Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 079 - Poison Island

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POISON ISLAND
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE HINDU SAID
? Chapter II. THE EYE ON THE MAST
? Chapter III. INTERRUPTED RADIO
? Chapter IV. SOMETHING TO WONDER ABOUT
? Chapter V. DEATH AT SEA
? Chapter VI. THE WATCHERS
? Chapter VII. SIX ARGUMENTS
? Chapter VIII. THE DECEIVERS
? Chapter IX. THE WATCHMEN
? Chapter X. THE KARL MAXIMUS
? Chapter XI. FIVE KICKING MULES
? Chapter XII. THE NO-TALK MEDICINE
? Chapter XIII. EUROPE’S ANGRY MAN
? Chapter XIV. PARACHUTES
? Chapter XV. IS A GIRL BAD?
? Chapter XVI. A MYSTERY CREEPING
? Chapter XVII. STRANGE ISLAND
? Chapter XVIII. THE COVE OF WRECKS
? Chapter XIX. MUTINY
? Chapter XX. DEATH RAN AND YELLED
? Chapter XXI. THE NABOB OF POISON ISLAND
? Chapter XXII. THE BOW-AND-ARROW ROUTE
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE HINDU SAID
ON the morning of September 4th, the American newspapers carried a small item. It read:
BLANCO GRANDE, Hidalgo—An attempted revolution against the established government of this
Central American republic was smashed at its very outset today, according to officials. About a dozen
persons were killed. Police are searching for the revolutionists, who have taken to hiding.
That night—fortunately it was very dark—a large, sunburned young man, Herb March by name, climbed
down out of the tree in which he had been sitting all day. The tree grew beside the Avenue Prado, which
was a street that followed the water front of the town that was the principal and practically the only
seaport of Hidalgo, the Central American republic where the revolution had stubbed its toe. It was a tree
with a lot of leaves, and had been an excellent temporary refuge.
Herb March left the tree reluctantly. He peered about, hoping he wouldn’t see any uniformed Hidalgoans
with rifles. He made a mental note—no more revolutions.
If they caught him, he was sure there would be no more revolutions for Herb March. There would be a
dobe wall with some fresh bullet pocks in it, and a six-foot-long mound of new-tamped earth on the hill,
which the jungle would soon cover.
And all because two hundred dollars a week for flying a plane and dropping a few bombs had looked
like easy money to a young man tramping the tropics in search of adventure. The only bomb that had
been dropped had been dropped by the government aviators—on the plane Herb had been hired to fly.
And now they were looking for him.
It was a glorious tropical night, although there weren’t any stars; there wasn’t even a moon, in fact, and
the breeze was hot and steamy enough to be coming out of a tea kettle. It was glorious because it wasn’t
raining. Usually it rained.
Along the water front, and tied up to the piers, were boats. A motley assortment of seagoing wreckage,
those boats; Herb March had peered out of the tree at them a few times during the day, and wondered
why they didn’t sink at their moorings.
One boat was an exception. It was a schooner, three-master, with a clipper-type bow and good
freeboard. The schooner was a solid-looking vessel, obviously well rigged and manned by fellows who
looked as if they took a bath occasionally. The boat had a neat, yachty quality about her, but she didn’t
have enough mahogany and brass to be a yacht. Most wonderful of all, the schooner flew the United
States flag. The craft was named Patricia.
"Schooner," said Herb March, "you’re going to acquire a stowaway."
Of course, there was the girl, too. Herb March had seen her from the tree. She had looked very
interesting. She was a long girl with remarkable bronze hair. She seemed to be captain of the schooner.
"Bronze-haired girl," said Herb March, "I hope you’re as nice as you look."
While he was prowling around seeking a way to get aboard the schooner unobserved, he met the Hindu.
HERB MARCH nearly took the Hindu by the throat and choked him. Surprise almost caused him to do
this. Astonishment at finding the Hindu unexpectedly at his side.
"Er—good evening," said Herb March, having swallowed twice, and put his large hands back in his
pockets.
The Hindu pointed at the schooner.
