Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 085 - The Spotted Men

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THE SPOTTED MEN
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE RED SPOTS
? Chapter II. THE MADMEN
? Chapter III. THE BLACK PLANE
? Chapter IV. THE SKINNY MEN
? Chapter V. DEATH IN STEEL
? Chapter VI. MAN IN THE MASK
? Chapter VII. DOC DISCOVERED
? Chapter VIII. QUESTIONS
? Chapter IX. DOC’S DISCOVERY
? Chapter X. TRAILED
? Chapter XI. MAD MEN OR SANE?
? Chapter XII. DEAD MEN NEVER SQUEAL!
? Chapter XIII. HELLO, SUCKER!
? Chapter XIV. TANKER TRAP
? Chapter XV. HORROR IN STEEL
? Chapter XVI. AND NOW YOU DIE!
? Chapter XVII. FIEND IN BLACK!
? Chapter XVIII. ONE MAN’S FOLLY
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE RED SPOTS
THE midget racing car was about as long as the tow-headed young man, provided he had been lying
down. But Tink O’Neil wasn’t lying down. His long, lanky form looked as if he were trying to get it
beneath the raised hood of the car. His tow head was practically out of sight.
Then the upper half of Tink O’Neil came out from beneath the hood, and he straightened. His tanned,
nice-looking features were grease-smeared. Tink O’Neil looked more like a garage "grease monkey"
than a clever young fellow who knew a whole lot about engineering, steel and midget cars.
Tink O’Neil turned to the man sitting on the track fence, grinned and announced, "Well, she’s all set for a
speed trial, Mr. Mason. And you just watch; it’s going to be pretty."
Later, Tink O’Neil was going to wonder why he ever made that statement. He was going to regret,
almost, that he ever climbed behind the wheel of the fast-looking little racer.
Tink O’Neil fastened down the hood. The motor of the small car was already turning over with a sweet
pur.
The man on the fence said, "I’ll clock you around once, then open her up when you pass me."
Tink O’Neil grinned. "Hope you see me when I go by!"
The man on the fence looked like somebody of importance. He was somewhat stout, well dressed, with
steel-gray hair and good features. He was probably one of the richest men in America. He was president,
at least, of one of America’s largest steel companies.
He was J. Henry Mason, a man known throughout the United States.
The steel millionaire said now, "Be careful, Tink. Remember, this is really a test of that new steel in the
brake drums and the rear axle—not a race in which you are supposed to break your neck."
The tone of J. Henry Mason’s voice said that he liked this young man a good deal. For Tink O’Neil was
trouble-shooter at one of the great steel plants of the millionaire. He was a valued employee. And he was
always tinkering around with cars and engines.
It just happened that his hobby was midget racing cars.
Tink was climbing beneath the wheel. He had a time tucking his long, lanky legs beneath the cowling of
the small car. He pulled goggles down over his eyes.
J. Henry Mason got down from the fence. For a large man, he moved with quick, efficient steps. He
added:
"Only a couple times around, Tink. Don’t forget, I have an appointment to meet Molly and that girl Pat
Savage. They’re trying out Molly’s new plane this morning. It’s got that new T.3 steel in the wing
construction. So I haven’t much time."
Tink O’Neil nodded. He gunned the motor, and the soft purr became a roar. There was the smell of
castor oil, some of which is used in all racing cars. Dust kicked out behind the small car.
Tink started up, eased through the speeds and jogged along at about fifty around the half-mile dirt track.
J. Henry Mason watched with a half smile on his features. Some lad—he thought. Smart as a whip, and
slated to get to the top. He saw Tink around the two far curves, and then the young man was coming into
the straightaway. He opened the car up wide.
The car came down the home stretch like a flashing yellow comet. J. Henry Mason stood ready with his
stop watch. As Tink streaked past, he clocked him.
Dust blanketed over the steel king. He blinked, squinted, finally managed to see the car roaring into the
first turn. Tink O’Neil was taking it wide at the start, cutting across the arc and hitting the dangerous
curve on the inside rail as he got half way around.
Mason nodded approvingly. That was the way to take them, he knew.
