Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 057 - The Sea Angel

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THE SEA ANGEL
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE AMAZING REDSKINS
? Chapter II. THE SEA ANGEL
? Chapter III. THE THREAT LETTERS
? Chapter IV. GRABBERS AND THE GRABBED
? Chapter V. THE NICE YOUNG MAN
? Chapter VI. THE WALK-OUT
? Chapter VII. SCHEMERS
? Chapter VIII. THE WARNED MAN
? Chapter IX. THE TRAP
? Chapter X. BODIES THAT BURN
? Chapter XI. DEVIL’S DERELICT
? Chapter XII. THE SCHEME
? Chapter XIII. ISLAND TRAIL
? Chapter XIV. COOLINS GETS A CLUE
? Chapter XV. THE "FLYING DUTCHMAN"
? Chapter XVI. THE "PATIENT"
? Chapter XVII. THE GUARDIAN ANGEL
? Chapter XVIII. THE ANGEL’S LAIR
? Chapter XIX. DEATH RENDEZVOUS
? Chapter XX. H. O. G.
? Chapter XXI. TRAPPED BELOW
? Chapter XXII. FAST
? Chapter XXIII. THE ANGEL ON THE CLIFF
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE AMAZING REDSKINS
HE was a peaceful old gentleman who was scared out of his wits. Peaceful-looking, that is. His hair was
white, and his skin was as soft and pink as a baby’s even if it did have wrinkles in it.
He was frightened. As terrified and as full of cold, horrible suspense as a man watching a black widow
spider crawl down his arm.
The scared old man was getting out of an automobile in front of the main entrance to the Museum of
Natural History. The automobile was one equipped with armor plate and special glass. Another
automobile had driven up to the museum entrance ahead of it. Still another had followed behind. These
two escort cars were full of gentlemen with guns in their pockets, suspicion in their eyes, and detective
badges—private and police—on their clothing.
Before the old gentleman stirred from his car, the guards scattered over the sidewalk and into the
museum, looking around, then signaled discreetly that it was safe.
Having observed nobody suspicious inside the museum, the burly man in charge of the guards came out
to report to the old gentleman.
"Coast looks clear," he said. "But, Mr. Quietman, it would make it a lot simpler if we had some idea of
just who is threatening you. Who is this Sea Angel?"
The old gentleman—Leander L. Quietman, philanthropist, patron of arts, beloved old gentleman who
gave dollar bills to poor newsboys, according to the newspapers—shrugged and looked exasperated.
"I’ve told you I do not know!" he said. "It—the thing—your job is to protect me from anything.
Anything! Now, I am going in to have a look at the exhibit of the Calhugi Indians which I am presenting
to the museum."
As he entered the museum, Quietman looked just a bit more scared than any man should be who does
not know what he is scared of, except that it was a telephone voice calling itself the "Sea Angel."
THE Calhugi Indian exhibit was located in an alcove off the enormous third-floor hall which contained
exhibits of other tribes of American, Canadian and Alaskan Indians. There was not a single visitor or
spectator in the room. The reason for this was simple: It was seven o’clock in the morning, and the
museum was not yet open to visitors.
Leander L. Quietman, after having a guard go ahead to make sure the place was empty of human
presence, said, "You men may wait for me outside if you wish. I prefer to admire this alone."
Then he walked toward the exhibit which he was donating.
The bodyguards loafed outside the door and indulged in their favorite pastime of trying to figure out who
or what was menacing Leander L. Quietman.
Meanwhile, Leander L. Quietman was walking toward his Calhugi Indian exhibit, which was at the far
end of the hall. The Calhugi Indians were probably as little-known aborigines as ever chased a buffalo or
paddled a birch-bark canoe.
Quietman drew a breath of admiration when he saw his exhibit, only just completed by the finest
restoration artists in the business. Experts in working with wax.
It consisted of a sod house shaped like a beehive. At one side of the house stood a small herd of six
shaggy ponies. On one of these ponies sat a squat, enormously thick and broad Indian.
This Indian had an amazing set of muscles, which was probably fortunate, because he did not look as if
he could possibly have many brains. Other Calhugi savages were seated, cross-legged, around a camp
fire, along with their squaws. They were engaged in arrow-making and other pursuits.
