Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 066 - The Munitions Master

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THE MUNITIONS MASTER
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. PUPPETS FALL
? Chapter II. A MOB’S FURY
? Chapter III. THE WORLD IS WARNED
? Chapter IV. "SHOOT TO KILL!"
? Chapter V. TRAPPED!
? Chapter VI. DEATH ROARS
? Chapter VII. AN UNBELIEVER CONVINCED
? Chapter VIII. AN ESCAPE ACT
? Chapter IX. LONG TOM FALLS
? Chapter X. LIVING DEAD
? Chapter XI. AN OPERATION ORDERED
? Chapter XII. VISITORS ARRIVE
? Chapter XIII. AN INTERCEPTED MESSAGE
? Chapter XIV. A WORLD INFLAMED
? Chapter XV. A RESURRECTION
? Chapter XVI. AN EXECUTION
? Chapter XVII. A MESSAGE SENT
? Chapter XVIII. CHECKMATE!
? Chapter XIX. THEATER OF DEATH
? Chapter XX. PEACE
Chapter I. PUPPETS FALL
THE little man did not look dangerous. Certainly those about him had no suspicion of the part he was to
play in the almost unbelievable horror that within a few minutes would transform a gay, merry-making
throng into a panic-stricken, fear-crazed mob.
He was a small man, with a thin face and wide mouth. His features were sullen, his cap pulled low over
his head. He appeared insignificant.
And if he did not appear worthy of a second glance, neither did the burden he carried.
He was having difficulty getting that burden through the crowd. It consisted of three loaves of French
bread, three or four feet long. The staff of life, not the symbol of horror and death.
In some countries it would have been uncommon to see bread carried in such a manner. In Paris, such a
burden was taken for granted. Long loaves of bread are carried through the streets as a matter of course.
The little man twisted from side to side. His sole desire seemed to be to protect the bread. He apparently
paid little attention otherwise to the crowds.
But to protect the bread was a hard enough task. Paris was in a holiday mood. The gay tricolor of
France hung from almost every window. Gay throngs packed the tables of the sidewalk cafés. The
stirring sound of martial music came from the distance. Troops would soon march in review.
The man with the bread was not as unconcerned as he appeared. Occasionally he would dart his head
around, peer over his shoulder, as if fearful that he was being trailed.
Intelligence officers were in the crowd, but they were paying no attention to the little man. In fact, they
did not know just what they feared, just what they were to watch for.
But there had been rumors. Strange rumors. Tenseness pervaded the foreign departments of several
governments. Orders had been given to be constantly on the alert whenever crowds gathered.
Certain statesmen might have been forewarned. There had been queer activities in certain parts of the
world. In fact, the horror had struck twice before.
The first time was in China. But the story was not believed—so many strange stories come out of China.
The second time was in Russia. The world did not hear of that. The report was suppressed.
Once more the little man’s head jerked around. He swung his bread out of the way of an overenthusiastic
celebrator, swore at him fiercely, while the palms of his hands were damp suddenly.
No one paid any attention. That is, no one human did.
THE peculiar-appearing creature could hardly have been called human, even if it was clad conventionally.
Its hairy face indicated it was of simian, not human descent.
A tall hat was perched grotesquely on the creature’s head. Long arms, half crooked, fell below the
knees. It moved erect, but with a gliding motion.
It saw the bread, and its tiny eyes lighted. It slid resolutely after the thin man. A long arm reached out. A
paw opened.
The little man’s head turned. He saw, just in time. He gave a frightened scream, snatched the bread
away.
There was a sudden commotion. Two figures plowed through the crowd.
"Chemistry!" shouted one. "Daggonit, ain’t you got better sense than to try and steal food?"
The little man’s eyes goggled. His head jerked forward like a turtle’s. And from around him came a roar
of good-natured amusement. The little man’s amazement was justified.
For the man who had called out startlingly resembled the ape who had reached for the bread. He was a
little thicker, but he was also wearing a tall hat. His arms, likewise, fell below the knees. And his eyes
appeared buried in gristle until they were as tiny as those of the ape.
Behind him, a tall, slender man, immaculately dressed, doubled up in laughter.
"He thinks he’s seeing double!" he roared. "And I don’t blame him!"
A gasp of recognition came from the crowd. "Les assistants de Doc Savage!" came an incredulous
whisper. "Doc Savage’s men!"
The little man heard. He seemed to shrink back; his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hate.
