Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 091 - The Purple Dragon

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THE PURPLE DRAGON
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. A KIDNAPING
? Chapter II. THE DEAD LIVE AGAIN
? Chapter III. GUNS SPEAK
? Chapter IV. A SPOTTER SPOTTED
? Chapter V. AN ODD CONFESSION
? Chapter VI. MONK FINDS A TRAP
? Chapter VII. STRANGE CALLERS
? Chapter VIII. AN EXPLANATION
? Chapter IX. A PREHISTORIC BATTLE
? Chapter X. AN UNEXPECTED WELCOME
? Chapter XI. A STRANGE JOURNEY
? Chapter XII. DOC TAKES A CHANCE
? Chapter XIII. THE ANKLE CLUE
? Chapter XIV. DEATH SENTENCE
? Chapter XV. HELD FOR MURDER
? Chapter XVI. DEATH IN THE PIT
? Chapter XVII. RENNY GETS KISSED
? Chapter XVIII. AN ALARM SOUNDS
? Chapter XIX. THREE AGAINST A MOB
? Chapter XX. THE DRAGON BREATHES
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. A KIDNAPING
THE vanishing of Hiram Shalleck did not get the attention it should have received.
He disappeared one night from a small Colorado town, where he had been a local citizen for ten years,
and he was not seen again. No one in the little Colorado town associated a newspaper story that broke
in Chicago some days later with Hiram Shalleck, and no one dreamed that he played a role in a rather
weird affair that received nation-wide notice not long afterward. Hiram Shalleck's disappearance
naturally occasioned some comment, and the sheriff and other peace officers made discreet inquiries, but
learned nothing that they considered particularly significant.
One thing which the sheriff of the Colorado town discovered in the course of his investigation was that no
one could recall hearing Hiram Shalleck mention anything about his life previous to the time he had
appeared in Lamar—the town was Lamar—ten years before. Although voluble and well-read on current
affairs, Hiram Shalleck had shunned all reference to his earlier history. A stocky, broad-shouldered man,
blue-eyed and fair-haired, Hiram Shalleck had appeared in Lamar, carrying a battered suitcase, his
arrival creating no comment. Little notice had been taken ten years ago when Hiram Shalleck purchased
a lunch wagon and opened it for business. He got little trade at first, but after a while his lunch wagon
served as a hangout for schoolboys, and parents never had any cause to complain. Hiram with unfailing
good humor, kept any spirit of rowdiness to a minimum, and would not allow even an adult to take an
intoxicating drink in his place.
The sheriff was a thorough man—he found that the lunch wagon was locked securely, that there was
even some small change in the cash register. Hiram had occupied a small sleeping room at the rear of the
lunch wagon. Clothes were hanging neatly in a small closet and in a small bureau; there was no sign of
disorder. There wasn't a single personal item in the room to show Hiram Shalleck had a living friend or
relative—or enemy—outside of Lamar.
There was one strange thing—but the sheriff didn't pay much attention to it.
Shalleck evidently was a great admirer of a man named Clark Savage, Jr., and known as Doc Savage.
He had clipped a great many newspaper and magazine articles relating to Doc Savage, and had several
books the latter had written. The sheriff, of course, was convinced Shalleck could have had no real
connection with Doc Savage. But the sheriff was wrong, surprisingly wrong.
ON the night he vanished, two men appeared at Hiram Shalleck's lunch wagon, coming openly, driving
an old touring car. It was only ten o'clock, but already most of the town was asleep. The arrival of the
two men was not noticed.
One of the men got out of the car and went inside. He was a small man, excellently dressed, and a
pencil-thin mustache decorated his upper lip, while a green silk handkerchief was tucked in his breast
pocket. The man walked to the counter, stood there, and when Hiram turned around, the man held a gun
in his hand.
Hiram's eyebrows lifted, but otherwise his stolid features showed no emotion. "If this is a holdup, you're
in for slim pickings," he said. "There ain't ten bucks in the cash register."
The small man's thin lips split in a humorless smile. "Still the same old kidder, aren't you, Joe?" he said
conversationally. "No, I ain't down to ten-buck holdups yet. Close this flytrap and grab your hat. We're
taking a little trip."
Hiram's big shoulders went up and down. "My name's not Joe, and I don't know what you're talking
about," he said flatly. "But you've got the winning argument in your hand."