Quietman heaved another sigh of admiration. He stepped under the velvet rope surrounding the exhibit
and advanced for a closer look at a wax Calhugi Indian, who was making a tomahawk.
"A marvelous work of art!" gasped Leander L. Quietman, after a close look. "A beautiful specimen of the
human race!"
"My mother always thought so, too," said the Calhugi brave, who was supposed to be made of wax.
The next instant, he had Quietman by the throat and had lifted his tomahawk.
"One peep," he said, "and I’ll tomahawk you plenty!"
POOR old Leander L. Quietman became pale, and began to shake.
The Calhugi Indian sitting on the wax pony got off. His legs were stiff, and he staggered about
ludicrously.
"Damn this razorback horse!" he groaned.
Several more of the supposedly wax redskins now got up, and two came out of the sod beehive. One of
these carried a rope ladder.
The squat, muscular fellow who had been on the horse—he had an enormous stomach of the type
commonly called pot-belly—now took charge.
"The window," he said. "And no more wise cracks. Them bodyguards may hear us."
"O. K., Boscoe," the fake Indians agreed, and grabbed Leander L. Quietman.
"W-what does this m-mean?" Quietman gulped.
"It means," said the tubby "Boscoe," "that we had to try this crazy gag to get our hands on you. You
didn’t think that because you walked around in a swarm of cops and bodyguards we wouldn’t get you,
did you? Grabbing you is the only way to save you from the Sea Angel."
Quietman choked, "S-saving me f-from the Sea Angel?"
"Believe it or not, and strange as it seems," Boscoe agreed.
Quietman moaned, "Y-you are m-making a mistake!"
"The hell we are!" Boscoe grinned.
The men proceeded with their saving. They taped Quietman’s lips, fastened his wrists with wider tape,
then led him to a window. One opened the window. Tying Quietman to an end of the rope ladder, they
lowered him.
During this operation, Boscoe went back to the Calhugi Indian exhibit and pilfered. He stuffed his
pockets with stone knives, flint arrowheads and several pairs of moccasins.
Boscoe seemed to forget everything else in his absorption with the looting. He grabbed two or three
bows, two tomahawks, then began to tuck arrows under an arm. He added a long spear. Indeed, he
seemed bent on taking everything in sight.
Several of the men were now down the ladder, and they had untied old Leander L. Quietman and were
holding him. The others descended. Boscoe was last.
Boscoe’s descent was something of burlesque comedy. He had stuffed his Indian garments with
everything they would hold, and had both arms full, which left no hands free to handle the rope ladder.
It was with the greatest reluctance that he surrendered an armload of his loot, and climbed down.
"Whatcha gonna do with that stuff?" a man gritted.
"Oh, I dunno," Boscoe said vaguely. "I’ll think of something."
THE Museum of Natural History originally started with one building, and others were added. There are
alleyways and courts between these structures. The men had descended into one of the courts, from
which an alley led to a side street.
They got in motion, two of them guiding Leander L. Quietman.
Boscoe had his difficulties. He dropped an arrow, stooped to pick it up, and lost two moccasins. He
progressed in this fashion, bobbing along after the others, but leaving a trail of erstwhile Calhugi
belongings. He groaned in agony as he saw his loot dwindling.
This obviously tickled his companions. They grinned widely.
Then their grins faded.
A most remarkable-looking man had appeared in front of them.
Chapter II. THE SEA ANGEL
STANDING on pedestals here and there inside that part of the museum devoted to sculpture were a
number of bronze statues of ancient athletes who had legendary strength.
This stranger was like that. He might as readily have been one of the statues come to life, as the other
men had lately been Calhugi Indians. He was, however, attired in a neat, brown civilian suit, and there
was no make-up on his skin to make it resemble bronze, whereas the others had their hides painted a
coppery red.
Nothing happened for some moments. The fake redskins looked at the man they had met.
Boscoe said quickly, "Watch it, guys, watch it! Daniel in the lion’s den didn’t have anything on us!"
"One side, bronze guy!" a man snarled. "Or we’ll take you plenty!"
"You apes!" Boscoe growled. "Do you know who this guy—"
Boscoe did not finish. The action started. A man pointed his pistol at the bronze giant. There was blurred
motion, and the bronze giant was not where he had been; and two men were flat on their backs, kicking
their legs like flies and trying to figure out just what had happened.
