criminals and had had many thrilling adventures. In addition, he was a famous scientist and
surgeon.
"He’s been trained since he was a boy for the job he does," one of the fishermen explained earnestly.
"Every day he goes through a series of physical and mental exercises to keep fit."
"If I ever got into a jam, no matter how bad, and it seemed like no one in the world could help me, he’s
the guy I’d go see," another added solemnly.
The tall man shrugged, his restless eyes straying constantly toward the water. He apparently had lost
interest in the subject.
The captain regarded him narrowly. There was something about the tall man that didn’t ring quite true.
He’d been going out with fishing parties every day for the last two weeks, but he didn’t seem particularly
interested in fishing. Most of the time he just stood by the rail and watched the water. Hahln, he called
himself. A peculiar name and a peculiar man.
Anyone, the captain thought savagely, was peculiar who hadn’t heard of Doc and wasn’t interested in
him.
That was when the sea erupted under them. The captain forgot all about Hahln. He even forgot about
Doc Savage.
ACTUALLY, the fishermen decided later, the gigantic marine eruption that occurred wasn’t directly
under them. They wouldn’t have survived if it had been. But it was far too close for comfort.
That was the only thing any of the twelve aboard the boat did agree upon.
A startled scream from the man at the helm gave the first warning. The fishing boat shook violently as its
engine was thrown suddenly into reverse.
Then the water ahead of them was whipped into foam. What seemed to be huge, long tentacles flashed
up from the depths only to whip down again instantly.
Eleven of the twelve men were screaming, eyes popping in terror. Even the weather-beaten features of
the captain were panic-stricken.
The twelfth man was Hahln. He alone was silent-but he was far from inactive.
Hahln had been standing almost at the stern of the fishing boat. The attention of the others was centered
on what was going on ahead of them. No one was looking at Hahln.
Thus it was that no one saw him whip the camera from his pocket, focus it on the strange, terrifying
scene.
The camera was an expensive one. It took pictures almost as rapidly as if it had been designed for
movies.
A surprised, almost incredulous look was on Hahln’s square face. He pressed his finger on a button and
the camera went to work.
The sea was even more disturbed than before. There was a faint, rumbling sound also, barely discernible
above the roar of the boat’s engine. A huge object seemed almost to be jumping up and down not far
below the surface of the water. It sent big waves crashing against the fishing boat.
The captain had stopped yelling long enough to grab the helm himself. He spun the boat around, and it
was almost capsized when a wave caught it broadside. Then it righted itself, started racing toward shore.
Behind them, the water was quieting, but no one cared to suggest that they go back and investigate. All
had the same idea. They wanted to get away from there, and they wanted to get away fast.
"It was a giant octopus battling a whale!" one of the fishermen yelled excitedly.
"That was no octopus," shouted a red-faced lawyer from Philadelphia. "That was a sea serpent! And it
was headed right for us!"
The argument went on from there.
Opinion was divided almost equally between the sea serpent and the octopus theories. Those who
favored the latter story cited the tentaclelike appendages that had threshed out of the water. The
sea-serpent adherents insisted those had merely been arched loops of a big snake’s back.
Hahln alone took no part in the arguments. His camera had disappeared, but his big hands worked
nervously. His square features were taut, and his eyes bore a worried, anxious look.
When the fishing boat reached its pier at New Orleans, he slipped over the side and hurried away.
HAHLN was the only one who did get away immediately. The captain saw to that. The captain had been
doing a lot of thinking on the way back. He’d decided that this story, properly exploited, ought to get him
a lot of business.
As soon as the boat was moored he herded his party of fishermen into a small office on the pier and
called the newspapers.
At first he had difficulty getting anyone even to listen to him. Then he put a New York banker on the
phone. The banker’s name was enough to make news alone. That got action. Newspapermen and
photographers swarmed to the pier.
The stories that appeared were frankly humorous despite the banker’s solemn protestations of
truthfulness. One started:
SEA SERPENT-OR WAS IT
AN OCTOPUS?-SEEN IN GULF
A party of fishermen aboard the Conga returned from the Gulf today to tell a thrilling story of seeing a
giant sea serpent-or perhaps it was an even bigger octopus-battling a whale. The sea serpent-or
octopus-almost got the Conga as well when it stirred up such a rumpus that it created waves ten-or
perhaps twenty-feet high.