"You were always smart, Joe," the other chuckled. He emphasized the name Joe, and his small eyes
twinkled, as if over some secret joke.
Hiram said nothing more. Methodically, he finished straightening up, so the place would be ready to open
in the morning, for Hiram Shalleck did not yet know that he would not see his lunch wagon or Lamar
again.
The street outside was deserted. When they reached the car, the driver looked up from under a slouch
hat. "Any trouble, Dude?" he asked lazily.
The dapper little man chuckled again. "The big mutt doesn't know what's ahead of him. He was gentle as
a lamb."
Hiram Shalleck might have tried to get away then, but had no chance, for Dude jammed his gun hard in
Hiram's ribs, forced him into the rear seat of the car. The driver said nothing more, but seemed to know
where he was going, for he headed south, taking the road toward Springfield and the open prairie, and,
once outside the town, increasing the car's speed. They drove almost ten miles, then turned west on a
road that was little more than a trail, bumping along for a mile or so.
Then they reached the plane. It was standing on the flat, rolling prairie, far enough from any house that its
arrival and departure would not be noticed.
Two men appeared from inside of the plane and strolled forward; one evidently being the pilot, while the
second held a sawed-off shotgun.
"Get out!" Dude ordered.
Hiram got out and the man with the shotgun put aside his weapon while he tied Hiram's hands behind
him. Dude spoke to the driver of the car. He said. "You know what to do. Drive to Dallas, sell that car,
then meet us as planned."
Hiram could stand it no longer. "W-where are you takin' me?" he asked thickly.
"To meet an old friend of yours," Dude said.
"More than that," the pilot added, and there was something like awe in his voice suddenly, awe mingled
with fear, as he added, "You're going to meet the Purple Dragon."
HIRAM SHALLECK was tied firmly to a seat, and the plane took off. Strangely enough, some of the
worry had vanished from his features, and, instead, he looked puzzled, and confident, also. "I don't know
what you're talking about," he declared. "You can't scare me with silly talk about a Purple Dragon. What
the hell do you think I am, a dope? And besides, I know a guy named Doc Savage. Friend of mine. Ever
hear of him?"
"Doc Savage!" Dude jeered softly. "Just who would he be?"
Hiram Shalleck's jaw dropped. "You mean to say you never heard of him?"
"Sure, I've heard of him. I was kidding you," Dude said scornfully. "I have heard a few mentions of him.
But that false alarm couldn't help you."
"Evidently you don't know Savage," Hiram Shalleck said.
The guard with the shotgun stirred uneasily. "Shut 'im up, Dude! Him talkin' about that guy Savage gives
me the creeps."
Dude laughed, but his eyes narrowed. "Savage won't know nothing about this," he said harshly. "And
even if he did, he couldn't do nothing about it."
Hiram Shalleck's blue eyes glowed stubbornly. "You'll see," he said. "You'll find out that Savage—"
"Shut up!" Dude snarled. "You talk too much, Joe." He opened a bag and took out a hypodermic needle.
Alarm showed on Hiram Shalleck's flat features as the needle was jabbed into his arm. He opened his
mouth to say something, but the words were kept back by a hand jammed over his mouth, and after a
time he went to sleep.
He never knew how long he slept or where the plane took him—in fact, his memory of many things
ceased at that moment. He did know when he recovered consciousness. He was in complete darkness,
and at first he thought he must be asleep in his own bed in the back of the lunch wagon, for he had
suffered no ill effects at all from the drug that had been given him.
Then he knew that was wrong. He was seated in a chair. He tried to move. It was then he first felt panic.
He wasn't tied in any way, but his muscles refused to obey him.
What he didn't know was that he had been given a second hypodermic injection, one that had brought
him back to consciousness, but which acted like an injection of spinal anaesthesia, deadening his muscles
so he could not move.
A few minutes later, he thought he had gone crazy.
THE light came first. It came slowly and faintly—hardly noticeable at all to begin with. It was a purple
light.
As it grew stronger, Hiram Shalleck could make out that he was seated in a chair in the center of a large
room. There was a thick carpet on the floor, but otherwise the room was bare of all furnishings.
He could not see where the light came from at all. It appeared to seep from the ceiling and walls.