"I have had a vision as I slept," said the Hindu. "And in the vision, I saw that boat, and the eye of evil
upon it. There is no question about the eye of evil, for I saw it very clearly, and so the cargo of that boat
shall be naught but death and mystery."
The brand of English language which the Hindu spoke was very clear. But his meaning wasn’t.
"Come again," Herb March suggested.
"Do not stow away on that boat," said the Hindu.
"How did you— Hm-m-m. You read my mind, or something?"
"I read your mind—yes."
"That," said Herb March, "is a bit of hokum. Pure hokum."
Herb took his large hands out of his pockets. It was in his mind that he might have to choke this Hindu
yet. Let that fellow read that!
"It would do you no good," said the Hindu, "because I am a lowly fellow who is not trying to harm you,
but only to do you a favor."
"What would do me no good?"
"Choking me. You are thinking of doing so."
Herb March began to get the creeps.
"Now look," he said. "What the blazes is this? Who are you?"
"I am Mahatma Rhi, an humble student of the mind who is wandering over the world observing, I regret
to say, the shallow layer of brains which seems to coat the inside of men’s skulls. Not, you understand,
that I am trying to say that other races have mice minds, in comparison to my own. You get only what
you labor toward, whether in India, or in Tulsa, Oklahoma."
"I’m from Tulsa, Oklahoma," said Herb March. "So be careful."
"Yes," said the Hindu. "You lived on South Boulder, and you sold advertising for the Tulsa World, a
morning newspaper."
HERB MARCH’S creeps became large ones. He goggled at the Hindu, but the light was none too good,
since it came from a street lamp half a block away, and he could distinguish nothing alarming about the
other, except that the fellow seemed to be a Hindu. He wore voluminous robes, somewhat like Mahatma
Ghandi. Herb had presumed most Hindus were scrawny specimens composed mostly of bones. This one
was a husky-looking lad, however.
Herb March was entirely positive he had never seen the Hindu before. Which made the mind-reading
strictly hair-raising stuff.
"What else about me?" Herb asked, after clearing his throat nervously.
"The local officials," said the Hindu, "would like very much to catch you and shoot you for taking part in a
very recent revolution."
"And—"
"It would be very sad," advised the Hindu, "if you should stow away on that schooner, as you are
thinking of doing."
"Sad, eh?"
"I have shown you my powers of the mind," continued the Hindu, "in order to convince you that I know
what I am talking about. If you are not convinced, it is unfortunate. Incidentally, I am merely doing this
because I—ah—well, I like those who love adventure as you do. I am an adventurer myself—of the
mind."
Herb March rubbed his jaw; it was, incidentally, a large jaw.
"You know," he said, "I think I’ll take the advice."
"Good. Have you money?"
"I have forgotten what the word money means."
The Hindu fumbled under the complicated sheet of a garment which he wore.
"Here," he said, "is food for the body and poison for the mind."
It was a sheaf of five of Uncle Sam’s perfectly good ten-dollar bills. Fifty dollars. Down here, you could
hire the president assassinated for money like that.
"Hey, what do I do with this?" Herb gasped.
"Roll cigarettes out of it, if you wish," said the Hindu. "But if I were you, I would hire a native as a guide
north to the border. Safety does not lie by the sea. The federal government of Hidalgo has several new
coast-guard patrol boats which they are very anxious to try out."
"Thank you," said Herb March. "Thank you very much."
"Good-by," the Hindu said.
"So long."
Herb March walked away from the water front rapidly until he had penetrated some two hundred yards
into the jungle. Then he sat down and drew a letter from his pocket, and began adding a postscript.
The letter was to Glendara Smith, who was Herb’s girl friend, and who was employed by an oil company
in the United States. Herb had written the letter with difficulty while sitting in the tree that day, and it
contained a recital of his troubles.
In the postscript, Herb stated that he was sailing north on the three-masted schooner named Patricia.
He neglected to mention the bronze-haired girl, because you just don’t mention such things.
Herb managed to creep close to a mailbox and post the letter. Fortunately, he’d had enough stamps in
his billfold.