Captain Teold of the Conga, who swears his passengers drank nothing but water on their trip, bore out
their story and added some details of his own. He said-
One newspaper even hired a plane and took Captain Teold along to point out the exact spot where the
sea battle was supposed to have taken place. Later it printed a picture of a placid section of water.
Nothing was to be seen, not even from the air. But that wasn’t surprising, Teold pointed out, even if the
sea serpent or octopus, or whatever it was, still was about. The water was deep in that particular place.
Teold wasn’t taken seriously. The newspapers called it the best fish story of the year.
Teold didn’t mind. He found that a lot of people wanted to go out and look at the scene of the battle just
the same. His boat did a rushing business, even though none of the curious saw any more than was
shown in the newspaper picture.
There was one set of pictures, however, that would have created a real sensation had they been seen.
They were the pictures the tall man Hahln had taken. But the newspapers never saw those.
Hahln developed the films himself. He had a suite of rooms in the Kirkland Hotel and had fitted up the
bathroom so he could use it as a darkroom. The hotel management thought he was an amateur
photographer, evidently with a private income, since he never seemed to work. He also was known to
tinker with radio some, but nothing much was thought of that. Lots of people did the same.
Perspiration was on the tall man’s square face as he took the film from the fixing solution, rinsed it briefly,
then held it up before a light. After that his eyes became stony and his lips set in a tight line.
When the film was dry, he made an enlargement of one of the pictures and studied it closely. Once he
shook his head unbelievingly, but he could not dispute the evidence before him.
He put the picture aside and went to his radio set. The radio was his own property, not the one furnished
by the hotel. He unlocked the cabinet and took out a pair of earphones and a small microphone.
When he spoke, it was in a foreign language. He talked at some length and the tone of his voice showed
he was apologizing for something. After that, he listened. A voice crackled harshly in his ears.
Hahln’s fingers were trembling as he removed the earphones. He looked like a man who had just been
sentenced to death. He sat for a long time without moving.
IT was almost dusk when Hahln stirred again. He cleaned up the bathroom, emptying chemicals from
many bottles. Then he went through papers he had locked in a suitcase. A great many of these he
burned, making a small fire in the bathtub.
His clothes came next. Carefully he went over each suit he had, destroying tailors’ labels and laundry
marks. His face was a frozen mask.
When everything else was done, he turned to the radio. For long moments he looked at it. Once it
seemed he was going to don the earphones again. Then he changed his mind. He got a heavy boot and
smashed the tubes and inner works until not even an expert could have re-assembled the set or could
have told it could send as well as receive. After that he paced the floor, ten steps forward, a
right-about-face and back again. His back was still ramrod stiff, but his eyes showed pain.
His mind flashed back to the events of the day. Once again he could see "tentacles" lashing the water,
could hear the screams of frightened men.
It had all come so suddenly. Just a few minutes before a plane had passed overhead, a plane piloted by a
Doc Savage-
Hahln halted abruptly. A strange expression flashed over his square features. Then he leaped forward,
grabbed the picture he had printed, studied it once again. His lips split in a thin smile.
Ten minutes later he left the hotel. The night clerk nodded to him casually. Hahln smiled pleasantly.
At the corner he stopped. He took a big envelope from his pocket, dropped it into the mailbox.
The envelope was addressed to Doc Savage.
Chapter II. MONK PULLS A BONER
THE envelope was delivered to Doc Savage’s office on the eighty-sixth floor of one of New York City’s
tallest skyscrapers, the following afternoon. There was only one thing wrong about that. Doc wasn’t there
at the time.
That was the second bad break.
The envelope was received by a man who looked like an ape’s first cousin. Or possibly a brother. He
was heavy-set, with big shoulders, and long arms that reached below his knees. His fists were hairy, and
his face was so homely that it usually won grins of sympathy. Tiny eyes were set in pits of gristle. His big
nose had been flattened; his ears looked mournful.
It was easy to understand why Andrew Blodgett Mayfair was known as Monk.
Ordinarily, Monk had a most cheerful disposition. But he wasn’t cheerful now. He felt abused.
Doc had just returned from two weeks where the weather was hot. It was cold in New York, and Monk
had wanted to go along. Doc had thought otherwise. He was going on a confidential mission for the
government. So Monk had stayed in New York.