Directly in front of him, some fifteen feet away, was a raised platform. Peculiar curtains, seemingly of
asbestos, shrouded this platform. These curtains were drawn aside suddenly by invisible hands. And in
the same instant a sheet of flame burst forth.
The flame roared directly at Hiram Shalleck. He felt its hot breath on his face. He opened his mouth to
scream. His mouth remained open, his blue eyes terrified and horror-stricken.
For then he saw the Purple Dragon!
Dude was crouched outside the room where Hiram was held. There was a look of fear in the little man's
eyes, but he seemed held to his spot by some irresistible attraction.
Sounds, strange sounds, came from inside the room. Perspiration gathered in big drops on Dude's
forehead, to roll unnoticed down features that gradually grew white.
Then Dude could stand it no more. As if fighting a power stronger than himself, he raced away from the
door, made his way to the darkness of the night outside.
Dude considered himself hard. Others did, also. They had seen Dude murder with no more feeling than
he displayed in killing a fly. But now Dude was sick. He was very sick.
Chapter II. THE DEAD LIVE AGAIN
HIRAM SHALLECK awoke to find he was suffering a terrific headache. His mouth had a terrible taste,
and for a time he lay quiet, suffering. Slowly his temper began to rise.
It undoubtedly had been some party the night before. Everything indicated that. His eyes opened slowly,
only to close again as the bright glare of sunlight brought even more pain to his head.
But the one look had been enough. He was in a hotel room some place, but it wasn't a room he knew.
From all indications he must have left the bunch he'd been with, left his own gang, then mixed with
strangers. They'd given him a knockout drop, probably had rolled him, then put him to bed in a strange
hotel.
He got out of bed painfully and started toward clothes that were strewn over a chair. He didn't get there.
He turned instead, and made a dive for the bathroom. He was terribly sick for a while, but then he felt
better.
Wavering a little, he returned to the clothes. A puzzled look crossed his flat face as he examined them.
The clothes weren't his. He'd never seen them before. In fact, they were of a style he wouldn't be caught
dead in, knowingly. These were blue serge, cut on conservative lines. He preferred clothes you could see
coming, with slash pockets and wide-flaring pants cuffs.
He felt in the pockets. There was a small roll of one-dollar bills. That was all, no letters, no
keys—nothing to prove his identity.
Scowling, he started to dress. It must have been some party, he decided. He only remembered parts of
it. But there had been one exceptionally pretty girl present. He remembered that, all right. A faint smile
tugged at his lips. Called herself Marcella. His smile broadened. He intended to see Marcella again.
He turned toward a mirror to adjust his tie—and, halted in amazement. For a moment he stood perfectly
still, too surprised to move. Then he leaned forward, stared unbelievingly at what he saw.
The face reflected in the mirror was his face, all right, no question about that. But it wasn't the face he
remembered from the day before. There were lines in it he'd never noticed before. He seemed fuller,
fatter, someway, and not as hard as he had been.
He shrugged finally, and turned away. He'd have to see a barber, get a face massage. That was the
answer. He'd just been on too many late parties, had been drinking too much. Sure, that was all.
But just the same a faint uneasiness gripped him, a strange feeling of something wrong that he couldn't
down.
ONE familiar thing was missing, he noticed, as he completed dressing, and that worried him also. His gun
and shoulder holster were gone.
That made him feel half-dressed. He hadn't gone without that rod for years. In fact, it wasn't safe to go
without it.
For a moment he thought of calling one of the boys, of having a gun sent up to him. Then he remembered
that he didn't even know just where he was.
But it wasn't that which stayed him as much as it was the thought of how the mob might laugh. And he
didn't like ridicule. He should be able to get out O. K. and get a rod without letting anyone know of the
fix he was in.
He looked at his hands. They were trembling slightly. It wasn't altogether from the hangover, he decided,
but a drink would do him good.
He slipped out of the hotel and found he was on State Street in Chicago. That didn't surprise him. He'd
known all along that he was in Chicago. Somehow the street looked a little unfamiliar, but he couldn't tell
at first why it seemed changed. He knew exactly where he was, knew he was within a block of a favorite
speak-easy.
He'd walked half of that block before he realized what it was that made things seem different. He
stopped, and perspiration began to come out in beads on his round, flat face. He felt sure he must be
going nuts.