Then Tink was in the back stretch, wide open, easing out in order to take the far curve. He went into it in
a cloud of dust and spewing small stones. Almost instantly, he was out of it and hammering down the
home stretch. Mason held his stop watch ready to catch the time.
But something happened.
THE car seemed to be out of control. It was swaying.
And then J. Henry Mason gasped as he saw what was the trouble.
The back left wheel was coming off!
Attached to the wheel was part of the rear axle. The thing came suddenly loose, crashed the wooden
guard rail of the fence, tearing down a dozen feet of the heavy wood.
The car zoomed around in a crazy circle. It made two complete turns, half of another, shot backward
along the dirt track.
J. Henry Mason cried out in horror and leaped clear. The next moment, he figured, it would go over and
Tink O’Neil would be ground to a pulp. For in these midget cars there was no room for the driver to get
his whole body ducked down beneath the protective cowling of the machine.
But, miraculously, the car did not turn over. It ended up, instead, against the railing with a crash. Oil
smoke and dust temporarily veiled it. J. Henry Mason held his breath. Perhaps—
Then the cloud drifted away and he saw Tink O’Neil climbing from the small car. Tink’s goggles were
pushed back from his dust-smeared face, and where his eyes had been covered they appeared like white
small saucers surrounded by grime and dirt.
Tink O’Neil said grimly, "Look, Mr. Mason, this T.3—our new steel is supposed to be tougher and
stronger than any known steel—was used in the axles and brake drums, wasn’t it?"
Mason nodded. "Certainly, because I supervised the job myself."
"I know," said Tink. "But do you know what happened?"
"What?" the millionaire wanted to know.
"That rear axle crystallized. I heard the whine as it let go. It snapped right in two."
"But—"
"And these brake drums. They did the same. Wait, I’ll show you—" Tink was already on the ground,
sliding under a part of the midget car that was clear of the track.
He continued: "I can’t understand it, Mr. Mason. Every brake drum is split wide open, and I had barely
started to use the brakes when I felt that rear wheel going. They’ve cracked open just as though they
were made out of tin."
Mason looked as if he was going to choke. He exclaimed, "But T.3 is the greatest steel ever produced!
It’s going to revolutionize the steel industry. It’s going to—"
From beneath the car, Tink O’Neil said, "What did you say, sir?"
There was no answer. Tink frowned, because the steel king’s words had broken off abruptly.
He asked again, "What did you say?"
There was still no answer. And from where he was, Tink could not see the giant of a man who had
stepped from the tall bushes near the track rail and seized J. Henry Mason.
AT first, not getting any reply from Mason, Tink O’Neil figured that the steel millionaire had most likely
walked back down to the dirt track in order to inspect the broken axle attached to the wheel, which had
come off.
So Tink went on prying at the broken piece of brake drum which he had found as he slid beneath the
racing car. The brake drum had cracked, and now he had a piece of it almost free. He was quite anxious
to inspect it and to learn what had happened to T.3.
As J. Henry Mason had mentioned, T.3 was the latest invention of his vast steel mills. It was a formula
that was going to cause a lot of changes in airplanes, armaments and ships. Because it was the toughest
and strongest steel known—and also the lightest in weight.
Mason had mentioned something about his pretty daughter Molly trying out a new plane, alone with
someone named Pat Savage. Tink recalled hearing something about this from Mollie herself.
For Tink O’Neil knew Molly Mason pretty well. He thought she was just about tops. He even had hopes
that some day—
Well, anyway, he saw a lot of her.
And Molly Mason had told Tink O’Neil about her new plane, which was to be ready today. A girl
named Pat Savage was going to go up with her. It seemed Molly had met this other girl at an exclusive
beauty salon in New York. Pat Savage owned and operated the beauty establishment. But Pat Savage,
according to Molly, was the kind of girl who would rather be flying planes and getting into some sort of
adventure, instead of staying in New York.
These things flashed through Tink O’Neil’s mind as he crawled from beneath his small racing car. They
suddenly took on a terrible significance.
Because Tink was staring at the broken brake drum which he held in his hand, and at the steel which
composed that brake drum. The same kind of steel that was in the wings of Molly Mason’s new speed
plane.