Poor old Leander L. Quietman had been dropped on the hard cement alley pavement. The men who had
held him leaped to the attack.
A man drew a gun. "Get ‘em up!"
"Nix!" Boscoe barked anxiously.
The next instant, as if by some miraculous legerdemain, the bronze man had secured the gun. He pointed
it at the sky, pulled the trigger. A mousetrap would have made more noise. The pistol was not loaded.
Boscoe groaned, "Now he knows our guns are empty!"
If the fact that a gang of men staging a kidnaping carried unloaded guns amazed the bronze giant, he did
not show emotion about it.
The fight continued. It became obvious the unbelievable was going to happen. The mountain was coming
to Mahomet, water would run uphill. One amazing bronze man was going to whip the whole gang!
Then, and the very, suddenness of it was incredibly weird, men seemed to freeze where they stood. They
had been jumping about wildly, striking, trying to get clear of their Nemesis. They stiffened. It was as if
they were a movie which had been stopped at one scene. They seemed scarcely to breathe, until finally,
Boscoe lifted a thick arm slowly and pointed.
"The Sea Angel!" he croaked.
THE bronze man—Doc Savage—whirled and saw it.
Fantastic thing. An incredible thing. Had it been night, the thing might have been a bit more believable.
Eight feet might be the height of the incredible creature. That, though, was a guess. It was frilly around the
edges. It was half as wide as high. It had a thick part for a body. It had triangular wings, two of them,
and these ran to a point; and from these dangled black ropelike arms, eight or ten feet long. Each arm
terminated in a black ball a little smaller than a baseball.
Silver was the creature’s color. The slick silver of a fish. But there were black markings—the edges of
the thing, and the arms.
As it stood there, it did bear some resemblance to an angel. It had a mouth. This was evident when the
mouth opened and showed a jet-black gullet. The mouth was large enough to take a beer keg, with only
a little stretching.
Boscoe croaked, "Boys, we’re in a predicament now!"
Doc Savage lunged for the silver monstrosity. He was lightning on his feet.
But the Sea Angel was lightning doubled. One of the black arms whipped forward, and the long, black
rope came around like a blacksnake whip.
Doc dodged, and the dark ball barely touched him. But the touch had an incredible effect: He felt it from
head to foot. Not pain. Something else. Shock. Agony.
The bronze man stumbled back, was clear when the other arm struck. He kept moving, reached old
Leander Quietman, scooped him up.
It became evident that there was no way out of the alley and court. But in a corner was a small brick box
of a building, the door open, a key in the lock. Tools, lawn mowers, were inside.
Doc whipped to the shed, popped Leander Quietman inside, and closed the door. He turned the key in
the lock, then took the key out.
Doc got close to the brick wall. He shoved the key into a cranny between the bricks, twisted, and broke
it so that it would never open the little tool cubicle again.
The strange creature, the Sea Angel, glided to the tool house, fluttered about it a moment. It could not get
in. It made no sound.
Boscoe and his men ran. They ran as if getting away from there was the nicest thing they had ever been
able to do.
THE Sea Angel advanced on Doc Savage. The bronze man dipped into his clothing and brought out a
small gas grenade. He hurled it. The thing broke against the monster, poured out tear gas.
The tear gas had absolutely no effect, except that it made it necessary for the bronze man to get away
immediately. He managed to do it by a wild rush.
Doc got out of the alley and onto a side street.
Boscoe and his men were in two cars, leaving rapidly.
A young woman stood on the sidewalk. An unusually tall and attractive young woman, who was staring
in wonder at the goings-on.
Suddenly she screamed, whirled, ran.
She had seen, of course, the Sea Angel. The thing was following Doc Savage.
Doc ran swiftly. Construction work was being done on a near-by street, under the elevated railway. The
bronze man made for the loose bricks, and when he reached them, he picked one up, and let fly.
The brick struck squarely. And the monster wavered for an instant, driven off balance. Doc picked up
more bricks. The incredible apparition retreated swiftly.
A taxicab came cruising around the corner, and the daydreaming driver saw the silver-and-black
creature. He gave a violent start and hung his amazed face out a window.
One of the monster’s strange, black feelers snaked out and barely touched the driver’s elbow. The
hackman shrieked. Screeched as if he had lost the arm. And he fed his cab gears and gas.