Monk was one of Doc Savage’s five aids. A famous chemist, he could have made a fortune in the
business world. But he preferred adventure. And he was loyal to Doc. The only trouble was, he didn’t
know the importance of the envelope that came in the afternoon mail.
The mail came direct to Doc’s office from the main post office by pneumatic tube. That was because
Doc daily got such a huge volume of mail.
When this batch arrived, Monk glanced at it with distaste. For two weeks he had been doing nothing but
receive and inspect mail. He was tired of it. There had been lots of letters-a majority asking money-but
nothing at all that had held any promise of action.
Now he wearily took his feet off the desk and got up. He started toward the mail. Then he stopped. A
sly grin crossed his homely features. He gave a low call.
A pig waddled out from under the desk. At least it might have been called a pig. It had a razor back, a
long snout and big ears. It also had a pair of unusually intelligent eyes.
"Habeas," Monk said solemnly, "the time has come to see whether you’re any danged good."
The hairy chemist moved swiftly. He produced a small silk hat, jammed it on the pig’s head. Then he
gave a command. Obediently, Habeas Corpus reared up on his hind legs. Monk stuck a small cane
under one of the pig’s front legs.
Habeas strutted across the room. He was still strutting when the door opened.
The man who came in seemed to strut just like the pig. He wore a silk hat. He carried a cane under one
arm.
MONK doubled over with explosive laughter. The newcomer halted, face frozen. But only for a
moment. Then he dived forward, arms swinging.
"Blast you, Monk, you offspring of the missing link!" he yelled furiously. "Teaching Habeas to imitate me
is the last straw."
Monk scuttled about the room, trying to evade the other’s onslaught and laugh at the same time. "B-but
daggonit, Ham!" he managed at last. "He does look like yuh."
Ham, otherwise Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard’s fashion-plate gift to the world,
grabbed the silk hat off Habeas’ head, slammed it to the floor angrily.
"At that, Habeas did look something like Ham," a new voice put in dolefully.
Ham whirled, glared at the thin, sallow-complexioned man who had followed him into the room. "Et tu,
Long Tom," he rasped.
Long Tom, the electrical wizard of Doc Savage’s band, grinned broadly. Known to scientists as Major
Thomas J. Roberts, Long Tom appeared a physical weakling. He was not very tall, his skin had an
unhealthy tint-but those who had tangled with him in the past knew that appearances were deceiving.
"Imagine a lawyer knowing two words of Latin," he gibed gently.
Ham sputtered wordlessly. Monk recovered himself with an effort. It had taken him two weeks to train
Habeas Corpus to strut properly wearing a hat and carrying a cane, but he thought the time well invested.
The only thing he liked to do better than quarrel with Ham was to fight, and there had been no fighting to
do.
Long Tom’s glance strayed to the unopened mail. He grunted, walked toward it.
Monk looked slightly abashed. He grabbed a major portion of the letters, started to open them rapidly.
The letter from New Orleans was near the bottom of the pile.
Monk examined the picture it contained without interest at first. There was no communication with it, but
on the back had been written:
This should be investigated.
The handwriting had an odd, foreign twist.
Monk took a second look at the picture. His small eyes lighted with curiosity. He recalled seeing a story
in a New York paper about the big sea serpent-or was it an octopus?-that had been seen off the
Louisiana coast.
A light flashed on a panel on the desk. Monk’s head shot up. That meant someone had entered Doc’s
private elevator, was shooting upward toward the eighty-sixth floor. A similar signal a few minutes before
had warned the hairy chemist of Ham’s approach.
Monk thought swiftly. He didn’t think there was anything to the sea-serpent yarn, but he did want an
excuse to make a trip South. If he showed the picture to Doc, it was more than probable that Doc would
point out that it was a fake. The hairy chemist folded the picture swiftly, put it in a coat pocket.
That was where he made his boner.
A moment later Doc Savage entered the office.
CLARK SAVAGE, JR., seen alone, did not give the impression either of height or of exceptional
muscular development. It was only when he was in a crowd that these features stood out. But his
bronzed skin, set off by hair only a shade lighter, was, alone, enough to attract attention. His eyes,
however, were the most striking item of his appearance.
Those eyes seemed pools of flaked gold, compelling and piercing.
His aids swooped toward him, shaking his hands, shouting questions. It had only been two weeks since
they had seen him, but they acted as if it had been two years.
It was some time before peace was restored.
"Did anything occur during my absence?" Doc asked finally. His voice was low, but it had a peculiar
carrying quality.