The tow-headed young troubleshooter’s mouth fell open, and he started to exclaim, "Good grief, this
is—"
He stopped, staring around for the millionaire steel king. He looked back down to the track, in order to
call out the startling information to J. Henry Mason.
But Mason was nowhere in sight.
That was odd, Tink O’Neil thought. Because the dirt track was a small, private proving grounds that only
Tink and the steel king ever used. It was deserted. There was an empty, small grandstand and a judges’
tower across the way, inside the rail. It would be mighty easy to see anyone out there on the stretch of
straightaway.
But there was no millionaire, no sound. Only the quietude of early morning and the soft rustling of birds in
the trees located inside the inner fence of the oval.
Puzzled, Tink O’Neil called the millionaire’s name. He put down the heavy piece of brake drum and
started looking around. And he came upon the footprints in the dust not far from where his car had
cracked up.
One set of prints was much larger than the other, as though they might have been made by a man with
huge feet. Tink instantly knew that J. Henry Mason’s shoes were nowhere as near as large as these. He
frowned.
The footprints made a crooked trail inside the rail, disappeared beneath thick foliage which grew almost
up to the protective guard rail of the track.
Tink ducked beneath the bushes, prowled around for fifteen minutes and found—nothing!
Suddenly, it came to him that there was something awfully queer about happenings during the past half
hour. First, his narrow escape from death. And now the sudden disappearance of the millionaire steel
magnate.
Again Tink O’Neil thought of J. Henry Mason’s statement about Molly’s new plane, and the tryout
which was taking place this morning. Horror leaped over Tink. T.3 was in that new plane—and now
Molly was headed toward death.
With panic seizing him, Tink O’Neil abruptly made off across the dust of the track. He changed into a
fast sprint. He recalled that there was a phone booth beneath the grandstand. From there he could call
Molly and warn her—
And then he remembered that he had no slightest idea as to just where the plane tryout was to take
place. There was no way he could reach the girl!
And yet there was!
IT came to Tink in a flash. He recalled that this girl Pat Savage, who was to fly with Molly this morning,
was a cousin or something like that of a person named Doc Savage. Tink, from time to time, had heard
details about Doc Savage.
He remembered that Doc Savage—they called him the Man of Bronze—was supposed to be a mental
giant, a scientific genius of some sort. Perhaps Doc Savage could get in touch with this girl Pat Savage—
Tink O’Neil reached the phone booth, found a nickel in his grease-smeared jumper and finally got hold
of Long Distance. He recalled that Doc Savage had his headquarters in New York. But he had no idea
just how he was ever going to explain how to reach him.
He said, "Look, I haven’t any change here, operator. But it’s urgent that I reach a person named Doc
Savage, in New York. You’ll have to reverse the charges if you can. Maybe the New York end can help
you find the address of Doc Savage. Or perhaps—"
The operator’s words shocked Tink O’Neil. For she said, "Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I can get Doc
Savage for you in a moment. Just hold the line."
Tink gasped. Apparently this fellow Doc Savage was well known to the telephone company. He must get
a lot of phone calls, the tow-headed young man thought—
He heard the connection being made, and the operator talking to a man who said this was the
headquarters of Doc Savage. The man wanted to know who was calling. Operator relayed the question.
"Tell him it’s James O’Neil," Tink said excitedly. "But that won’t mean a thing to him." He thought
quickly. "Look, inform him that it’s about his cousin Pat Savage. Tell him it’s terribly urgent, a matter of
life or—"
Abruptly, Tink paused. He listened in partial awe to the voice which came clearly and yet quietly over the
wires. The voice held a strange, compelling quality, and had the clearness of a deep-toned bell despite
the fact that it was miles away.
The unusual voice said, "This is Doc Savage speaking. What is it you wish to say about Pat Savage?"
Breathlessly, Tink O’Neil told what he knew about Molly Mason’s appointment to fly a new plane with
Pat Savage. He tried to tell something about what had happened here at the track, but he was so excited
he got incoherent. And so he switched back to the girls, and yelled:
"Look, Mr. Savage, I’ve heard of those short-wave radios and some of the gadgets you use in your
work. Well, you’ve got to reach them—somehow. Get hold of them and stop them from going up in that
new plane!"
"Why?" The question, some strange quality of the tone, partially calmed Tink O’Neil.
