Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 089 - The Flying Goblin

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THE FLYING GOBLIN

A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson

http://www.blackmask.com

Scanned and Proofed

by Tom Stephens

? Chapter I. BIRMINGHAM JONES

? Chapter II. GOBLIN IN SLEEPY HOLLOW

? Chapter III. THE SIX WHO KNEW OSCAR

? Chapter IV. LANTERNS IN THE NIGHT

? Chapter V. TRAP

? Chapter VI. MESSAGE FROM HAM

? Chapter VII. GUY WITH A GUN

? Chapter VIII. ONE MAN WANTED

? Chapter IX. "I KNOW VALENTINE!"

? Chapter X. THE NANCY LEE

? Chapter XI. TIP-OFF!

? Chapter XII. CROOKS MOVE OUT!

? Chapter XIII. DEATH FLIES HIGH

? Chapter XIV. MYSTERY AT SEA

? Chapter XV. RESCUE

? Chapter XVI. BREAKNECK PASS

? Chapter XVII. DEATH TORPEDO

? Chapter XVIII. FAREWELL TO DEATH

Chapter I. BIRMINGHAM JONES

THE long, many-windowed building was located in almost primeval wilderness. The somber-looking

mountains of up-state New York rose around it, gauntlike in the night gloom. The building looked like a

modern city institution transplanted to a quiet spot, where, especially at this hour of the night, nothing

could possibly ever happen.

There were the soft night sounds of little animals in the surrounding woods. A solitary dim light burned in

what was perhaps an office of the hospital-type edifice. There was deep silence, an air of calmness

everywhere. A rabbit scurried silently across the single dusty road that wound up to the place.

It looked as though nothing of importance could ever happen in such a wilderness setting.

But because a man named Birmingham Jones was housed within the walls of the building, a whole lot of

trouble was going to take place. At least, this seemed to be the opinion of the two shadowy men who

crouched in deep shrubs bordering a flat expanse of smooth lawn behind the building.

Both men wore clothes that looked as though they had been ripped and frayed by passing through

assorted thorns and brush. Both had faces that might have been bruised in the same manner—only the

scars were old and had been collected over a long period of years, obviously.

Both kept watching the walls of the building that loomed so close to them. Windows in those straight

walls were barred with heavy iron.

One man whispered to his partner, "It's the fourth window from the left-hand wall angle. Third floor."

"You're sure about that, Pinky?"

"Damn right. You ever hear of the boss making mistakes?"

Apparently the other had not. "No, but I wanna make sure you're correct. Hell, if we ever make a

mistake—"

"There ain't no mistake about this," said the one named Pinky. "Here."

He passed his hard-looking partner something white, wrapped around a stone. He motioned to the

window not far away.

"The boss," Pinky said, "picked you for this job special, because you've thrown enough bombs in your

day to be good. That note's got to land in Birmingham's room. The lower sash is raised. See it? Now, get

going!"

The other paused a moment.

"Look, you sure this note tells Birmingham Jones everything he's to do?"

Pinky nodded impatiently. "Yeah, sure. In five minutes, he gets out. He gets sprung. Right through that

building corner that ain't gonna be any more!"

Both men, at the words, consulted their watches. "Four minutes and a half," snapped Pinky worriedly.

"You better hurry."

His partner drifted silently toward the base of the building wall. A dozen feet away, he took careful aim,

threw the paper-wrapped missile in an overhand swing.

The object passed neatly between the iron bars of the window that Pinky had shortly before indicated.

From the room beyond, there was the faintest of thumps audible out here in the peaceful, warm night.

The man faded back toward the bushes where Pinky was waiting.

"Look!" Pinky said suddenly.

Both men saw the brief wave of a hand from the second-floor room. They turned and ducked beneath

the enshrouding trees. A half moment later they reached the dusty, narrow roadway and took out for

points distant as though the very devil were after them.

And three and a half moments later, the devil did seem to appear.

First, there was the peculiar whining sound, like wind blowing through guide wires on a towering

wireless-station antenna.

The hobgoblin of a thing that followed the whining sound streaked down out of the night sky with the wild

speed of a diving pursuit plane. Only no plane had ever traveled as fast as the peculiar-shaped object.

It might have been a long, lean barrel. Astride it was a vague form that appeared like a scarecrow with

flapping arms.

One moment the flying apparition was a quarter of a mile away. The next it clipped the corner of the

building wall that had been indicated by Pinky.

It sounded as though a part of the war in Europe had suddenly been moved to the wilderness of up-state

New York. At least, that's the noise the flying thing made as it struck the building corner. That part of the

place started falling down.

