Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 086 - The Evil Gnome

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THE EVIL GNOME
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE HOT-COLD DAY
? Chapter II. DID I KILL?
? Chapter III. DESPERATE WINGS EAST
? Chapter IV. THE TRAPPERS
? Chapter V. THE MYSTERIOUS RUNT
? Chapter VI. THE JAIL TRAIL
? Chapter VII. MYSTERY MURDER
? Chapter VIII. VAGUE TRAIL
? Chapter IX. THE IMPOSSIBLE MURDER
? Chapter X. POLICE CHASE
? Chapter XI. PICTURE CLUE
? Chapter XII. THE SUDDEN ASHES
? Chapter XIII. THE UNEXPECTED PRISONER
? Chapter XIV. BURDO BROCKMAN, CRIMINAL
? Chapter XV. A TRICK PAYS OFF
? Chapter XVI. PENTHOUSE STORY
? Chapter XVII. THE PRINCE
? Chapter XVIII. TROUBLE FOR HAM
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE HOT-COLD DAY
LION ELLISON got into a mess in a very simple way. The whole thing was quite innocent on her part.
For all that Lion did was look for a job.
To begin with, Lion was almost broke, and she figured that practically nobody could be needing a job
worse at the moment.
Secondly, Lion was a female animal trainer, so jobs in her line were scarce, the circus business having
stayed in the dumps in which it had fallen. Lion was very good at her trade, but there just weren’t any
jobs. Cats were her specialty. She could handle any kind of cat. Burly roaring lions and striped spitting
fiends of tigers got on stools when she pointed her finger at them.
If you have any idea that a female wild-animal tamer must be a lady devil minus horns and entirely without
the usual equipment of heart and soul and likes and dislikes—and nerves—which other people have, you
had better get rid of the idea. They’re not like that, particularly Lion Ellison.
Nor do they have to look like young witches. They can be entrancing creatures as was Lion Ellison,
although admittedly not all of them are. Like a mountain flower in June. Like a strain of lilting music at
dusk. Also a little like the excited scream of herald trumpets just before something great is to happen. All
of that was Lion Ellison. She was a small thing. Audiences loved her, and so did circus people—and so
had the head gaffer of the last show that Lion worked. The head gaffer had given her a kiss, minus
permission, so immediately they had quite a clem. A clem is a fight. It was out back of the crumb castle,
which is the cookhouse. The head gaffer got a black eye. Lion got the sack, for the head gaffer happened
to own a good part of that particular mud-opera.
All of which explained why Lion happened to be getting off a train in Kirksville, Missouri, and looking
ruefully into her purse which she found, as she had expected, contained only six dollars and some odd
cents.
"Well, it can’t get much worse," Lion said grimly.
This thought was an error.
Lion checked her suitcase, then walked uptown. The circus was in town. She could see that. The
tack-spitters—bill-posters, called tack-spitters from their habit of spitting tacks on a magnetic
hammer—had done a good job of plastering the town.
Suddenly she heard martial music and knew the parade was coming. She crowded to the curb to watch,
and being a seasoned showman, she cast a speculative eye over the crowd. She could tell from the
interest shown by the gillies and thistle-chins—circus lingo for the local inhabitants—that this was a good
show town, and no boomer stand.
The parade came. She watched. First marched the windjammers, the band, in sartorial glory and melodic
uproar. Then the bulls, the elephants. And all the gaudy rest of it. The convicts, or zebras. The big
turkeys—ostriches. Two hogs—hippos—in a cage. A cage of old folks—monkeys. And another cage of
zekes—hyenas, also called gravediggers. They were all there, all the great stupendous and unsurpassed
wonders and marvels of the civilized and uncivilized world that make up the stock in trade of a fairly
good circus. All thundered past in spectacle and glory, spangles and silks not very noticeably frayed.
Lion breathed rapidly and was as excited as a little girl seeing her first parade, only with a feeling that was
deeper. It was marvelous. Her eyes were moist. She hadn’t realized how she had been missing it all.
She went to see about the job.
The advertisement had appeared in a newspaper and Lion had clipped it; she now carried it with her.