"Because," Tink went on, "they’re in terrible danger. You see, it’s about T.3, and—"
Abruptly, Tink O’Neil stopped. And stared. Gawked in wide-eyed astonishment at the figure standing
just outside the phone-booth door.
It was a man of giant size. He must have been close to seven feet tall. From the waist up, he was naked.
For just an instant, recognition flashed across Tink’s face. This giant fellow was Jeff Hanson, one of the
steel workers from Open-hearth Shop No. 5, located only a mile from here.
And then, in the next moment, Tink gasped, "No! It can’t be!"
For Big Jeff Hanson, for all his muscular hulk, was a quiet, plodding worker who never as much as raised
his voice or showed the slightest anger. He was a brute of a man as gentle as an ox.
But this man here—
Tink drew back in fear. The man’s left eye was closed, squinted shut in a peculiar manner that gave his
whole face the silly expression of a lunatic. He was giggling softly, and at the same time watching Tink
O’Neil.
And this was only a half of the horror of the man’s appearance.
For from the waist up, where he was naked, his body was covered with livid red spots, like blotches of
inflamed red pimples. The red spots were on the face as well, and added to the closed, squinting eye,
they made the giant look like a painted clown.
A clown that was stark mad!
One word flashed through Tink O’Neil’s whirling brain. Smallpox! The red marks made him think of the
dreaded disease.
But even this wasn’t half as dreadful as the fellow’s insane regard. He made a movement toward Tink.
The receiver still in his hand, Tink O’Neil yelled into the mouthpiece, "He’s crazy! He’s crazy as a loon.
And he’s covered with red spots. I—"
Tink O’Neil’s words ended in a gurgle as the giant figure seized him, slapped a hand over his mouth and
dragged him from the phone booth.
The telephone receiver swayed back and forth on its short length of cord.
Chapter II. THE MADMEN
TINK O’NEIL was not a coward. And for all his lankiness, he was as hard as the steel which had been
his business for several years past.
And it is quite likely that he would not have stood a chance against the giant of a half-naked man except
for one thing. The menacing red spots.
Sight of the spots drove Tink O’Neil a little berserk. They scared him. And so he fought like fury.
He broke free of the giant figure’s grasp, ducked low, and butted the grinning lunatic with his head. Tink
O’Neil put all the steam he had into the flying dive.
It felt as though he had smacked up against a brick wall. The giant figure stood on spread feet, and his
eye kept squinting and he merely grinned foolishly. He made some sort of sound like a giggle, and
launched out at the young trouble-shooter again.
Startled, Tink O’Neil side-stepped, spun away from the groping, huge arms. He shuddered at sight of the
hairy torso covered with the red spots. He took out at a gallop in a direction away from the giant figure.
But the madman ran after him, gobbling up distance as his massive feet slapped the ground. Tink
managed to get clear of the grandstand, reached the dirt track again and went sprinting back toward
where his wrecked racing car was against the fence.
He gulped in chunks of air as the giant fellow closed in behind him. Tink O’Neil’s gray eyes were wide in
his dirt-and-grease-smeared face. He had to hold out another moment, because back near the midget
racer there was something—
The giant, giggling man was almost on top of him when Tink reached the pile of stuff near the fence. The
objects were tools which the sandy-haired young man had brought along when he drove the racer to the
small track. In the pile was a heavy wrench.
Tink scooped up the wrench, whirled around and took a swing at his assailant. He missed the giant figure
by a fraction of an inch.
And the fellow merely stood there, grinning, one eye squinting crazily.
Tink was aghast. He knew that if he had connected with the heavy wrench, that he probably would have
brained the crazed man.
Then, oddly, the giant fellow stared queerly at Tink. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind,
if you could say that he was capable of concentration.
On a sudden impulse, he jerked around and started running like mad in the opposite direction.
FOR an instant, Tink O’Neil merely stared. Then he took out after the giant figure. For as long as this
fellow with the red spots had not actually seized him, Tink O’Neil was not so scared. He was determined
to learn more of this crazy mystery.
Mystery of a wrecked racing car, of the disappearance of millionaire J. Henry Mason—and the
appearance of a madman with red spots.