The two men facing him did not notice. The tall, fashion-plate appearing man was apologizing in his best
French. The other, who looked like an ape himself, was holding onto the simian, complaining plaintively.
"Daggonit, Ham," he bleated, "I told you to leave this ape at the hotel."
"Ham," otherwise known as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard’s gift to the legal
profession, snickered delightedly.
"And deprive Parisians of the pleasure of seeing twins, Monk?" he asked, with exaggerated politeness.
"Monk," known to the scientific world as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, an outstanding
chemist, swallowed hard.
Ham had dressed Chemistry, his pet ape, to resemble Monk as nearly as possible. And for once, in
good-natured ribbing that had been going on for years, Monk knew Ham had the edge. And as Habeas
Corpus, Monk’s pet pig, was home sick, the hairy chemist, worried, was behind in his digs.
The little man with the bread disappeared in the throng. Neither Monk nor Ham saw him go.
IN an office on the third floor of the building across the street, a man was removing binoculars from his
eyes. He had witnessed the little man’s narrow escape at losing part of one loaf of bread.
A sign on the office door said, "Carloff Traniv, Avocat." But the office was a queer one for a lawyer to
use. And the man himself did not appear to fall into that category.
Carloff Traniv stood almost six feet four. His frame was that of a soldier, more than an attorney. His
shoulders were squared, his stomach lean. His morning clothes fitted him as if he had been poured into
them, but he gave them the effect of a military uniform, not a civilian dress.
But his face was his most compelling feature. It had an air of command. His jaw was square, his eyes
hard under long, thick black eyelashes. Heavy, almost curly black hair bushed forward over his forehead.
"Doc Savage," he sneered. "The master adventurer. The man who always blocks evil."
Two men slid close to him, peered out the window. "Almost time, boss?" one asked. He spoke with a
Brooklyn accent, which was peculiar. For both he and his companion were dressed in the blue uniforms
of French gendarmes.
The big man nodded. There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside. The sound of martial music was
very loud sounds of cheering reëchoed.
"Go!" Traniv rasped. "You have your instructions. Do not fail! If you do—"
A quick rippling of nerves passed over the two men in gendarme uniforms. Their eyes darted fearfully
over strange, weird-appearing appliances about the office. Then they sped for the door.
Across the street in an alleyway, the little man wet dry lips with a nervous tongue. His eyes were burning
feverishly.
Attention was centered on a reviewing stand, almost directly below Traniv’s office.
"Doc Savage!"
came the roar. "Doc Savage!"
A tall, bronze giant was making his way toward a seat directly in the center of the reviewing stand.
Despite his size, the symmetry of his development was such that it was difficult for the crowd to realize
his true stature. His features were regular, almost classic. Now he was smiling slightly in acknowledgment
of the applause.
His straight hair was a slightly darker bronze than that of his skin. His eyes were like hypnotic pools of
flake gold, compelling, attractive eyes. Muscles rippled smoothly.
Monk and Ham chuckled delightedly. They knew part of the enthusiasm was due to newspaper reports
of Doc’s errand in France.
For Doc Savage, known formally as Clark Savage, Jr., was one of the world’s foremost medical
authorities, even as he was an outstanding leader in such widely separated subjects as astronomy,
undersea navigation and electrical research.
The newspapers had hailed the bronze man widely. Doc Savage had discovered a new type of cell
development that led him to believe it might be possible to restore the health of many war cripples, might
even restore the sight of many thought hopelessly blind. He had come to Paris to work with French
specialists.
Doc lifted one hand, then took his seat. The lifting of that hand quieted the crowd. It showed in what
reverence the bronze man was held.
At that moment, two men in gendarme uniforms ducked out an entrance of the Metro, or Paris subway,
moved until they were close to the reviewing stand.
Across the street, the small, thin man with his loaves of bread, suddenly pushed his way to the front of the
crowd.
A band blared. Those in the reviewing stand rose to their feet. The military men saluted. There was a
moment of silence as long ranks of young, tanned, physically perfect appearing soldiers started to march
by.
Then it happened!
THERE was an unbelieving gasp. Then came the terrible, almost animal-sounding screams. The screams
came from the soldiers.
But only for a moment. Then noise burst from the crowd. Panic seized the multitude. The crowd became
a seething mass of motion in which men fought blindly in wild panic, in which women were trampled
underfoot. Those at the rear fought to get near the street to learn what had happened.
In the street itself there was a strange sight. The ranks of soldiers had disappeared. In their place were
rows of fallen figures that twisted and squirmed, and from which groans and horrible noises came
constantly.