Monk gulped. "No, daggonit," he replied truthfully. The hairy chemist hesitated. "B-but, Doc," he
ventured, "you probably saw the story about that sea serpent near New Orleans. Ham and Long Tom
and me thought we’d like tuh go down and inquire about it, even if we do know there ain’t no such
animal."
Ham had difficulty in keeping his face straight. Long Tom opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed
it. He was tired of the cold also.
"Of course," the bronze man said. He apparently had little interest.
His three aids started immediate plans for their departure. Long Tom rushed out to a sporting-goods
house to buy some fishing tackle.
All of them took it as a joke.
None of them saw anything unusual about it when Doc Savage suggested they rent a plane for the trip
instead of using one of the ships he owned. They understood that the bronze man might have sudden
need for one of his planes.
And none of the three grumbled much when Doc asked them to wait another day before leaving, while he
went to Washington and made a report there.
The first indication Monk had that Doc had thought about the purpose of their trip at all came shortly
before their departure.
Doc called Monk aside. "One of the fishermen who saw the ‘sea serpent’ must have had a camera," Doc
said quietly, his gold-flecked eyes on Monk’s homely face. "Make every effort to find and obtain a
picture if one were taken."
Monk gulped. The picture in his pocket seemed burning a hole in his coat. But the hairy chemist still
didn’t believe there could be anything to the yarn.
"Sure, Doc," he blurted.
All the way to the airport he wondered if Doc had added mind reading to his other accomplishments.
He paid no attention at all to the rather grimy-faced pilot who lifted their rented plane into the air, headed
it toward New Orleans.
The third bad break came little more than an hour later. The plane developed motor trouble as they
neared Washington. After they landed, the grimy-faced pilot told them it would be morning before it was
O. K. to go on.
After his three passengers had departed, the pilot went to a telephone booth. He made several
long-distance calls. One of them was to New Orleans.
A LOW fog had rolled in from the Gulf when two boats left the New Orleans water front, several hours
later that night. Both boats left as silently as possible, seemed anxious to avoid attracting attention.
One was a large cabin cruiser. It contained at least thirty men. The other, little more than a sea sled, had
a single occupant.
The big cabin cruiser headed directly out into the Gulf. The small sea sled trailed at a discreet distance, its
motor muffled.
There was little conversation on the cruiser. In the bow were three men. Their shapes and features were
almost hidden by slickers and oilskin hats. Their attitudes were furtive, almost fearful. When one leaned
over to light a cigarette under protection of his slicker, the others growled warning.
Toward the stern, and in the cabin of the cruiser, the other passengers huddled patiently. They seemed to
have little interest in what was to occur.
In only one thing were these passengers alike. Each one of them was armed. Some carried guns in
shoulder holsters. Others had automatics tucked in the tops of their trousers. All looked capable of using
those guns.
The pilot of the cruiser apparently knew exactly where they were going. There was a chart before him,
but only occasionally did he glance at it.
Once they were well out into the Gulf, the cruiser’s speed increased. Behind them, the lone occupant of
the sea sled increased speed also. When the fog rolled thick, there would be long minutes when the sea
sled’s pilot lost sight of the cruiser. Apparently that did not worry him greatly. He, also, seemed to have a
general idea of their destination.
Beside him he cuddled a submachine gun.
When the cruiser finally slowed, it was near the spot where the fishermen had seen the "sea serpent."
The three men in the bow of the boat went into action without words. Each produced a heavy rod and
reel. With various degrees of skill they made their casts.
Several things were unusual about both the fishermen and the equipment they were using. For one thing,
there was no bait attached to their lines. For another, their "lines" were of thin, tough copper. The weights
to carry those lines down also were of copper.
For some minutes they made their casts. A curious tension settled over the cruiser, was apparent in the
stiff, intent postures of those watching the fishermen.
Then came a low, gratified grunt from one of the three in the bow. He tugged hard on his line, but nothing
happened.
His companions reeled in swiftly, laid their rods aside. Then one pushed forward what appeared to be a
heavy, squat box. A low, humming noise filled the air.
There was a tremendous disturbance under the water. A huge, whalelike object shot up, stood high in the
air for a moment, then came down with a crash.
It was only seconds after that when the first shots came.
THE lone occupant of the sea sled had stopped only a hundred yards behind the cruiser, invisible in the
fog. The man winced as he heard the shots. One hand reached out for the submachine gun, only to relax.