FAR down the dusty road, from where their car was protected and concealed beneath low-hanging

trees, Pinky grabbed the thick arm of his partner and grinned. He looked happy at the sound of the

explosions that were coming from back up the road.

"Right on the nose," he remarked, consulting his watch. "The boss sure don't miss on timing."

His partner looked less confident. "Maybe that thing killed Birmingham!"

Pinky shook his head. "Naw. Bet you he'll be along in a couple minutes—if he reads that message right."

His thickset partner gave him a questioning look. "You mean Birmingham's still foggy?"

Pinky nodded.

"That tricky brain operation which that Doc Savage guy uses on crooks at his college didn't quite come

off in Birmingham's case. Sure, he's forgotten all about what he ever did in the past; but that's all. We're

springing him right at a time when he'll make a swell front for the boss. I understand he's just like a trained

seal. He'll do anything you tell him—and no questions asked."

Both men had climbed out of the car and were now watching back down the seldom-used road.

"But," objected Pinky's partner, "I understood that when Doc Savage got through with these patients of

his that they stopped being crooks?"

Pinky laughed harshly.

"Sure, they do. But they weren't through with Birmingham Jones yet. And there's something else."

"Else?"

Pinky nodded. "Birmingham got conked on the head by one of Dillinger's boys some years back. Seems,

therefore, this Doc Savage outfit couldn't quite cure Birmingham of being a crook. Also, he still likes to

kill people. That's how Doc Savage first happened to send him up to his college."

The other man whistled.

The "college" referred to was an institution established by Doc Savage—known as the Man of

Bronze—where crooks caught by the bronze man and his aids were sent to undergo delicate brain

operations devised by Doc Savage himself.

The operations, in most cases, wiped out all memories of the patients' past. They were then fitted for

worth-while work in a social world that would again accept them.

But in the case of Birmingham Jones, apparently, only about half of the experiment had been successful,

according to Pinky's remarks.

He started to say, "If everything's gone O. K., Birmingham Jones should be—"

He clamped his jaw shut, stared narrowly at the tall, well-dressed man who stepped out of the woods

almost directly in his path.

Both Pinky and his partner went for their shoulder holsters.

And both paused, gawking at the automatic which appeared miraculously—and swiftly—in the hands of

the tall, dark-haired man.

The stranger had smooth features, a fairly large mouth and eyes that were gray. They were peculiar eyes.

Peculiar in the fact that, when you met their unblinking regard, you felt a funny feeling along your spine.

"I like to kill people," said the stranger. "I get a kick out of it. I'd just as well kill you two punks. But the

note said you were to take me to Valentine."

Pinky gulped. His partner jumped.

"Gosh blazes!" said Pinky. "Are you Birmingham Jones?"

The tall, dark man's features showed no expression. "So they inform me," he said. "And the note that

came through the window was addressed to me. So I escaped when the explosion came. I was to come

here. Where's this guy Valentine?"

Pinky was suddenly gripping the tall man's arm, hurrying him toward the car.

"Brother," he said happily, "for a guy who forgets all about the past, you sure follow orders nicely! You're

gonna get along with Valentine O. K."

Birmingham Jones put his automatic away, climbed into the back seat of the waiting sedan and remarked,

"Who's Valentine?"

Pinky sighed, pausing in his movement at climbing behind the wheel of the car.

"Look," he explained, "you got the first letter we smuggled into that college to you?"

Tall Birmingham Jones nodded.

"And you want to work for a guy who's got plenty of chips?"

"Naturally."

"Well, Valentine's the gent who's arranged all this for you. You can be a big shot now. You're gonna be

bigger than Pretty Boy Floyd, or Scarface Nelson, or—"

Pinky had finally started up, his partner seated beside him.

"Who were they?" asked Birmingham Jones.

Pinky swallowed hard. "Hell!" he gasped. "You rubbed out about three guys when you were a member

of one of them mobs!"

"How nice," remarked Birmingham casually. "Who do I rub out now?"

Pinky nudged his partner, whispering beneath the motor hum of the moving car, "Foggy. He's still foggy."

And to the man in the rear seat, in a loud voice. "Brother, maybe there'll be plenty for you to take care

of. The boss has a lot on the fire. Big stuff. He—"

Pinky turned around a second, frowned when he saw that Birmingham Jones was not apparently

listening. Instead, the well-dressed man was grinning about something as he examined the gun which he

again held in his hands.

"What you smiling about?" Pinky asked cautiously.

"I was just thinking about that explosion back there at the college. It was good. Three guards were still

under the smashed brick wall when I walked out. I got this gat from one of them."

He put the gun away again, asked, "Well, what's my first job? What does this Valentine want me to do

first?"