Tink was certain that the giant man was a steelworker. He most certainly looked like a man Tink knew at
the open-hearth shop. And yet—
Tink abruptly yelled, "Hey!"
Because the giant he was chasing had made suddenly for the wrecked car. In passing the machine, the
fellow dived down and jerked up the piece of broken brake drum that Tink had, a little earlier, been
inspecting. With the drum in his huge hands, the man leaped toward the brush and undergrowth just
inside the inner rail.
He disappeared.
But Tink O’Neil was able to follow the loud sounds of his crashing feet. Tink’s progress, however, was
slower.
He finally emerged on the far side of the oval, and saw—some distance away—the giant fellow streaking
across to a roadway that wound through woods beyond the testing grounds. Tink followed.
And ten minutes later it dawned on Tink where the giant was headed. For ahead, the great line of
mammoth smokestacks had loomed up in the air. There was the black smoke, the smell of the great steel
mills. It was the big Open-hearth Shop No.5.
They were approaching the plant from the rear, and the road snaked in and out of the trees. Ahead, Tink
still heard the crashing of the giant figure’s feet, though he only caught glimpses of the spotted man from
time to time.
Finally, Tink arrived at the gate in the high steel fence that surrounded the big shops. No one was around,
but he saw the marks of the giant’s shoes in the dusty road. Tink put on a burst of speed, raced into the
long storage yard surrounding the huge towering, smoke-blackened buildings.
And a dozen yards ahead, a freight train—it consisted of five or six open cars loaded with pig
iron—backed into the yard and cut off the young trouble-shooter’s progress.
BY the time the slow-moving train had gone past, Tink’s quarry had disappeared. He saw no signs of the
giant man.
But what he did see was the excited group of steelworkers headed for the huge entrance doors of the
open-hearth shop. Tink ran up to them.
He caught the excited talking, the shouts of dismay that came from the throats of the husky steelworkers.
Like the giant crazed man had been, they wore only thick-soled work-shoes and trousers. From the
waist up, they were naked and grimy and sweat-smeared. Obviously, the men had just come running out
of another of the shops, and were headed toward the vast, vaulted length of No. 5.
Tink asked, "What’s wrong?"
The workmen knew the young, tow-headed engineer. Tink had devised a number of improvements
around the various steel shops. He was favored by the men.
"Wrong?" exclaimed one of the workers. "Hell, Tink, plenty’s wrong! Come along."
Tink joined the excited group of men, and another said to him, "Say, maybe you can talk to him!"
"Talk to whom?" Tink asked.
"Johnson."
"What about Johnson?"
"He’s cracked up! The heat’s got him, Tink. He’s in No. 5 here and they say as how he’s stark mad!"
Shock ran through lanky Tink O’Neil. What was this damnable mystery that had so abruptly hit the steel
plant? A worker attacking himself. And now another gone berserk!
He led the group of steel workers inside the vast space of the foundry. Heat—heat that was well over a
hundred degrees—hit them in the faces like a blast of air from a furnace.
There was the misty, thick atmosphere of molten steel and the blast furnaces, and the roar of air being
forced into the bottom of the towering cupolas. A huge crucible of molten steel hung from an overhead
crane, but the crane operator was sitting in shocked wonder, unable to lower the molten steel because of
the confusion on the dirt floor beneath him.
Half a hundred husky steelworkers were lined up on that floor, staring in amazement at one who was on
the runway above them.
The runway was a platform in front of the line of giant furnaces. It was from here that the furnaces were
"tapped" and the white-hot metal drawn off into the great crucibles. But there was no work going on
now.
The single workman was moving along the platform, his eyes glazed, a sound like giggling coming from
his slack mouth.
TINK O’NEIL, like the others near him, stared in horror. The man was Johnson, a worker with a long
and efficient record. Johnson had never been known to lose his temper. He got along well with his fellow
men. He had a wife and four kids, and he never missed a day at the shops.
But now the man was stark mad. Tink, with a start, noted that one of Johnson’s eyes was closed in a
squint much like that of the giant who had attacked him. And there were the unsightly red spots—the
pimply, gruesome spots that had likewise been on the bared torso and face of the first crazed man.