A youth who had been at the edge of the sidewalk suddenly turned, fought to get away.
"I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!" he shrieked. "They were marching along! Then their legs melted! They
can’t march without legs!"
Chapter II. A MOB’S FURY
DOC SAVAGE leaped from the reviewing stand and fought his way to the stricken figures in the street.
He did not seem to use much force, but he eased through the crowd where another would have found
progress impossible.
Several hundred soldiers had fallen. They lay huddled, still in some semblance of the straight,
well-ordered lines in which they had been marching.
But they would never march again. They had been crippled forever, had been left with shattered bodies.
It was as if their legs had been melted away, halfway to their knees. Their feet and the lower part of their
legs had disappeared. There was a peculiar, sickening smell in the air.
Doc Savage dropped beside the body of the closest soldier, an officer.
A low, strange sound came suddenly. It was a trilling sound that apparently came from everywhere, but
yet from no particular point. It was a sound the bronze man always made either when he was surprised
or when he was warning of danger.
And he was surprised now.
There was nothing to indicate how the soldiers had been crippled. The stubs of their legs were seared as
if from white-hot fire. That alone kept the men from bleeding to death. Had a sheet of intensely strong
flame swept the street, it would have produced such a result; but there had been no such sheet of flame.
It was easy to understand, though, why the soldiers were silent. They were suffering from shock, dazed
and half unconscious from pain.
There was excited calls from gendarmes. Ambulances were trying to force their way through the mob,
and having little success.
The soldiers were in danger of being trampled to death beneath the feet of their crazed countrymen. A
troop of cavalry was trying to take care of that problem, officers leading their men directly into the
twisting, swirling mass.
The mob was fighting back, senselessly. The situation was tense, filled with danger.
Doc Savage alone was cool.
THE bronze man came to his feet. His face did not change expression, but his gold-flecked eyes swept
the swarming mob with calm deliberation.
Monk and Ham, with Chemistry, had also fought their way toward the stricken soldiers. They realized, as
quickly as did Doc, that there was nothing to be done.
The soldiers were crippled. Their wounds had been cauterized. A majority would live, but for many it
would mean lives as crippled as their bodies.
"But if there ain’t no war, what caused it?" Monk wailed ungrammatically.
Ham did not answer. The lawyer’s features were set; he was peering over the heads of the crowd, trying
to locate Doc.
The bronze man’s eyes flashed. They had found what they were seeking.
A small, thin-faced man was boring furtively through the crowd. No longer was he carrying loaves of
bread under his arm.
Doc’s aids knew the bronze man had a photographic mind. He could see and remember small incidents
that others would have overlooked.
Just before the horror struck, the little man with the bread had been at the curb, along the line of march.
As the soldiers had reached a spot in front of the reviewing stand, he had done a strange thing.
He had reached out, had knocked off the ends of each of the loaves of bread he carried. Then he had
dropped the bread.
Doc dived forward.
The thin-faced man saw him. He gave a startled cheep, and was engulfed in a wave of struggling forms.
He was not far from Monk and Ham.
Strange words came from Doc’s lips.
Heads turned toward him suspiciously. The words were in a weird language, certainly not French.
Monk and Ham understood. Doc had spoken in Mayan, the tongue the bronze man used when he
wished to direct his aids without others knowing what he said.
Instantly the hairy chemist and the dapper lawyer dived after the little man.
The little man’s face was working strangely now. Saliva drooled from his mouth. He was trapped!
Two men in the uniforms of gendarmes smiled grimly. Their uniforms were making a path for them.
"Now!" one of them said shortly.
The other nodded. They leaped forward.
One appeared on either side of the bronze man. They grabbed Doc by the arms.
"Halte!"
they cried.
Those in the crowd near by stopped their yelling to listen. Here was the famous Doc Savage being
stopped by gendarmes!
"Doc Savage, you are under arrest!" one of the men shouted.
He appeared to shout even louder than should have been necessary. His voice carried a long way. Many
heard him.
"We know you plotted this. We saw you give the signal for this horror to start. Even now, you shouted to
your conspirators in a foreign tongue."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Monk and Ham stopped in their tracks, mouths wide, eyes
unbelieving.
"There must be some mistake, messieurs," Doc said quietly.
One of the gendarmes made a darting gesture toward Doc’s pocket. He held up his hand and waved a
small vial. The cork in the vial was knocked out. A thin liquid poured to the ground.
The liquid had a penetrating, sickening smell. It was a smell such as surrounded the fallen soldiers.