She just about had it memorized:
ANIMAL TRAINER—Girl, experienced finker, no First of May, handle babies, stripes, all cats. Top
pay. Apply Room 12, Voyagers Hotel, Kirksville, Missouri.
Lion Ellison considered that a divine providence had directed this advertisement specifically at her,
because she was an experienced finker, which meant a circus performer, so certainly she was no First of
May, which meant a newcomer to the profession. She could handle babies, which were pumas; stripes,
which were tigers, and any other big cat. She also could use some of that top pay.
The Voyagers Hotel was a rather nice-looking hostelry. Room 12 proved to be on the second floor. Lion
knocked.
"Goodness!" she exclaimed.
The little old man who had opened the door must have been exclaimed at a great deal by persons who
were seeing him for the first time, because he smiled.
"I got used to startling people a long time ago." He stepped back. "Won’t you come in?"
"I’m sorry," Lion said.
He reminded Lion of one of the "old folks"—the monkeys. He had never been very tall, and age or
something had shriveled him about as much as a man could be shriveled. On second glance, Lion
decided it was not age that had shrunk him. He probably was no more than forty. But he was like some
thing out of a funny paper or a fairy tale.
He wore a tight skullcap that might have belonged to a necromancer, and a flowing robe of dark-blue
velvet that might have been a bathrobe or a lounging robe, yet did not quite look like either of these. Yes,
decidedly like something out of a funny paper or a fairy tale. Unusual. Something like a gnome.
Lion pulled out the ad. "I’m Lion Ellison," she said, "and I’ve come about this job." She took a deep
breath and smiled and began selling herself. "My father and mother were circus, and so were my brother
and myself, all our lives," she explained. "I’ve worked with cats for several years, and I lost my last job
when we had a strike and the owner of the show got ugly and closed everything down and took it to
winter quarters. Here are some of the cat acts I have worked—"
"Never mind," said the wizened man who looked so much like a gnome.
Lion felt a wrenching inside her. She had the sickening thought that maybe the job had been filled.
"But—" Her words stuck.
"There’s no job."
Lion felt hopelessness creeping.
"There never was a job," the shriveled little man continued. "Never a job. You see, this was all a scheme.
Something I tried. I wanted to get hold of you, but I didn’t know your address, and so—"
Lion blinked. "Do I get this right? You put that advertisement in the paper in order to get in touch with
me?"
"
That’s exactly right."
"Hm-m-m."
"It worked, you see."
"But wouldn’t it have been simpler to advertise for me by name? The way it was, you just advertised for
a woman animal trainer."
The little old man smiled and shook his head. And Lion, watching him, was suddenly conscious of a
strange feeling about him. She didn’t exactly dislike him. But he was so strange, and he looked so
unusual, and even his voice was a little weird. Creeps. That was it. He gave her the creeps.
Then Lion got a heart-tightening shock.
"It’s something your brother wanted me to do," the wizened man said.
TO understand just why Lion Ellison was so heavily shocked, you have to know about her brother, Ned.
Neddy Ellison was his name, and he had always been a prissy kind with milk for a brain and nothing
much for a backbone. Not at all like Lion, who had sparks and electricity for a brain, and steel for a
backbone. One was strong, the other weak. So it had not been good for Neddy Ellison to grow up
around a circus.
There are two sides to circus business, one of them good and the other not so nice. There are the
legitimate animal and aërialist acts, the things that the crowds come to see, which are good; on the other
hand, there are the grifters, the lucky boys and their cappers who go after the strawberry shortcake, as
the easy money is called. The right side and the wrong side of circus business. A man with a weak
character sometimes has difficulty distinguishing the right from the wrong in everyday life, and in the
bizarre existence of a circus where life is distorted, the distinguishing of right from wrong becomes doubly
difficult.
Not that Lion believed her brother had been an outright crook. But she had always been afraid for him.
But two weeks ago, her brother had died. She hadn’t been notified. She’d only seen the newspaper
stories. They must not have been able to find her address, or something.
Killed when his parachute failed to open, the news items had said. It seemed that Neddy Ellison had
been making jumps for a group of planes and pilots who were accompanying a circus to do skywriting
and advertising, and entertain with jumps and stunts. That Neddy Ellison had nerve enough to be a ‘chute
jumper hadn’t surprised Lion; there had never been anything wrong with the nerve of any of the circus
Ellisons. His parachute hadn’t opened. The headline said:
CIRCUS STUNTER KILLED
Lion stared at the little old man.