The madman stopped his prowling along the platform, gripped an iron guard rail, and leered down at his
fellow men. It was then that Tink stepped forward.
A gasp went up behind him as Tink cupped his hands around his lips and shouted, "Johnson! You come
down here!"
In emergencies, Tink O’Neil had commandeered men before. And there was a tone in his words now
that caused the grinning, red-spotted man to turn his head and look at the tow-headed trouble-shooter.
The man’s mouth opened and a sound like a grunt came from his throat. He was trying to speak, to say
something coherent. The onlookers could tell that from the strained expression on Johnson’s face.
Tink O’Neil called, "It’s all right, Johnson. Come down. No one’s going to bother you!"
The red-spotted big man seemed to gather a little something of Tink O’Neil’s words. He gave a half nod,
then moved toward an iron ladder that led down from the platform.
Others moved back in fear as the perspiring, massive worker approached Tink O’Neil. Someone said
guardedly, "Don’t be a chump, Tink. The guy is nuts!"
But Tink O’Neil stood where he was.
Johnson came close up to him, watching Tink carefully as he moved slowly across the big floor of the
shop. Then he paused, his one eye half squinting, the ugly red spots gleaming beneath the sweat of his
bared body.
Tink said quietly, "What is it, fella? What happened to you?"
The man kept staring. The other workers had moved far back against a wall. Their eyes were wide.
Suddenly, without warning, big Johnson let out an unholy yell and leaped past Tink O’Neil. One
workman had been slower than his partners in moving back from the spot.
The man was seized by wild-eyed Johnson, hefted like a small child above the crazed man’s head, and
raced down the long length of the shop floor.
A man screamed. Tink O’Neil leaped to race after the madman, but even as he moved he knew he was
too late.
A dozen feet from the suspended, overhead crucible of molten steel, big Johnson paused, then hurled the
man he held as though the poor fellow might have been a toy.
He hurled him up into the mammoth caldron of molten steel.
LATER, the madman escaped. After his blood-chilling act, he continued his plunge through the long
foundry and out a doorway at the far end. Some of the more courageous workmen followed. They
searched the extensive yards of the steel plant. Five hundred men joined in, and many had clubs and
weapons.
But they found no trace of red-spotted Johnson.
Tink reported the disappearance of J. Henry Mason. He did not tell this to the men in the shops. Instead,
he went to a phone in a small office at one end of the big foundry. He called the front office and told the
plant manager of the mystery.
He wasted little time in explanations. There was no time for that now. He had to reach Molly, who was
going to take up a plane in which there was some of the famous T.3. He had to save her life!
Tink, avoiding the others, hurried from the open-hearth shop and quickly reached his small coupé,
parked not far inside the gates of the vast plant. It was only a ten-minute ride to the big home of J. Henry
Mason. Perhaps someone there could tell him exactly where the girl and Pat Savage had gone.
For even though Tink had put through a call to Doc Savage, he doubted that the remarkable bronze man
could do any good. He was too far away, to begin with.
Tink drove madly. The millionaire’s palatial residence was on the main highway leading into Buffalo.
Luckily for Tink O’Neil, he did not have to get into the traffic of the large city. The estate was well on the
outskirts, and only a short drive from the big steel plant.
The grounds bordered the highway itself, but the rambling stone house was set far back beneath
enshrouding trees and carefully-tended shrubs. Tink slammed his small car up the circling drive, jammed
on his brakes before a long veranda and leaped out. He had already seen the man on the front porch.
It was Molly’s cousin, Walter Mason.
Even sounds of Tink O’Neil’s noisy arrival had not aroused the fat young man from a peaceful slumber in
a reclining chair.
Walter Mason was more than fat. He bulged. His various chins bulged, his stomach bulged past his chest
and his thick lips puffed out as he snored contentedly. He had thin, scraggly blond hair and his big head
摘要：

THESPOTTEDMENADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEREDSPOTS?ChapterII.THEMADMEN?ChapterIII.THEBLACKPLANE?ChapterIV.THESKINNYMEN?ChapterV.DEATHINSTEEL?ChapterVI.MANINTHEMASK?ChapterVII.DOCDISCOVERED?ChapterVIII.QUESTIONS?ChapterI...

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