"Here is proof!" the man shrieked.
A SAVAGE roar of almost unutterable ferocity came from the crowd. Suspicion had been turned toward
the bronze man. Suspicion was all the mob needed.
"Tear him limb from limb!"
"Kill the monster!"
"Murder him! Slay him!"
"Death! Death!"
The yells came from scores of throats.
There was an eruption of humanity. The gendarmes were torn from the side of the bronze man.
Monk and Ham had listened, scarcely able to credit their ears. They knew the gendarmes had lied. And
knew, as a consequence, that they must be fakes. But they could see the unstoppable consequences of
the shrewd play that had been made.
Small, squalling sounds came from Monk. Doc Savage had gone down! The hairy chemist went berserk!
Ham’s face was more serious than it had ever been before in his life. Side by side, the two fought to
reach the place where the bronze man had vanished under a sea of figures.
But if the scene had been one of almost indescribable confusion before, now it was worse.
Word of the accusation swept through the throngs. The cavalrymen, trying hard to protect their injured
comrades, were swept from their horses. The horses themselves were knocked to the pavement.
Soldiers who had been only crippled before, were now pounded to death beneath plunging feet.
Sheer animal cries of savagery came from those closest to Doc Savage. Tattered pieces of clothing
floated up in the air, as if hurled there by a seething cauldron.
ACROSS the street, Carloff Traniv watched. His hand was steady as he held the binoculars to his eyes.
"The famous Doc Savage!" he muttered sardonically. "But then, he won his fame before he encountered
Carloff Traniv."
His lips split in a grin as he saw Monk and Ham forced back by the crowd they sought to get through.
He saw a hairy figure—Chemistry—fighting hopelessly beside Doc’s aids. Ham was using his sword
cane, but lost it in the fight finally.
Traniv grunted with satisfaction as the glasses picked up the scurrying figure of a small, thin-faced man.
He appeared pleased, too, when he saw two men in tattered gendarme uniforms fight their way to one
side.
"And if Doc Savage is the man they say he is, he also will contrive to escape," he said softly. "If he
does—"
His eyes caught the figures of a girl and a man, pressed back on the outskirts of the crowd, and his grin
broadened.
The faces of the girl and the man were grim. The girl was slender, scarcely over five feet tall, and had
been called beautiful. Her figure was one that had drawn raves from all who had seen it. And since she
displayed that figure at a night club every evening, many had seen it.
It might have been only coincidence that the night club where she danced was frequented mostly by army
officers and government employees.
The man beside her supposedly was her dancing partner. He was tall and lithe, but there were lines about
his eyes that made him appear older than he was.
The girl had her pocketbook half opened. One hand was inside. Her fist was wrapped tight about a
small, very efficient automatic.
The man’s gun was in his side coat pocket. His fingers also were firm about the butt of the weapon.
Their eyes were glued on the struggling heap where Doc Savage had last been seen.
AND at that moment, radios in many countries were blaring their shocking message.
"We have additional information to add to our short item of a few moments ago, describing the
horrible occurrence in France, an occurrence similar to one recently reported from China,"
the clipped voice of a British broadcaster was saying.
"The crime cannot be laid at our door, no matter how much our neighbor may wish to do so,"
was the statement of a guttural-voiced German announcer.
"It’s terrible. It’s beyond belief. But the news seems to be authentic,"
came the sorrowful tones of an American news commentator. He paused a moment:
"The horror—and we do not know yet what that horror was, except that it took the legs from men
without warning, and, so far as could be seen, without use of weapons—has been laid at the door
of an American we all have revered.
"That American is known to us as an inventive genius, an adventurer and a hero, a man without a
peer. But something must have slipped, must have affected that great man. At any rate, ladies and
gentlemen, I regret to inform you that the French believe they know the perpetrator of that
fantastic tragedy across the seas. Many witnesses attest to it.
"That man is Clark Savage, Jr., known to his friends as Doc Savage.
"He is believed to have been torn to pieces by the mob. Rioting, however, is still going on and
definite information is impossible to obtain.
"If Doc Savage was responsible, then he deserved to be torn to pieces. But let us suspend
judgment if we can. Certainly, evil forces are at work on a scale never before dreamed of. We
must remain calm, although the entire world is jittery; although nations are arming feverishly—"
Chapter III. THE WORLD IS WARNED
DOC SAVAGE probably should have been torn to pieces.
As the mob rushed him, the bronze man dropped. He was not knocked down. He dived forward,
breaking free from the grip of the false gendarmes.