"You . . . you knew my brother?" she breathed.
He did not answer; he only stared at her, and there was something—it might have been in his eyes and it
might not—that made a coldness go up and down Lion’s back. His eyes were strangely piercing, she
noted.
After moments passed and he had not spoken, Lion said, "Say, what is this, anyway?"
There was a slight movement at his mouth, a twist that was sly and quizzical, and he walked to the
dresser—it was an ordinary hotel room with bed and dresser and rug and telephone stand and two
chairs—and brought back a bundle. The package might have been a laundry bundle containing half a
dozen shirts. It was tied with stout brown paper.
"Yours," the man said. "He wanted you to have it."
Lion put the bundle on the bed and untied the string and opened the paper.
"Oh!" she said, and her heart came up in her throat. These were her brother’s personal belongings, the
little intimate things which he had always prized. Lion saw neckties, a scarf, cuff links, watch chain that
she had given him. She was shocked, and found herself biting her lips to keep the tears back.
With shaking fingers, she picked up a letter which she had noticed. It bore her name, but the envelope
was not stamped. She took out the contents, found herself staring at what was obviously an unfinished
letter:
Dear Sis:
If this letter seems incoherent, it is because I’m rapidly going mad. For hours and hours, I’ve been almost
frantic. And now, finally, a solution has come. I have thought of a man who can solve this. The only man
in the world, probably, who has ability to handle the matter.
You remember the man whom you once told me you wished I resembled?
As soon as you get this letter, I want you to take it to him.
I’m going to write you the whole story. It is an incredible, horrible story. It isn’t even earthly. Nothing in
the Arabian Nights or any fairy story ever equaled—
It was her brother’s handwriting. She was sure of that.
Unexpectedly, Lion jumped. The wizened man had touched her shoulder. "I am sorry," he said. "I must
go."
Lion shook her head. "I fail to understand this."
"It is perfectly simple." The little man seemed somewhat impatient. "Those are your brother’s belongings.
He wanted you to have them."
"But why should you go to all that trouble to see that I got them?"
The other shrugged and glanced toward the door urgently. "I’m sorry. I must be going."
Lion decided she had changed her mind about this shriveled little ogre. She didn’t like him. Furthermore,
she had a feeling that if she was around him much longer, he would terrify her. She didn’t like people who
scared her. Suddenly she was angry at him, and she stood up.
"Now wait a minute!" she said sharply. "There’s something wrong about this!"
The little old man looked at Lion, then did a strange thing. He began to laugh, and his laughing was not
loud but ugly and cackling like the vocal efforts of a hyena. Involuntarily, without knowing exactly why,
Lion shivered. The little man backed to the door, opened it, stepped out into the hall and closed the
door.
When Lion looked out into the hall—an unpleasant kind of fascination had held her rooted in the room
for a second or two—she saw no trace of the fellow. She failed to understand how he had vanished so
quickly.
Lion walked out on the street carrying the bundle under her arm. It was warm. Two planes were circling
in the hot sunlight several thousand feet above her head, skywriting an advertisement for the circus. She
walked slowly, enmeshed in her thoughts.
She could not get rid of a feeling of ghostly unreality about her whole meeting with the wizened man, and
the sensation puzzled her. She did not have a temperament inclined to become jittery without cause. She
could walk past a graveyard at night and probably experience fewer qualms than the average. Yet there
had been something about this meeting, a masked quality she could not define. She shivered. Creeps. It
had given her the creeps.
Then Lion Ellison crossed the street. It was a warm summer day when she started across the street, but
when she got to the other side she found that it had suddenly become a cold day.
Chapter II. DID I KILL?
IT happened so suddenly, and it was so unexpected, that the real significance did not dawn upon her
instantly. She made an instinctive gesture to draw her coat to her throat and hunch her shoulders against
the chill wind. Then she came to a wrenching stop.
Cold? But it had been warm, almost hot, a moment before!