The grin returned to Pinky's hard face.

"Birmingham," he said, "it's a swell assignment. First, you gotta grab the girl."

"What girl?"

"The girl that saw Oscar."

"Oscar who?"

Pinky laughed hard. "Oscar's the fellow who helped you get out of the college, brother." His face

sobered again. "And this girl, this Honey Sanders, she saw Oscar. Also, the boss figures maybe she got

some clue to him. So now you gotta grab this person named Honey Sanders."

"Where?"

"Down near New York, a place called Sleepy Hollow. That's where that Ichabod Crane, the headless

horseman, used to hang out. Remember him?"

Birmingham Jones shook his head. "Never heard of him," he remarked absently. "Thought they gave them

the chair in New York State. How'd the guy lose his head?"

Pinky howled, almost doubling up with laughter over the steering wheel.

"Maybe," he said finally, "Honey Sanders can answer that one for you."

Chapter II. GOBLIN IN SLEEPY HOLLOW

APPROXIMATELY two hundred miles south of where Birmingham Jones was riding with his two

rescuers, two other men were driving in an open car. It was fifteen minutes past midnight, just a quarter

of an hour since the strange explosion had taken place at the "college" of Doc Savage, up-state.

Neither of these two, naturally, knew about the weird occurrence at Doc Savage's institution. But they

did seem to know something about a girl named Honey Sanders.

The man who was not driving—a lean-waisted, nattily dressed fellow with fairly good-looking

features—held a newspaper spread across his knees. He was reading the paper by aid of the dashboard

light in the roadster.

"It says," he said, "that this girl Honey Sanders lives here in Sleepy Hollow Manor, near Tarrytown. And

the guy back there at the last gas station informed us to take the first left turn-off from the Post Road. So

this must be right."

"If it is, I still won't believe it!" said the one behind the wheel. "Just because you said so, I won't believe

it!"

The speaker had shoulders half the width of the car seat, a flat head that squatted, seemingly, right atop

those shoulders, and a scarred face made to frighten old ladies. Oddly, he looked like an ape; an ape in a

human's clothing.

The fashionably dressed man kept addressing him as Monk.

"Listen," the one named Monk added, "read them headlines over again. If you've made a mistake, I'm

gonna whack you so hard on the head that you'll have these cushion springs for curls."

The dapper-looking man with the paper on his knees merely glared at the driver. Then he started reading

from the headlines. He said:

"This Honey Sanders, it appears, saw the apparition last night, here in Sleepy Hollow. She was walking

down near the river when something passed over her head. As she told reporters, the only thing she

could think of was the headless horseman—that guy made famous in Irving's 'Legend of Sleepy Hollow.'"

Monk squinted at his companion. "You mean that Ichabod What's-his-name?"

"Ichabod Crane, you dope!" snapped the well-dressed man.

"And so?" prodded Monk, the driver of the car.

"It seems she was frightened terribly as she told reporters about the strange thing flying through the air.

And now, today, the paper goes on to say that she has mysteriously disappeared."

Monk snorted. "Look, Ham, you shyster, I already know all that. What I wanna know is: What was that

address of Honey Sanders'? You sure this is the right place?"

The man called Ham sighed.

"Yes," he said crisply. "It's right here—Shady Lane, in Sleepy Hollow Manor. And this is the right road.

It's supposed to be a little cottage down at the end of this winding lane."

Ham settled back, watching the shaded lane the car was traversing. They had passed no houses since

leaving the well-traveled Post Road.

The lane dropped down through a hollow damp with the nearness of a stagnant-looking pond. A bullfrog

croaked somewhere out on the water. Thick silence otherwise pressed down over the lonely spot.

Hairy Monk asked, "This where that headless horseman guy used to hang out?"

Ham nodded. "Yes. This is Sleepy Hollow."

Swinging abruptly away from the wheel, disregarding the narrow roadway ahead, Monk started to say

something. "Blazes—"

But he broke off, his little eyes jerking to the sky overhead. The car stalled as Monk's foot smashed

down on the brake.

From out of the night sky, a weird, thin whining sound had come. It increased swiftly, developing within

seconds into a keening shrill whistle that hurt the eardrums.

Monk, staring out of popping eyes, demanded loudly, "Goshamighty, what was that?"

In the next second, something ripped furiously through the trees overhead. A breeze swooped down and

fanned the two men's heads. Loosened leaves cascaded around them like falling snow during a blizzard.

The shrill whining sound faded.

Monk and Ham were both staring, wide-eyed, at the great swath cut through the tops of the trees. It was

as though a giant scythe might have neatly cut a pathway a yard wide through the treetops.