In returning to the water front, Herb was very cautious. A redskin stalking a paleface scalp would not
have been more silent.
Twenty minutes later, Herb was aboard the three-masted schooner, hidden in a lifeboat which had a
canvas cover. He leaned back and relaxed, pleasantly sure that no one had seen him come board.
It had occurred to Herb that the Hindu had been a trifle too anxious for him not to sail on the schooner.
Chapter II. THE EYE ON THE MAST
IT was not exactly a surprise to Herb March when the schooner Patricia sailed at midnight, since he had
noticed the gear had been made fast before sundown, as if in preparation for putting to sea, and in
addition, the tide started going out about midnight and a sailing boat would naturally catch a favorable
tide.
Furthermore, a long procession of half-naked jungle savages had filed aboard the schooner in the later
afternoon, and each aborigine had carried a wooden case which he had deposited aboard the craft. The
half-naked natives had then filed back into the jungle, passing near Herb’s tree, and infrequently speaking
to each other in a dialect which Herb was sure he had never before heard. The savages had doubtless
brought the schooner whatever cargo she had come for.
"Cast off the fore and aft springlines," called a voice. "Stand by to hoist heads’ls."
It was the bronze-haired girl’s voice. Herb March grinned and leaned back and wished he had a
cigarette. After they were a few hours at sea, and he’d had a nap, he would step out and introduce
himself. All of his troubles were practically over. He closed his eyes and decided he could sleep with
bliss. Unfortunately, the lifeboat floorboards were hard.
There was a pile of canvas in the other end of the lifeboat, evidently a sail which someone had stowed in
the craft, then forgotten. It would make a good bed. Herb March crawled to the canvas, grasped it and
started to yank it into the shape of a pallet, and then hard fingers were around his neck, squeezing.
The arms came out of the canvas and took his throat with total unexpectedness. Furthermore, the hands
attached to the arms seemed experienced at strangling. The fingertips dug in under Herb’s ears. The
thumbs crushed his windpipe, shut every vestige of air out of his lungs.
Herb tried to put a thumb in the other’s eyes. A thumb in the eye is good for almost any close
emergency. But the foe doubled up, wrapped legs around Herb, and trapped his arms in a scissors hold.
The opponent exhibited the ability of a boa constrictor.
They lay there. Herb’s lungs felt like a toy balloon being stepped on. About to burst. He tried the old
wrestler’s trick of throwing himself up and away, but the canvas over the boat prevented that from being
effective.
Changing his tactics, Herb began to tremble as if he was losing consciousness. He wrenched his head
about madly. That way, he distracted attention from his feet until he had them planted firmly against the
boat ribs.
Herb lunged. His opponent’s head banged a boat rib. The foe went limp.
Lying still and pumping air in and out of himself, Herb March concluded the fracas had not been heard.
At least, no one came to investigate. Herb struck a match and examined his unconscious partner in the
late hostilities.
The other stowaway was the mind-reading Hindu.
Herb searched the Hindu, doing a very thorough job.
"Tsk, tsk," he remarked. "I always thought they wore something under their bed sheets."
THE Hindu regained his senses soon enough to indicate that he was made of tough material. He stirred
about, brought both hands to his head, then lay motionless. His breathing became regular enough to show
that his mind had cleared.
"I searched you," Herb remarked in a low voice, "and you didn’t have a thing on you."
"So—" said the Hindu thoughtfully. "You did not take my advice. I had no idea it was you, a moment
ago."
"I better give you back the fifty dollars, maybe. You seem to be broke."
"I carry my wealth in my head," said the Hindu.
Herb March felt in his pocket, suddenly wondering if the fifty had been a hypnotic trick. If it was, the
trick still functioned, because the sheaf of bills was in his pocket. He had an impulse to return the money,
but restrained it. What the heck! He hadn’t made any promises when he took the fifty.
"I think we’re about ten miles out from shore," Herb advised. "Can you swim that far?"
"Not," said the Hindu, "if I can avoid it."
"Then tell me why you stowed away aboard."
"I was fascinated."
"Fascinated?"