The impossibility of it made her start to give a nervous, self-conscious laugh, but the laugh didn’t quite
jell. She did the natural thing, glanced at the heavens to see if a storm was blowing up. There were a few
clouds, cold and gray-looking.
Lion made a grim mouth and got in front of the first pedestrian who approached. A man.
"Pardon me," she said, "but is it cold?"
"Huh?" He stared.
"I . . . er . . . just wanted to know," Lion explained.
"Do you feel sick or something?" He frowned at her. "Or is this a new kind of pickup? If it is, I don’t
mind telling you that I’m a deacon in my church, and not interested—"
"If you can’t answer a civil question," Lion said, "would you mind just walking on?"
The pedestrian scowled, didn’t know what to do.
"This is the coldest day we’ve had recently!" he snapped at last, and walked on with dignity.
Lion stared after him. She decided it would make her feel better if she could laugh lightly, and she did so.
It didn’t help much.
Nor did it help her frame of mind when it gradually dawned on her that she was ravishingly hungry.
Strange. She had consumed a late and hearty breakfast, and she had no business being hungry at this
time of day, and certainly not this hungry. She felt practically famished.
There was a drugstore nearby, and on the window a sign said, Try Our Jumbo Sandwiches. The
combination was too much for Lion. She entered, selected a deserted booth at the back, and ordered.
She did some thinking. The bundle which contained her brother’s belongings—she still had that. She
placed it on the booth seat beside her. She put her purse on the table. It was a black patent-leather
purse, a large one; she had learned to like large purses, for with a circus you were always traveling and
you needed a place for knickknacks.
She examined her clothing. She was dressed exactly the same. Nothing seemed changed. The whole
thing must be an acrobatic of her imagination. Possibly she had been worked up over finding there was
no job, and receiving her brother’s belongings, so that she hadn’t noticed it was cold until she started
across the street. And yet she distinctly remembered that it had been hot.
Deciding to repair her make-up, she opened her purse, and thus found the knife.
THE knife was such an ugly thing that she jerked her fingers back involuntarily. It had a long blade,
double-edged and concave ground like a straight razor, and the hilt was very plain. A knife made for
nasty work. Nor did the dry stains, dull-red in color, on blade and hilt, do anything to improve the aspect
of the thing.
Lion snapped her purse shut hastily and sat there. Her fingers took a drinking straw and crushed it and
tore it. For now she was suddenly and unaccountably scared.
She knew—it was more than a vague feeling now—that all was not right. She did not know what it was,
but something uncanny and not immediately understandable had occurred. A frosty sort of fright began
creeping through her.
"Waiter," she said, "will you get me a late newspaper?"
When the paper came, she stared at it unbelievingly, finally exclaimed, "But this is impossible!"
"Eh?" The clerk was puzzled.
"Thursday—this says today is Thursday." Lion shook her head. "Isn’t this Monday?"
"Thursday," the clerk corrected, and walked away.
Having bought the paper on a hunch, Lion realized that she had discovered her worst fears more than
justified. Something extraordinary assuredly had happened. Her sandwich came, and in spite of the
turmoil of surprise in her mind, she seized the sandwich and began wolfing it. That was another
thing—being so hungry.
It was all so uncanny that Lion felt like steadying her mind by reading about wars and football games and
such civilized things. She glanced over the headlines, noted among other items that the wars were still
going full blast in Europe and a new neutrality debate had started in the Senate.
The principal news story on the front page was one about a murder: Lion first started to skip this because
she was feminine enough to care less about a murder than a story concerning a fashion trend. But the
headlines gripped her.
The governor of the State had been murdered.
The murder of a governor was sensational enough to arouse her interest. There was a huge picture on the
front page; because such was her habit, Lion read the cutlines below before she looked at the picture.
The cutlines said:
ACTUAL PHOTOGRAPH OF
MURDERESS IN ACT
This photograph of the murder of the governor was taken by Dan Meek, 902 First Street, a
candid-camera fan who happened to be passing the governor’s office at the time. The photo, probably
one of the most remarkable ever snapped, shows every detail of the crime during commission. The
murderess is plainly recognizable, and the knife she used can be identified. The knife has not been found.
Immediately above the picture was a caption in heavy type which said:
TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS
REWARD FOR THIS GIRL KILLER!