The monster leaped, and got onto the cab. Not onto the running board, but across the top, great
flipperlike wings draped down on the side, the black feelers tossed up over its back.
The taxi driver saw what he had aboard. He was still shrieking when he and his machine and his fantastic
passenger were lost to sight, six blocks away.
Doc Savage ran to his car, a long, powerful, plain roadster and gave chase; but the cab was gone,
although he hunted over an area of many blocks before he gave up.
Doc Savage went back to the alley between the museum buildings where he had left old Leander L.
Quietman.
The girl who had been such an interested observer of the excitement was not in sight. She was, it
developed, concealed just inside the mouth of the alley. She showed Doc the business end of a small
lady’s pistol when he walked into the alley.
"YOU will put up your hands," she said, and shook a little.
"Miss Quietman," Doc Savage said. "Sure you are not making a mistake?"
She widened her eyes at him. "You know me?"
"You are Nancy Quietman."
She snapped, "That makes no difference! Get your hands up!"
Doc Savage appeared not to hear the order. "Changed your mind or something?"
"What do you mean?"
"It was you who asked me to try to help your grandfather, who was in trouble. You wrote me a letter."
"Oh!" Nancy Quietman lowered her gun. "You are Doc Savage! I’m sorry. I did not know you."
"I am glad," Doc told her.
She showed surprise. "Glad that any one should not recognize you?"
"Publicity," the bronze man said, "is very bad for any one doing such work as myself and my aids do.
Now, what is your grandfather’s trouble? Your letter gave no details."
"I do not know," Nancy Quietman said. "He has suddenly become terribly worried about something. He
hired bodyguards, and got the police to assign detectives to guard him."
"What excuse did he give the police?"
"Merely that he was scared."
Doc questioned, "You have no other clue?"
"No," Nancy Quietman said. "Unless it is this: I heard grandfather muttering over and over, ‘the
twenty-third! I am to be the twenty-third!’ He said it did not mean anything when I asked him about it."
She was silent, looking, at the bronze man. Finally, the girl shuddered.
"Was it real?" she asked. "Has any one ever heard of it before?"
The bronze man did not answer.
"Your grandfather?" Doc Savage asked finally.
"I found him in the tool shed," Nancy Quietman said. "He was yelling. One of the groundkeepers let him
out."
"We might talk to him," Doc said, and walked into the alley between the museum buildings.
But old Leander Quietman was not there.
Some groundkeepers and a few curiosity-seekers stood around and looked puzzled.
"He left," they explained, "in a hurry."
Chapter III. THE THREAT LETTERS
DOC SAVAGE and Nancy Quietman hurriedly entered the museum. They found the phalanx of guards
blissfully unaware that anything had happened to Leander Quietman.
"Those men probably doubled back and seized him!" the girl said, and added that it was a wonder some
one had not taken to stealing the New York City police stations.
Whatever the cops thought about this, they were polite enough not to say. Doc Savage and the young
woman walked out on the street.
The newsboy was still there, yelling the headlines. Doc bought a paper. When he opened it, black type
was big on the page.
GRAND JURY FAILS TO INDICT MAYFAIR!
"Awful Miscarriage of Justice," District Attorney Says.
Nancy Quietman said, "I suppose you have dismissed that man, Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, or Monk, as
he is called, from your organization?"
"I have," Doc said quietly.
The girl nodded approvingly.
"It was terrible, the way he swindled that poor lawyer, Theodore Marley Brooks—Ham, as he is
nicknamed," the girl said.
Nancy Quietman, in referring to the swindle mentioned in the newspapers, was talking about a scandal
that had started the politicians in Washington howling, and which had turned collective Wall Street as
pale as a ghost. The politicians were claiming it proved the laws governing Wall Street were too lax, and
Wall Street was afraid of what the politicians would do.
Andrew Blodgett "Monk" Mayfair had cleverly swindled Brigadier General Theodore Marley "Ham"
Brooks, noted war veteran, out of three million dollars, reducing Ham to a pauper. Poor, impoverished
Ham had attempted to take his own life.
On the other hand, the rapscallion Monk boasted that everything had been perfectly legal, and apparently
it had, because they were still trying to get him in jail.