"Yes. I know that something fantastic is going to happen to this vessel, and I knew I should not come
aboard, but my curiosity compelled me to do so anyway. I wished to learn of the infinity of evil, and one
must have experience to learn, so I am aboard."
"Those," said Herb March, "are just words. They don’t make sense, and they don’t make truth. If you
don’t want me to throw you overboard, you’ll have to do better than that."
"I was in that would-be revolution, too," the Hindu said. "The Hidalgo government was looking for me,
just as it was seeking you. Had they caught us, they would have stood us before the same wall. Possibly
they would have buried us in the same grave."
"That’s better," said Herb March. "It makes sense."
The Hindu sighed. "I was very tired. Soldiers chased me all day. Do you mind if I sleep?"
"Not if you don’t snore," Herb told him. "Because I could use some sleep myself."
Herb March leaned back, closed his eyes, and slept. The schooner was plunging slowly over large rolling
swells and the motion of the boat and the not unmusical sighing gurgle as the bows broke the waves
combined in something that was as soothing as a lullaby.
Only once did Herb awaken, and he lay silent, and after a mumble or two and a squirming movement, he
went on breathing as a man does when he is asleep, although he was wide awake. The Hindu was
searching him. Herb let the Hindu complete the frisking job, although when the fellow took the fifty
dollars out and examined it, Herb decided there would be a fight to the last ditch unless the money went
back where it had come from. It did. The Hindu lay down and slept. Herb March also slumbered.
Herb awakened with an appetite.
"I’m hungry," he said. "How about you, Mahatma?"
"My mind," said the Hindu, "has never been very successful at controlling my stomach."
Herb lifted a corner of the lifeboat cover cautiously and took a look around. There was, to his relief, no
land in sight.
"What do you say we get acquainted with our hosts?" he suggested.
"With me, that is—what you say—okey doke," said the Hindu.
HERB MARCH discovered that, at the close range, he approved even more of the bronze-haired girl.
"We are," explained Herb, "refugees."
"We were in an unsuccessful revolution together," the Hindu elaborated.
It occurred to Herb that he only had the Hindu’s word that they had partaken of the same revolutionary
fiasco, but he let it pass. The bronze-haired girl was smiling, and when she smiled, everything else
became less important.
"You won’t take us back and turn us over to those dutiful fellows with rifles, I hope," Herb said.
"You are a Yankee?" asked the girl. Her voice was a thing that Herb March found utterly pleasant.
"An Oklahoman," Herb said. "It’s the same thing."
"Then you’ll rate the spare cabin amidships," said the girl.
The cabin was small, as are the quarters on most sailing vessels. There were two bunks, one above the
other, and they drew straws, and Herb got the upper bunk.
"She’s wonderful," Herb remarked. "Boy, oh, boy, even Oklahoma never had anything like her."
"The young lady," admitted the Hindu, "is rather attractive."
By noontime, Herb learned that the bronze-haired girl was chaperoned by a French maid and a
dark-skinned lady of the proportions and probable ability of a bouncer. He had supposed that discipline
on a boat skippered by a girl would be lax, but he found it was the contrary. There was naval discipline
and efficiency aboard. His appreciation of the girl increased.
That afternoon, the girl stood on the aft deck with a long-barreled single-action six-shooter of the variety
popular during the heyday of Jesse James. The schooner was sailing through a stretch of sea where many
Portuguese men-o’-war floated, like small purple toy balloons. The girl nonchalantly popped away at the
floating men-o’-war with her cannon. She shot at least fifty times. Herb March was positive she hit at
least fifty men-o’-war. He stood there with his mouth open.
"Do you never miss one?" he asked.
"Once I did, about three years ago," the girl said. "That’s why I’m practicing."
She smiled, and Herb March grinned.
"You might," said the young woman, "like to have dinner with me tonight."
The dining room aft was very pleasant, and the food, cooked by a Frenchman who was probably the
husband of the maid, was superb. So was the wine. So was the hostess. Herb March felt an impulse to
talk about himself.
"I am an adventurer," Herb explained.
"It must be a very interesting life," said the bronze-haired girl with intense interest.