But Lion paid no attention to the reward offer. She was staring at the murderess in the picture. The
murderess was herself.
IT was not easy to comprehend; in fact, she did not realize the truth at first. Not until she held the
newspaper up beside the mirror that was built into the end of the booth and compared her reflected
likeness with the printed one. The same. Even the frock. Hat. Shoes. Handbag. The things she wore now
were identical with those in the picture.
Lion stared at the knife, then with horror tightening every fiber of her body, she snapped open her purse
and compared the ugly blade therein with the depicted murder weapon. Identical.
It was very quiet in the drugstore. There were no other customers, and only two clerks were on duty,
both of these standing together at the cigar counter, bending over a picture magazine. The fountain
compressor motor ran, making a low whine.
Lion shuddered, closed her purse wildly. She had to make a great effort to read the murder story in the
newspaper.
The printed items were lengthy, but Lion discovered they were composed mostly of a synopsis of the
governor’s rather spectacular career as the State’s chief executive, and as a brilliant prosecuting attorney
who had sent many noted criminals to prison. The truth seemed to be that little was known of the actual
murder.
No one had seen the murderess enter or leave the governor’s chambers. "It might well have been a ghost
murder," said one portion of the story, "had it not been for the stroke of luck which brought candid photo
fan Dan Meek, of 902 First Street, to the scene with his ever-ready camera." The article stated that the
camera bug, Dan Meek, had made an ineffectual effort to pursue and capture the murderess, but she had
escaped through a door, which she had locked.
Police had found fingerprints of the murderess on the governor’s desk and on the door through which the
candid cameraman had chased her. The fingerprints were reproduced on an inside page of the
newspaper.
Lion pressed her fingers on the glass top of the booth table and compared the prints with those in the
paper. She was no fingerprint expert, but they looked identical to her.
"I’m an accused murderess!" she thought wildly.
While she was thinking this, a policeman came into the drugstore. Obviously, he was looking for her.
Chapter III. DESPERATE WINGS EAST
THE instant she saw the policeman, Lion knew he had come for her, but afterward she wondered if it
couldn’t have been a bit of clairvoyance of her over-stimulated imagination. The officer might have
strolled in for a soft drink or cigarettes.
The drugstore had a back door, close at hand. Lion stood up. She had the presence of mind to behave
as casually as she could, to walk slowly, until she reached the door. She was perfectly sure she was
going to escape—the lights were turned off in the back of the store and it was gloomy.
Because the officer noticed her instantly, Lion knew he had come in looking for her.
"Hey, you!" he shouted.
Lion put her chin out, glued elbows to her sides, and began making speed. She hit the door, sloped
through, flipped the panel shut behind her. She had no plan. Just to run.
The door opened onto a side street. No one was in sight. Lion kept going. The package of her brother’s
belongings handicapped her somewhat, but she decided not to drop it. An alley appeared. She veered
into that.
But the cop had seen her. His excited yell came down the street, a gobbling noise. Gun sound and bullet
report followed almost instantly. The lead struck something and climbed away up to the sky, screaming.
Lion’s feet made a hard grinding on the alley concrete. There were no windows, only a few doors, all the
latter closed. Far ahead, almost at the end of the block, a truck stood.
It was a small truck with a van body bearing the name of an electrical concern. Lion dived behind the
wheel. Thank God, they had left the key. She threw the switch, stamped starter and accelerator. Lead
came through, making splinters in the back and leaving a round hole and a jagged crack in the windshield.
The motor caught, gears gnashed steel teeth, and the truck went out of the alley with about the same
commotion as a scared hog.
THE town had a population of around ten thousand, so Lion was not long reaching the outskirts. Luck
led her onto an almost deserted road. She saw a pond, a grove of trees, and driving the truck into the
trees, she left the machine.
She moved about, watching, for a time and decided that no one had noticed her. On second thought, she
investigated the rear of the electric company’s delivery truck. There were tools, coils of wire, lengths of
conduit, an old radio. There was also a long white coat, doubtless worn by the electrical service man to
protect his clothing. It bore the company’s name. Lion put it on—wrong side out, so that the name did
not show. She left her chic hat in the truck, convinced that her rather luxuriant brown hair would be less
conspicuous. That hat had stood out plainly in the murder photograph. Then she left.