The man smiled bitterly.
Cautiously he broke out a pair of oars, pushed the sea sled forward. After a while he could make out the
bulk of the big cabin cruiser.
Lights were flashing on the cruiser now. Men appeared to be jumping back and forth in some kind of
frenzied desperation.
Once the lone watcher thought he saw a diver go over the side of the cruiser, but it was difficult to make
out individual details.
The low hum that had come from the cruiser had ceased, but there were other sounds just as difficult to
understand. Once there was a heavy rasping, as if a huge hawser were being hauled over the wooden
side of a boat. Metal clanking sounded clearly.
For a second time, the lone watcher brought the submachine gun forward. He pressed it against his
shoulder, hesitated, then squeezed the trigger.
The sound, magnified by the fog, was like the roar of a thousand riveting machines. Hot lead bounced off
metal with queer, whining wails.
Somewhere ahead a man screamed frantically.
The submachine gun shut off. The motor of the sea sled thundered with sudden life. It scooted off in a
frantic half-circle as a rain of lead poured toward it.
The battle raged for some time. The man on the sea sled had the advantage of speed and of being
practically invisible. Those on the cruiser had the advantage of numbers.
The cruiser was the first to retreat. It headed back to New Orleans, guns still roaring.
The occupant of the sea sled did not pursue. Instead, he headed toward the spot where he had seen the
huge, whalelike object flash up from the sea.
Chapter III. A CALL FOR PAYMENT
THE sea battle attracted little attention. One New Orleans newspaper did get a telephone call from an
excited boatman saying he had heard a lot of shots, but no one believed him.
The newspaperman who took the call decided the fellow merely was trying to cut in on the "sea serpent"
publicity. He didn’t print the story.
Consequently, Monk, Ham and Long Tom knew nothing about it as they took off from Washington in
their rented plane. None was in a very pleasant mood, anyway.
Ham and Long Tom had spent much of the evening arguing with Monk. They had protested that Doc
should be given more details of what they were after. The hairy chemist insisted they didn’t know they
were after anything and that he didn’t want a vacation trip interrupted.
They were still arguing when they reached the airport. If their pilot was interested in the least, his features,
still grimy, showed nothing.
As they were walking toward the plane, the pilot tripped and fell against Monk. He regained his balance
almost at once, but Monk howled at him angrily, anyway. Monk wouldn’t admit it, but his conscience
was bothering him also.
"Daggonit, for two cents I’d toss you over the fence and pilot this crate myself," the hairy chemist barked.
The pilot shrugged, busied himself stowing luggage into the baggage compartment. It seemed to take him
quite a while.
As he was going toward the cockpit, the pilot stumbled again. For a second time he lurched into Monk.
It took the combined efforts of Ham and Long Tom to quiet the chemist. In fact, the plane was in the air
before Monk stopped yelling.
Then a sudden thought seemed to strike Monk. One huge paw plunged toward his inside coat pocket.
He breathed a sigh of relief as he found he still had the picture he’d received from New Orleans.
Ham saw Monk’s grab, understood what it meant. The dapper lawyer’s features furrowed. It was
strange the pilot had stumbled twice, and each time against Monk.
"One of us better keep an eye on that pilot, at that," he decided.
Long Tom twisted uneasily. "I’d feel better if Doc was along," the electrician admitted.
IN New Orleans, a tall man with ramrod back was also thinking of Doc Savage. But his thoughts were
different from Long Tom’s.
Hahln’s square features were set in hard lines. He walked down the street swiftly. One hand gripped the
butt of the gun concealed in his coat pocket.
"This Doc Savage is overrated," Hahln thought bitterly. But then a thin smile cut his square features. He
shrugged. "It is just as well," he told himself. "I now know all that I care to know. I can handle the rest of
it myself-and without danger of interference."
Hahln walked on rapidly, turning off onto a side street. He halted before an ancient office building. Hahln
摘要：

DEVILSOFTHEDEEPADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.ANEWFISHYARN?ChapterII.MONKPULLSABONER?ChapterIII.ACALLFORPAYMENT?ChapterIV.ANOSYREPORTER?ChapterV.APIRATERAID?ChapterVI.ANOTHERPAYS?ChapterVII.HOWONEHUNDREDDIED?ChapterVIII.ATRA...

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