Somehow, Monk got the car started, slammed through the speeds, swung the machine around in the

narrow roadway and headed, recklessly, back toward the Post Road which passed through nearby

Tarrytown.

Ham, the well-dressed one, yelled above the motor roar, "What's wrong with you, ape?"

"Blasted spook, that's what it was!" Monk piped. "Didn't you see it?"

"See what?"

Monk's small eyes were centered on the winding road. He was sending the car hurtling along at close to

sixty.

"The danged hobgoblin riding the barrel that shot through the trees!" Suddenly Monk's massive hand

cracked down on the wheel and he let out a whoop. "That's who it was! Ichabod—the guy without a

head. Saw him plain as day riding that thing through the sky!"

Ham was frowning. "Now listen—" he started, and got no further.

For at the tremendous speed at which they were traveling, they had quickly reached the main highway

again. Without even letting up on the gas, Monk wheeled the car out onto the wide Post Road, cut south,

opened up on the throttle.

Luckily at the moment and because of the hour, there was no traffic. A good mile stretch of open

highway opened up before them. Monk was driving like a demon.

The weird whining sound came down out of the sky again.

Ham, clinging to his hat, rose halfway out of the seat and stared, goggle-eyed, into the heavens. The

thing, which moved with the speed of a flashing comet, dropped down low over the racing car. Ham had

a glimpse of something that looked like a long, thin barrel with a vague form sitting astride it.

Before he could study the uncanny-looking object closer, he threw himself low in the seat and yelled,

"Look out!"

The thin whining sound was next a screech directly over their heads. There was something like a terrific

blast of air, wind striking them with the force of a tri-motored plane's slipstream.

Monk flung his hairy hands about his homely face. His companion reached for the door handle of the car.

Neither, apparently, remembered exactly how the car got piled up in the gas-station driveway.

BUT the station owner—who had been preparing to close up for the night—was jumping up and down

and making noises, when Monk finally crawled out of the partially demolished machine.

Ham, unhurt, but his immaculate clothes mussed, followed.

The service-station owner was a long man in overalls. He was gesticulating wildly toward a gas pump.

The pump looked like a candle that had stood in a warm room; it was leaning over at a cockeyed angle.

"Gah . . . ga . . ." the owner tried to get words out, and his face became crimson as he choked with rage.

His hands grasped Monk's coat collar and yanked him clear of the wrecked car.

"Drunk!" the station owner finally exploded. "Look what you've done! Guys like you—"

The man got his first good look at Monk, who, so far, had been weaving around still in a daze.

Jerking his gaze to Ham, the man frowned and said, "He looks like something that's escaped from an

organ grinder!"

Ham let out a howl at that.

"He did!" Ham announced. "Only he lost his tin cup in this smashup!"

The words must have penetrated Monk's dazed thoughts. He gave a snort of rage and grabbed the

station owner by the neck.

"I'm gonna rattle your teeth loose for that crack!" he roared.

The gas-station owner broke free, leaped inside the small building and picked up a heavy wrench. Monk

followed. Ham gave a worried cry and tried to separate the two.

When the State trooper on the motorcycle drove into the station driveway, some more wreckage had

been created. Quart bottles of oil with spouts on them had been knocked from a rack and smashed.

Monk and the tall station owner were smeared from head to foot with sticky, dark oil. Windows in the

building were broken. Ham was attempting to help out—trying, at the same time, to avoid stepping into

the slippery oil.

The six-foot-two trooper joined the mêlée.

Later, three police officers from the nearby town arrived. Even with their help, it was another fifteen

minutes before Monk was finally subdued.

The subduing included tying Monk up with ropes, wire and two skid chains found in the service station.

Ham rode along as Monk was carried off to the local jail, a mile down the highway.

The place consisted of a large room that was a littered office, beyond this a smaller room at the rear of

which were two barred cells. Monk was unbound and thrown into one of the cells. Ham was not locked

up, but the three officers and the trooper looked at him suspiciously. They indicated a chair for Ham and

they all sat down, outside the cells.

"What are we waiting for?" Ham demanded.

One of the local cops said, "Sandy Gower."

"Who is Sandy Gower?" Ham prodded.

"The constable."

Ham, watching Monk's homely, bruised face stuck between two of the cell bars, gave a broad grin. "This

is going to be good," he remarked.

Monk, by this time, had cooled off somewhat. He said worriedly, "Listen, you chumps, I saw it, I tell

you. I saw the danged thing right over my head!"

"Saw what?" one of the cops demanded.

"That gollywockus. That spook. Ichabod!"

The State trooper gave his law companions a significant look.

"Good thing we caught him in time," he said quietly.