It was the automobiles on the street that were different. They were radically different. They weren't like
the cars he'd seen the day before, certainly weren't like his own high-powered job. These were lower,
sleeker models.
His mouth was dry, his eyes staring.
Something was wrong.
Hiram Shalleck almost ran the rest of the way down the block and around the corner. He needed that
drink, and needed it badly. When he got to the state where he saw autos different from what autos
should be, then he must be very close to where he'd be sent away to spend the rest of his life cutting out
paper dolls.
Unheedingly, he brushed other pedestrians from his path. He barely saw them. He paid no attention to
women's indignant stares or men's muttered curses.
He dived through open doors, raced to a bar. "A strong one, Mike. Make it a double," he gasped.
He drank two in rapid succession before he saw it wasn't Mike behind the bar. His eyes narrowed, he
glanced around warily. Then his eyes closed and his features paled.
"Another one, quick," he said, and his voice sounded strangled.
Cautiously he opened his eyes and looked around again. He merely confirmed what he had seen the first
time.
A stranger was behind the bar. The bar itself was entirely new to him. There were new fixtures, there was
a sign in the window advertising drinks. The bartender broke in on his thoughts.
"That'll be a dollar five," the bartender said.
Hiram Shalleck was fumbling in his pockets before he remembered that he didn't have to pay for
drinks—not in this section of town, anyway. Mike might have bought new equipment, might even have a
new bartender, but that didn't change things any.
"Put it on the cuff," he snarled.
The bartender was a short man with a big belly. He had a round face that had been soured along with his
disposition after many years of listening to other people's troubles. He didn't change expression in the
least. Still looking sour he reached down, came up with a battered baseball bat, one ordinarily used to
pack down ice.
"It's still a dollar five, chum," he repeated.
Hiram Shalleck swallowed hard, moved his big shoulders. The bartender waved the bat. Hiram Shalleck
changed his mind, reached for the one-dollar bills in his pocket.
This fresh bartender would learn soon enough he had made a mistake, Shalleck told himself fiercely. But
at that, he hadn't been in this speak for some time; maybe he'd better try and find out what the score was
before he got tough. Everything had been so strange.
"When'll Mike be back?" he growled.
The bartender shrugged. "Don't know what Mike you're talkin' about, chum," he replied indifferently. He
rang up a dollar five on the cash register.
Hiram Shalleck felt his temper getting away from him in spite of himself. "Mike Peacock, the mug that
owns this place," he half shouted.
The bartender's sour face became even more acid. "Never heard of him," he said shortly.
"Never heard—" Hiram Shalleck choked. His flat face became crimson. He said several words never
heard in polite society. "I suppose you never heard of prohibition either," he concluded with broad
sarcasm.
"Not recently," the bartender returned without interest. He picked up Shalleck's empty glass. "Want
another, or do you want to go on telling jokes?"
HIRAM SHALLECK closed his eyes. He kept them closed for a long time. Cautiously, so the bartender
wouldn't see him, he took hold of one leg, and pinched, hard. Then he winced. He felt it all right. That
proved he wasn't asleep, that he wasn't having a nightmare of some kind.
Still with his eyes closed, he signaled for another drink.
He wasn't asleep and he wasn't crazy, he assured himself desperately. But if that was true, then what the
hell was the matter?
Usually, with several drinks under his belt, he could recall everything that had happened to him the night
before, no matter how drunk he had been.
That was another funny thing. This time he could only bring up dim flashes of what had gone on. There
had been a big party. He knew that. A lot of his friends had been there. He was sure of that, also,
although for some strange reason he couldn't seem to recall just which ones of the boys had been
present.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, grabbed the drink in front of him and gulped it down.
"Another," he said thickly.
"Cash," the bartender returned tersely.
Hiram Shalleck dug for cash.
The last drink was doing something to him. He could feel the hot liquor coursing through his veins, roaring
in his head.
And suddenly he knew that he should be afraid!
His eyes snapped open, he looked around fearfully. He was alone in the saloon, with the exception of the
bartender. He breathed a little easier.
How could he have forgotten, he wondered, no matter what had gone on. He should be in hiding, he
shouldn't be running around town like this. For all he knew he'd already been seen, would walk into a
spot as soon as he left the speak.