Ah, she was impressed. Herb expanded, and began talking. He told her about the time the Mexican
bandits began shooting at him when he was leading a donkey loaded with two hundred pounds of
eighty-percent dynamite, and how the donkey followed him when he ran. He told all about the heck of a
time he had getting away from the donkey and the dynamite while the bandit bullets whizzed about.
The story was Herb’s ice-breaker. It was hilarious.
The bronze-haired girl laughed until her eyes were moist.
"That’s wonderful!" she exclaimed.
Herb warmed up and told her about the time he was flying the plane over the jungle, and someone shot a
hole in the gas tank, and he had to bail out with a parachute. Then the head-hunters chased him for days,
but he got away by the skin of his teeth.
"Glorious," gasped the girl. "I wish I could have such experiences! I love adventure."
Herb thought, "Brothers, am I really getting places here?" And he told her about the time he moved into
the royal palace of the king of a Balkan country at the point of a machine gun, and remained there until he
got some back salary they owed him, after which he rode out of the palace on the king’s pet elephant
with the king on the elephant in front of him, and he was pursued by a howling populace until he reached
the border. Herb couldn’t resist bragging.
"Probably I have had," boasted Herb, "more adventures than any man alive."
"Then," said the bronze-haired girl, "you would like to meet my cousin. He is an adventurer, too."
"You have a cousin who is an adventurer?"
"His name," said the girl, "is Doc Savage."
Herb suddenly felt so ashamed of himself that he was a little sick.
HERB MARCH felt like a pickaninny who had been beating his chest and bragging about what a fighter
he was, only to discover he was talking to Joe Louis.
"Ugh!" he said. "As soon as I get my breath back, I’ll crawl away."
Doc Savage was a man who had a world-wide reputation as a righter of wrongs and a nemesis of
evildoers. Doc Savage was a sort of free-lance adventurer, and his feats and escapes were fabulous.
Herb March had heard hardened soldiers of fortune speak of Doc Savage, the Man of Bronze, with a
kind of breathless respect. He had seen an African slaver grow pale at mere mention of the name of Doc
Savage, and had seen a Malay pirate react the same way. The adventures of Doc Savage, and a group
of five assistants who aided the Man of Bronze, made Herb March’s feats seem rather milky.
Also, Doc Savage had a girl cousin named Patricia Savage, who occasionally joined the bronze man.
Herb swallowed, said, "Your name is—"
"Pat Savage," said the bronze-haired girl. "Doc Savage is my cousin."
Herb March knew that his face was the color of a lobster that had been boiled.
When it came to adventuring, this girl had done more of it than he had ever hoped to do.
"Tell me more about your adventures," Pat Savage suggested.
"I—uh," Herb March said. "Well—er—ummmm. I—gosh!" Suddenly he found himself on his feet,
flushing and bowing. "I’m sure I’ve taken up enough of your time," he said. "Excuse me. And good night."
"Then you must tell me more some other time," Pat Savage said. "I am fascinated by excitement. So
often, Doc Savage will not allow me to help him. I even bought this schooner and fitted it out and went
sailing the seven seas, hoping something exciting would happen to me. But it hasn’t. And I’m disgusted."
Herb March escaped uncomfortably, and went and sat on the forward hatch, with his neck red. He had
made a fourteen-carat clown out of himself, he felt, and it hurt him, because he really liked that girl.
The next morning, they found the eye on the mast.
Chapter III. INTERRUPTED RADIO
THE eye was red. That is, it was scarlet in color, and although at first it seemed to be painted there on
the foremast, upon closer examination there was some doubt. It looked as if the eye was a part of the
wood. It was a sinister kind of scarlet thing.
Herb March noticed the eye because he saw some of the crew standing and staring.
"I’ll swear the thing wasn’t there before," one of the sailors muttered.
Herb found the Hindu lying on his bunk. The Hindu was trembling as though he had a chill, and his skin
was wet from perspiration.
"You got the malaria?" Herb asked.
"I have terror," the Hindu said.
"Eh?"