As the crowd swept over him, he broke several small capsules on the pavement.
A thin powder seemed to fill the air, directly in the center of the mob. From the outside, it appeared
merely dust stirred up from the pavement. It enveloped those nearest the bronze man.
Some minutes later, a man appeared on the outskirts of the rioting mob. His shoulders were stooped, his
hair gray. His clothes were tattered, and his head sagged.
He did not look anything at all like Doc Savage.
He moved after two men in the torn uniform of gendarmes.
Those men were making their way to the Metro entrance. The two would be safe as soon as they got rid
of the uniforms they wore.
They did not see the old man who trailed them.
But others did. Carloff Traniv grinned evilly. Monk grabbed Ham’s arm, pulled him out of a struggling
mass. Chemistry, for once, appeared willing to stop fighting.
Monk did not speak, he merely pointed. Ham’s breath came out in a relieved sigh.
"I knew he’d do it, but I must confess I feel better now that I can see he did get away," the lawyer
admitted.
With the ape between them, they started after Doc.
The bronze man darted down the Metro entrance. The two men he was trailing were using an old New
York trick of going in one subway entrance, then across and out another in order to cross a crowded
street.
Doc made no attempt to overhaul them; he appeared content to trail along. Monk and Ham lost track of
him momentarily.
But there were two others who didn’t.
As the bronze man emerged from the subway entrance on the opposite side of the street, two figures
pressed against him. Guns bored into his ribs.
"You will come with us," said a girl’s voice. It was the girl who had been watching the street fighting.
"We think you will prove very valuable to us," her dancing partner drawled. "But don’t attempt to
escape, or we will shoot."
BOTH spoke excellent English. Doc’s expression did not change. He walked along without protest.
"How did you get away from that mob?" the girl asked. Frank wonderment was in her voice.
"It really was quite easy," Doc explained conversationally. "I merely released a powder that momentarily
deprived those closest to me of the power of sight. As well as hampering their powers of locomotion.
Before they recovered, I altered my appearance and moved away."
"Cute," the girl said shortly. "Clever, aren’t you?"
Doc made no reply. He permitted himself to be ushered into a taxi on a side street. The man spoke
rapidly in French.
Monk and Ham burst into view just as the cab sped away at a neck-breaking pace.
"They got Doc!" Ham said incredulously.
"Got him, nothing," Monk protested loyally. "If Doc went along, you know it was because he wanted to.
He thinks they’ll lead him to who really is behind this."
The hairy chemist sighed deeply. "I hope that girl ain’t mixed up in it. S-she’s too beautiful."
The girl really was beautiful, but the gun she held was steady as a rock. Her companion’s eyes showed
that he would not hesitate to shoot if it should be necessary.
Neither knew that Doc wore bulletproof underclothing, that he was not in the least impressed by their
guns.
The girl and her companion showed no disposition to talk. Doc surveyed them in silence.
The cab stopped before a ramshackle building in the Latin quarter on the left bank of the Seine.
Both the girl and her companion had been watching out the rear window of the cab for some moments.
Now they looked at each other anxiously. The man nodded.
Doc was ushered out, taken inside the place. He was pushed into a small room, far back in the building.
The girl sighed. "Made it," she said.
Doc suddenly went into action. One hand shot out with such speed that it was only a blur. Before the
man opposite him knew what had happened, his gun had been transferred to Doc’s fist.
A faint squeal came from the girl. She tried to bring her automatic up, squeeze the trigger. Her gun also
appeared to move into Doc’s hand without effort.
"Now you will tell me who you are, and what this is all about," the bronze man said quietly.
THE girl’s face was sullen. Her companion appeared disgusted.
"Your names?" Doc repeated softly.
The tall young man took a desperate chance. He hurled himself directly at Doc.
The two guns disappeared in Doc’s pockets. He faded back. As the man lunged by, one of Doc’s hands
floated out. His fingers appeared to caress the back of the fellow’s neck.
The young man halted, jerked erect, then stood absolutely motionless. His eyes had a queer, vacant look.
The girl stared, amazed.
"Your names?" Doc repeated.
摘要：

THEMUNITIONSMASTERADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.PUPPETSFALL?ChapterII.AMOB’SFURY?ChapterIII.THEWORLDISWARNED?ChapterIV."SHOOTTOKILL!"?ChapterV.TRAPPED!?ChapterVI.DEATHROARS?ChapterVII.ANUNBELIEVERCONVINCED?ChapterVIII.ANESC...

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