Then he sighed with sudden relief. Maybe that explained the clothes he wore, his changed appearance.
His friends had done that for him, had fixed him so he wouldn't be recognized.
Sure, that must be it. He laughed jerkily, from his sudden release from fear.
But just the same he would have to be careful. Pinkle and Gunsey had friends who might try to square
things for them.
Hiram Shalleck's blue eyes narrowed as he thought of Gunsey. The little rat had actually cried and
pleaded for his life, as though that would do any good. Pinkle had had more nerve. He had still been
cursing when a bullet crashed through his brain.
That had been a clean job. Shalleck thought with satisfaction. No one had seen him pick the two up.
He'd actually made Gunsey drive the car, had made the little rat take himself on his last ride.
The bartender was looking at Shalleck curiously. He hesitated for a moment when Hiram called for
another drink, then gave it to him.
Shalleck didn't notice. He was remembering things now. He was remembering how the newspapers had
put up another howl about gang rule when Pinkle and Gunsey's bodies had been found.
Naturally, there was gang rule. Why not? And he was one of the big shots, or would be some day.
Let's see, it must have been two weeks since he'd taken Pinkle and Gunsey on their little trip, but the
newspapers still were yelling about it.
Shalleck grinned with pleased anticipation. He whirled toward the bartender. "Got a morning paper—the
Trib or Herald-Examiner?" he asked.
"The Herald-Examiner ain't been published since last year," the bartender grunted sourly, "but here's a
Trib."
Hiram Shalleck paid no attention to the first part of the bartender's statement. He grabbed eagerly at the
newspaper the other brought out from under the bar, scanned it swiftly.
Slowly, his face fell. There was nothing there about gang killings. Most of it seemed to be about fighting
some place in Europe or Asia. When had that started? And who cared, anyway? Had this smart punk of
a barkeep tried to pull some trick on him?
He started to bellow out angrily. Quite by chance, his eyes fell on the date in the masthead of the paper.
His mouth stayed open, everything seemed to swim about him.
The date read: "August 1, 1940."
HIRAM SHALLECK stood as though frozen, his eyes wild and staring. He stood there so long that the
bartender began to worry. This mug had acted like a nut ever since he had come in. Perhaps he was
getting ready to stage an insane riot. The bartender's fist closed over the end of the battered baseball bat.
Shalleck paid no heed. Words were coming from his numbed lips now. Mumbled words that didn't make
sense.
"Nineteen forty. It ain't. It can't be. It was nineteen twenty-nine last night. Twenty-nine. Forty.
Twenty-nine from forty leaves eleven."
He thought that over for a minute. How could it have been 1929 last night and be 1940 this morning?
The answer was that it couldn't have been.
He was insane. That had to be it. Either insane or not—
Shalleck stopped trembling. His eyes became hard and shrewd. He looked fiercely at the plump
bartender. The bartender took a firmer grip on the ball bat.
"Pullin' a fast one, huh, wise guy?" Hiram rapped. "It won't work." He laughed mirthlessly.
It was all clear now—or at least it seemed to be. This was all a plant. Everything had been a plant. Pals
of Gunsey and Pinkle must have been behind this. It was all being staged to make him think he was crazy.
He shoved his glass across the bar. "Fill it up," he roared.
One more drink and he'd get out of this place, duck out the back way, if need be, then look up some of
the boys. After that he'd pay a visit to those who had known Gunsey and Pinkle, would find out who was
behind all of this. And after that—
His lips cut back in a hard grin. No easy death for those boys, like a bullet in the brain. They'd go out the
hard way. Try to make him think he was nuts, would they?
Hair rose suddenly on the back of his head. His hand stopped halfway to his lips. He thought frantically
of the gun he should have been carrying. The door to the speak had opened and closed. Two men had
entered.
He tried to keep his hands from trembling. Maybe this wasn't the payoff. Maybe these weren't gunmen
coming after him.
Desperately, his eyes flashed to the mirror back of the bar, caught the reflection of the two men who had
entered. One of those men had stepped up on either side of him.
Shalleck's glass dropped from nerveless fingers. It broke when it hit the bar, spilling the untouched drink.
He didn't even hear it. His eyes were bulging, his overtaxed brain was trying to credit something that just
couldn't be so.