The act of walking did something for which she was grateful. It cleared her mind, enabled her to get a
better grasp of the situation.
Seeing the problem clearly did not make it sensible. She was wanted by the police for murder. The killing
of a man of whom she had hardly heard, and certainly never met. Fantastic was a mild word for such a
thing.
There was one thought she tried to keep away. When it first flashed into her mind, it was sickening
enough to bring her up short.
Was it possible that during some kind of a mental lapse, she had actually committed the murder? Was
she a murderer?
Most imperative of all, what could she do? How could she help herself?
An idea hit her, so she glanced about to make sure no one was in sight, then climbed through a
barbed-wire fence into some brush where she was hidden from view. She opened the bundle of her
brother’s effects, went through the stuff, but found nothing that could be construed to explain anything.
She ended the inspection with her brother’s unfinished letter in her hand. Her eyes ranged the missive.
And suddenly one sentence jumped out at her:
You remember the man whom you once told me you wished I resembled?
The reference, Lion realized, would have been meaningless to anyone but her self. In fact, the reference
was obviously to a long-past quarrel with her brother, during which she had explained in rather plain
language just the kind of a person she had hoped he would be. She remembered the quarrel distinctly. It
had come out of a clear sky while they were discussing an article they had been reading about a man
named Doc Savage, a rather spectacular individual who, according to the magazine article, made a
profession of aiding the oppressed, righting wrongs and punishing evil-doers.
"Sounds to me like everybody was playing this Doc Savage for a sucker," Neddy Ellison had said
contemptuously. "The smart guys in this world are the guys who see that they get theirs."
The remark had enraged Lion. She’d been worried about Neddy at the time; he’d been talking too much
about easy money. So they had quarreled, and Lion had finally voiced the angry wish that Neddy had a
few of the qualities of Doc Savage.
Lion looked at the letter in her hand.
"I don’t see anything," she remarked grimly, "to prevent me from finding out whether this Doc Savage is
what they cracked him up to be."
LION left the brush patch and set out in search of a telephone to contact Doc Savage.
She might be taking a foolish trip. She wondered. Her circus upbringing had given her the direct opposite
of a gullible nature, so she was not inclined to believe much that she read. Yet the magazine that had
carried the article about Doc Savage had been a periodical of national circulation with a vaunted
reputation for accuracy. The story about Doc Savage had read as though it were exaggerated, Lion
recalled. The things printed about him had sounded suspiciously like the kind of ballyhoo they used
around the circus.
It was a neighborhood grocery store, not too tidy and full of the usual smells. It was located near the
State Teachers College, which was probably why it had a pay telephone. College students had written
feminine names and telephone numbers on the wall around the instrument. Lion got her six dollars
changed into quarters, dimes and nickels. When she took down the receiver, however, she smiled grimly.
To her complete astonishment, the operator eventually reported that the office of Doc Savage in New
York would accept a collect call.
Lion came very close to the mouthpiece. "Put them on. . . . Is this Doc Savage?"
"No."
"Well, put him on," Lion requested.
"Not a chance," the voice informed her. "He’s not in town."
Lion bit her lips, listened to the voice asking, "Is this something important?"
"It couldn’t be much more important," Lion said grimly. "How will I get hold of this Doc Savage? Where
can I find him?"
The distant listener did not seem much impressed by the imperativeness in her voice. He said, "As I see
it, there are only two things you can do. You can wait and call again in the morning, or you can go ahead
and tell me your troubles."
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Monk," the voice explained. "The full name is Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. I’m one of
Doc Savage’s five assistants."
Lion deliberated. This was a serious matter; it was no exaggeration to say that her life was at stake. It
wasn’t any kind of job for assistants to be handling; Lion wanted the main guy himself.
摘要：

THEEVILGNOMEADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEHOT-COLDDAY?ChapterII.DIDIKILL??ChapterIII.DESPERATEWINGSEAST?ChapterIV.THETRAPPERS?ChapterV.THEMYSTERIOUSRUNT?ChapterVI.THEJAILTRAIL?ChapterVII.MYSTERYMURDER?ChapterVIII.VAGUETR...

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