Hitherto the Hindu had spoken a very good grade of English, but now his voice was suffused with a
guttural accent. Also, his breathing was noisy and by jerks. If ever a man was scared into a shaking heap,
he appeared to be one.
"Have you seen the eye on the mast?" he gulped.
"Sure. I was just looking at it."
"Do you know what it means?"
"Nothing, probably."
The Hindu groaned, turned his face to the wall and trembled violently. Then he turned back again and
stared strangely.
"Have you heard of the Marie Celeste?" the Hindu asked.
"Was she blonde or brunette?"
"This is nothing to gag about. The Marie Celeste was a ship, one of the great unsolved enigmas of the
sea. Probably the most fantastic mystery the world ever saw. The Marie Celeste was found one day,
sailing on the sea with all sails set, but without a soul aboard. The table was set, as if for dinner. Nothing
was disturbed. Nothing was missing, except the crew and passengers. There was no sign of violence.
Nothing. Just complete mystery."
Herb March rubbed his jaw. He remembered, now, reading of the strange mystery of the Marie Celeste.
The thing was an actual happening, and how it had occurred had never been explained.
(Author’s note—This is a true story. At noon on December 5, 1872, the Marie Celeste was sighted in
mid-Atlantic by Captain Boyce of the Dei Gratia and his crew. They noticed the strange ship was
yawing in a very remarkable manner, and they boarded her when they received no response to their
salute.
The ship was absolutely deserted, but it was evident that it had been inhabited only recently. A
half-finished meal was on the table, evidently their breakfast meal, and warm food on the stove. All the
sailors’ possessions had been left, the boats were still hanging from davits, but there was not a living soul
aboard. The only thing missing on the boat was the chronometer, which simply added to the mystery.
There was no plausible explanation. The boat had encountered no bad weather, and there had been no
illness on board, and no sign of any kind of disturbance.
Captain Boyce brought the Marie Celeste into Gibraltar, and reported what he had found. Authorities
started checking, and she proved to be a U.S.A. brigantine of 206 tons, built in Nova Scotia and owned
by a Mr. Winchester. She had left New York in September, 1872, on route for Genoa, under command
of Captain Brigg.
The Court of Gibraltar awarded Captain Boyce and his crew $8,000 for salvaging the ship, and the
brigantine was returned to the American owner and sent to sea with a fresh crew.
But she had become a hoodooed ship. Sailors shunned her and great difficulty was experienced in getting
her a crew. She ended her career in 1885 on the Cuban coast where she was wrecked under
circumstances that seemed suspicious.
To this day no word has ever been received of the captain or the crew who disappeared off the Marie
Celeste in mid-Atlantic.)
"What," he asked, "has the Marie Celeste got to do with us?"
"There was a red eye on the foremast of the Marie Celeste."
"Huh? Wait a minute—I don’t remember any mention of such a thing in the stories I read."
"I happen," said the Hindu, "to have more information than ever was printed about the Marie Celeste.
The information came to me—ah—from the son of a man who was one of those who found the Marie
Celeste."
Herb continued to rub his jaw. He did not know exactly what to think.
"There was a red eye on the foremast of the Marie Celeste," he muttered. "What would you say that
meant?"
The Hindu shuddered again, violently, and rolled over on his face.
"I wish," he wailed, "That we were not on this boat."
LATE the following night, Herb March waited until the Hindu was asleep, then carefully slipped out of
the cabin. To leave silently was a job, because Herb had the upper berth. He managed, then crouched
outside the door and listened for some time, but the Hindu went on breathing regularly and deeply.
Herb March skulked along the deck, and eased down with his back against a porthole. He pulled out his
watch, and sat there contemplating it. He was not interested so much in the watch as in the small
compass fitted in the back of the watch. The compass was rugged, and it had always been fairly
摘要：

POISONISLANDADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEHINDUSAID?ChapterII.THEEYEONTHEMAST?ChapterIII.INTERRUPTEDRADIO?ChapterIV.SOMETHINGTOWONDERABOUT?ChapterV.DEATHATSEA?ChapterVI.THEWATCHERS?ChapterVII.SIXARGUMENTS?ChapterVIII.THE...

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