On one side of him stood Gunsey, whom he'd last seen sprawled beside a road dead from two bullets in
the brain. On the other side stood Pinkle. And Pinkle also was dead.
Chapter III. GUNS SPEAK
THE bartender's sour face was puzzled. He looked at the two newcomers curiously. They paid no
attention to him. They were staring fixedly at the heavy-set figure between them.
The bartender thought he had never seen a man look as scared as the heavy-set guy did. His features
were bloodless, he was hanging on to the edge of the bar to keep from falling.
For the first time, the bartender noticed that there was something familiar about the erratic customer who
had downed drinks in such rapid succession. For that matter, it seemed to him that he should recognize
the last two men who had come in.
Despite his sour expression, the bartender had his pride. His chief boast was that he never forgot a
customer's face. It bothered him that he couldn't identify these three. Sometime, some place, he was sure
he must have encountered them.
A scowl creased his fat features as he tried to think when and where that had been. It hadn't been
recently, he knew. It had been a long time ago.
He looked again at the heavy-set guy and felt mild surprise. The guy was losing his scared expression,
was actually looking as if he felt greatly relieved.
Hiram Shalleck looked first at the man on his right, then at the one at his left. He smiled with false
joviality, then pounded the bar with his fist.
"Hey, punk! Set 'em up for my two pals here," he ordered.
The bartender hustled to obey. He strained his ears to hear what would be said next.
The thin, evil face of Gunsey turned toward Shalleck. The little man held one hand suggestively in a
pocket.
"So we're pals now, are we?" he sneered. "The last time we saw you—"
Shalleck interrupted with a nervous laugh. "Just a little prank of mine," he explained swiftly. "You two
know I wouldn't hurt you."
Pinkle lifted his hat significantly. There was a white bandage around his head.
Hiram Shalleck's big shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh of pure relief. His last doubt had been dissipated.
He wasn't crazy—he was just the victim of an odd string of circumstances.
Gunsey and Pinkle undoubtedly were going to try and take him for a ride. Even that was all right. He'd
figure how to get out of that as time went on. It was enough for the moment to know that the world was
back on its regular orbit. And that meant the newspaper he'd just looked at must be a fake, also. It was
still 1929. It couldn't be 1940.
"You guys sure fixed up a nice plant for me," he said, and tried to make his voice admiring. "For a time
you had me thinking I was crazy. This newspaper was a clever touch. Why, it even had me thinking it
was 1940."
Pinkle picked up the drink in front of him, sipped it slowly. "It is," he said calmly.
Shalleck's mouth dropped open, but only for a moment. Then he grinned weakly. "That's O. K., Pinkle.
Have your fun. But don't rub it in."
Pinkle set down his empty glass. His other hand came out of his coat pocket. There was a gun in the
hand. He held it down low, hidden by the bar.
"My fun is just beginning," he said flatly. "Take it easy now, just like yuh told us to do. Walk out without
making any fuss. We're goin' for a little ride."
Shalleck's blue eyes were feverish. He turned toward Gunsey. The little man was grinning mirthlessly. A
gun was in his hand, also.
"You laughed when I begged for mercy," he gritted. "Let's see how you can take it."
With Shalleck between them, the two gunmen eased to the door, moved swiftly to a car at the curb.
The bartender's sour features were more puzzled than ever. He looked after the three for a moment,
started to go to a phone at the rear, then changed his mind.
What he'd seen and heard sounded ominous. It had sounded like the old gang days, when killers picked
their victims up in daylight, took them for a ride and left their riddled bodies by the roadside.
But those days were past. This was 1940, not prohibition times.
Nevertheless, there had been something very, very strange about what he'd just seen.
It might be the smart thing to call the police, to report what he'd heard. The bartender scowled. That
wouldn't be so hot, either. If he did that, the cops might think his saloon was a hangout for gunmen.
摘要：

THEPURPLEDRAGONADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.AKIDNAPING?ChapterII.THEDEADLIVEAGAIN?ChapterIII.GUNSSPEAK?ChapterIV.ASPOTTERSPOTTED?ChapterV.ANODDCONFESSION?ChapterVI.MONKFINDSATRAP?ChapterVII.STRANGECALLERS?ChapterVIII.ANEXP...

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