Doc Savage had ejected Monk from his organization and publicly branded any one who would commit
such a swindle as a type of rascal which was not doing the country any good.
The method by which Monk had perpetrated his swindle on Ham was a bit too complicated in its legal
aspects for an average citizen to understand.
"Your grandfather may have gone home," Doc told the girl.
"I live at grandfather’s house," she said. "Would you care to accompany me there and perhaps talk with
him?"
The bronze man accepted the invitation.
THE Leander L. Quietman mansion bore more resemblance to a church than to a home. It was an
old-timer, and situated on an uptown eminence overlooking the Hudson River.
A butler in exactly the correct attire opened the door.
"Your grandfather just left, Miss Quietman," he said, when asked about Leander L. Quietman.
"So he got back safe!" the girl exclaimed happily.
The elderly butler adjusted his eyeglasses. "Your grandfather took his bags, miss. He asked me to tell
you he might be gone for some time."
"Where did he go?"
"He didn’t say, miss."
"That’s queer," Nancy Quietman said, and looked worried for a few moments. Then she smiled at Doc
Savage. "Would you like to have coffee with me?"
They entered a room which she explained was her grandfather’s laboratory.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking around. "What—what—"
The desk drawers were hanging out, the papers in them birdnests of confusion. Other papers were on the
floor.
"Grandfather left in a hurry!" Nancy Quietman gasped, explaining a scene that spoke for itself.
"Would you give me your permission to make an investigation, Miss Quietman?" Doc Savage asked
quietly.
"You think something is wrong?"
"Manifestly," Doc said. "First, the call for bodyguards, then the attempted kidnaping, now this."
"Go ahead with your investigation!" the girl said, vehemently. "This whole thing is as strange as—as that
monster!"
Doc Savage’s investigation was interesting. First, he visited his car, and returned with a small metal case
on which were some knobs which were like those on ordinary radio sets.
"A device which howls when any metal is brought near it," the bronze man explained.
Doc now moved the contrivance about the room, keeping near the walls. It howled. He located a spot in
the wall where it howled very loudly.
The wall, of wood paneling, looked solid at that point; but after the bronze man had worked on it a bit, a
secret door came open. This revealed a safe door.
"Know the combination?" the bronze man asked.
"I didn’t even know the safe was there!" the girl exclaimed.
Doc then opened the safe door.
HAD the bronze man unexpectedly moved a wall with a hand wave, the old butler’s eyes would not have
come nearer jumping out of their receptacles. He emitted a great croak of astonishment.
But Doc Savage was already taking a bundle out of the safe. There seemed to be nothing else in the safe.
The bundle was letters, some new and some old.
Riffling them like cards, the bronze man inspected the dates. The most ancient was about ten years old,
the newest only a few weeks. All were addressed to Leander L. Quietman.
Not a letter bore a return address.
Doc started to pluck out the contents of a missive.
"Your permission?" he asked the girl.
"You have it."
Doc spread the letter out. It read:
I am killing myself to-night. I hope that will satisfy you!
There was no signature.
The second letter read:
Hitherto I have been the exemplification of skepticism about things after this life. Perhaps
atheism was my failing perhaps only a lack of contemplation. But I have changed, and now I
know there is a hell, and that it is expressly for the likes of you!
That one was not signed either.
The next one threatened:
I have made up my mind. I shall kill you!
No signature.
The fourth:
For heaven’s sake, will you relent? I am ruined, but you continue to wreak your horrible work
upon my family and relatives. Surely the human race cannot claim you as a member!
I do not know what I shall do!
THOMAS CANWELDON.
Doc Savage put the missive down, and said, "This is dated a year ago last January third. The day after
that, a Thomas Canweldon went mad and murdered his wife and family."
Nancy Quietman had become pale. Now she sank on a chair.
"What does it mean?" she asked hoarsely.
Doc Savage did not speak.
The girl choked, "But grandfather—he—every one knows he is one of the sweetest old souls who ever
摘要：

THESEAANGELADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEAMAZINGREDSKINS?ChapterII.THESEAANGEL?ChapterIII.THETHREATLETTERS?ChapterIV.GRABBERSANDTHEGRABBED?ChapterV.THENICEYOUNGMAN?ChapterVI.THEWALK-OUT?ChapterVII.SCHEMERS?ChapterVIII.TH...

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