Monk grasped the bars. "Blast it!" he said. "I'm telling you! It was flying right over my head, an' it had

flapping arms and a long skinny body. The danged thing—"

The trooper spoke to one of the local officers. "You'd better call up Hudson State."

Monk banged his huge fists on the cell bars.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"The nuthouse!"

"Hey!" Monk squalled. "You blasted fools. If I don't get outa here—"

They were all interrupted by the short, stocky man who entered the outer office. Ham, in particular, gave

a start.

THE arrival wore a loud tweed suit. His hat was green. The necktie was exceptionally loud.

Ham, a meticulous dresser, shuddered at sight of the solid little man's clothes.

"That's Sandy Gower," offered the trooper.

The constable had short, stubby hair like pale straw-ends, little sharp eyes that were as gray as ice. As he

stepped toward the call room, he paused at a battered desk, picked up an ash tray and brought it along

with him.

He gave Ham a brief, quizzical look, then sat down in one of the chairs and carefully balanced the ash

tray on his knees. He took a large pipe from his pocket, and next started splitting open the paper on

cigarette butts that were in the ash tray. He packed the released tobacco into his pipe.

If he had noted Monk, behind the bars nearby, he paid no attention to the fact. It took Sandy Gower

several minutes to get the pipe fixed. Then he looked up at Ham and asked:

"Got a match?"

Holding a light for the stocky little constable, Ham said, "Perhaps I should introduce myself. The name is

Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. I happen to be an attorney. Perhaps something can be done

about—"

From the cell, Monk remarked, "An' he's still a ham!"

The constable, Sandy Gower, was apparently paying no attention. He was more interested in getting his

pipe started.

Finally, he indicated Monk, took in Ham's mussed clothes, asked, "What goes on?"

Ham tried to explain about the accident at the gas station. He talked swiftly, convincingly,

and—oddly—did not try to lay the blame on Monk.

As he said, "His name is Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, though for obvious reasons—we

call him Monk. Believe it or not, he is a well known chemist. If there's anything I can do for him—"

Sandy Gower stopped puffing on the evil-smelling pipe and frowned. His ruddy face wrinkled up.

"Nope!" he said flatly. "We'll have to hold him for a hearing before the judge in the morning."

Ham talked some more, using his best courtroom manner. For Ham was a Harvard graduate, a

renowned scholar from the law school there. More than once he had swayed frozen-faced juries.

But as he talked, Sandy Gower kept shaking his head. "Nope," he repeated, taking a good look at

Monk, behind the bars. "I ain't a-gonna do it." He stared at Monk. "That bird don't look human. Better

keep him locked up."

Monk roared with rage. "Say, you danged overdressed signboard!" he said to the stocky constable. "If

Doc Savage—"

Sandy Gower jumped. He jerked around to stare at well-dressed Ham, and he forgot to puff on his pipe.

"Did that monkey say 'Doc Savage'?" he demanded.

Ham had not wanted to mention the bronze man's name. But now he nodded.

"Yes. We are both members of the organization of Doc Savage. As I was telling you about this

accident—"

Sandy Gower looked as though he was about to swallow his pipe. Still staring at Ham, he said politely,

"Well, hell, that's different! We will not have to hold you. I am very sorry you were put to this

inconvenience."

He paused, turned again to stare questioningly at Monk. "But I'm afraid I can do nothing—yet—about

this one. That young man who runs the gas station is a personal friend. He phoned me just a little while

ago, and he's going to sign a complaint against your partner. Otherwise—"

Ham smiled broadly. "Perhaps," he said, casting a sidelong grin at Monk, "it will do him good to cool off

for the remainder of the night."

He started out, the solidly built constable with him. Behind them, Monk set up a roar of protest.

"Why, you blasted shyster—"

But outside, Ham was saying, "There's a girl named Honey Sanders for whom we've been looking. It

seems—"

Sandy Gower drew up short outside the jail. "You know about her?" he exclaimed.

Ham mentioned the newspaper story about the girl who had apparently been frightened to death by some

strange hobgoblin of a thing which she had seen in this vicinity.

The constable was puffing quite furiously on his pipe now. "Yes. Yes, I know," he said. "When last seen,

Honey Sanders was hysterical. Then she disappeared, and we've been looking for her for the past

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THEFLYINGGOBLINADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.comScannedandProofedbyTomStephens?ChapterI.BIRMINGHAMJONES?ChapterII.GOBLININSLEEPYHOLLOW?ChapterIII.THESIXWHOKNEWOSCAR?ChapterIV.LANTERNSINTHENIGHT?ChapterV.TRAP?ChapterVI.MESSAGEFROMHAM?Cha...

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