Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 055 - The Feathered Octopus

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THE FEATHERED OCTOPUS
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE TOTTERING MAN
? Chapter II. DEATH AND THE BOY
? Chapter III. TWO MEN AND A TRAIL
? Chapter IV. THREE MEN AND A BLANK
? Chapter V. THE VOICES
? Chapter VI. BUY ORDERS
? Chapter VII. TROUBLE FOR LONG TOM
? Chapter VIII. THE OCTOPUS
? Chapter IX. THE CAPTIVES
? Chapter X. PRISONER FOR EXCHANGE
? Chapter XI. THE SPARRING
? Chapter XII. THE ISLAND
? Chapter XIII. GUIDE
? Chapter XIV. YELLOW PARADISE
? Chapter XV. THE VICTIMS
? Chapter XVI. THE OCTOPUS, AND FEATHERS
? Chapter XVII. MALADY
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE TOTTERING MAN
IT was spring. Spring, with sunlight soft and warm, with birds nest-building in Central Park, and an
occasional colored butterfly astray among the skyscrapers of New York City. Flowers were never
brighter in Bryant Park, adjacent to the grimy old tomb that was the public library. And if the air was ever
wine for man to breathe, it was wine this day.
Perhaps that was why the cop was gentle with the old codger. The cop’s name was Finnigan. He was
Irish, bigger than men usually get; and he had a tongue like a blacksnake. He handled traffic at
Forty-second and Fifth, a spot that would make any man tough. He was tough. He was very tough.
He came over to the old codger and said, "Look, Pop, you want to get run over?"
The old codger had been gandering along rather feebly.
"I—I can’t see very well, officer," he said.
It was pretty obvious that he couldn’t see very well.
"Pop, this is no place for you," said the policeman. "I’m gonna put you on the sidewalk, and sure you’d
better stay on it."
The old fellow wore overalls which were that very pale hue that comes from much scrubbing. One knee
of the overalls bore a patch. Over the denims the elderly man wore a clean but rather shabby coat of
coarse stuff, and it became almost certain after a close look at the coat that its vintage was ancient
enough that the pants which originally went with it were of the peg-top style.
His shoes were old-fashioned buttoned brogans, cracked under their polish; his tie was a shoe string that
went out of style before the World War, and his hat was a genuine beaver, what there was left of it. He
was thanking the officer.
"Thank—thank you, officer," he wavered. "I—I don’t get down to town much any more. It—it’s
changed a lot these days. And I can’t hardly find my way around. I wonder—would you—could
you—help me?"
"Help you how?"
"I—I’m trying to find a man."
"Well, Pop, there’s a lot of men in New York. What does this man do? Where does he work?"
"I—only know—the man’s name." The old fellow had a way of hesitating two or three times in each
sentence. It added greatly to his impression of feebleness. "Doc Savage," went on the old codger,
"is—the man’s—name."
The name came within an ace of doing bodily damage to the traffic cop. That is, it surprised him and
caused him to step back and a passing motor car just shaved him. He jerked the menaced part of his
anatomy to safety, threw a profane opinion after the car, then wheeled on the old man.
"What’s wrong, Pop?"
"Why—officer—nothing."
"Don’t kid me, Pop. People who look for this Doc Savage have usually got trouble. Bad trouble.
Because other persons’ troubles happen to be Doc Savage’s business."
The old codger fumbled uncertainly at the buttons of his worn coat.
"There is—nothing—wrong," he insisted.
"Yeah; I bet." The traffic policeman frowned at him. "O.K., Pop. It’s your funeral. Forget it. You want to
know where you can find Doc Savage, eh?" He slanted an arm up, as though pointing out the sun at ten
o’clock. "See the top of that building? The eighty-sixth floor? They tell me Doc hangs out in a kind of
special place he’s got up there."
The old man thanked the lawman kindly and shuffled on toward the skyscraper which had been
designated.
AND across the street, a discreet-looking limousine, which had been loitering at the curb, pulled out into
the traffic, rolled down into the next block, and again loitered.
The old codger made slow and wavering progress.
And the limousine loitering across the street moved on to keep abreast with him, while on the sidewalk
near where the machine had tarried, a few pedestrians stared after the car in a surprised fashion. For, on
chancing to look into the car, they had seen, alone in the rear seat, a Eurasian woman with a beauty that
was almost breath-taking.
But no one noticed that the limousine was trailing the old codger.
The feeble ancient had his head down now, plodding purposefully for the skyscraper. Reaching the
portals of the giant building, he entered and found himself on the glassy floor of a great, arching,
modernistic lobby where there were shops and elevators and elevator starters in striking uniforms. The
number of elevators seemed to confuse the old man. There were nearly a hundred elevators in the
building.
Just as he had approached the cop for information, the old codger accosted a uniformed elevator starter.
And as soon as he had asked for Doc Savage, he was shown to an elevator which stood apart from the
others. Apparently a private elevator. The door closed and the cage went up—but only one floor.
The elevator door opened, and stepping out, the old fellow found himself in a long, narrow hallway. He
stood at one end of this hallway, and at his right hand, arranged along the wall, were comfortable chairs
occupied by numerous types of people.
At the far end of the long room was a desk. In front of the desk was a large, solid-looking chair. Behind
the desk sat a remarkable fellow who looked like a pleasant ape. Seated on the floor beside the desk
was a pig—a pig with remarkably large ears and four long legs. And with one of the legs, the pig was
industriously kicking a spot behind one of its huge ears.
The old codger was shown to one of the chairs arranged along the wall.
The man who escorted the elderly fellow to the chair was a slenderish man with a lean waist, a sharply
featured but not unhandsome face, and a large mobile mouth peculiar to orators—the type of mouth
frequently found on congressmen, senators and carnival barkers. At various times he was addressed by
people in the room as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, and once he was called "Ham." The
homely fellow was called either Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, or "Monk," a nickname
which certainly fitted him.
The old codger sat in the chair where he had been placed and watched the scene with his faded eyes. It
became evident that this long room was in the nature of a receiving chamber. In fact, every occupant of
the chairs was here to see Doc Savage about something, and these two unusual men, Monk and Ham,
were interviewing the visitors.
Some of the visitors wanted gifts of money. These got rather short treatment, which included being
handed a slip bearing an address where they could get a job of hard work with a living wage.
Others seemed to have an illness they wanted Doc Savage to treat, and these were also sent away with
slips of paper bearing addresses where they could get treatment.
The interviewing proceeded, and finally came the old codger’s turn.
The elderly man was escorted to the large chair in front of the desk, planted therein, and before he knew
it, his sleeve was rolled up, and around his arm was placed a contrivance which somewhat resembled the
device which doctors use to take a patient’s blood pressure. The old man gaped at this. He didn’t seem
to know what it was.
The device was part of a "lie detector," and every other person who sat in that chair to be interviewed
had sat with the contrivance strapped to his or her arm.
Monk glanced at the front of a drawer on his side of the desk. He was interested in a small meter located
here. The needle of this stood at a point only a shade from zero, which meant the old fellow had metal
buckles on his overalls, and possibly a little silver in his pockets.
If there had been any large piece of metal on his person, a gun or a knife, the needle would have
registered well over on the dial.
"So you came to see Doc Savage?" Monk inquired.
"Yes—yes; that’s right," said the old fellow.
"What do you want with him?" Monk asked.
And as the old gentleman responded, Monk kept an eye cocked on the jiggling needle of another meter,
attached to the lie detector.
The codger answered the other questions, slowly and haltingly, and Monk watched the lie detector, but
the needle moved only slightly, only to the extent that was normal. Any undue activity on the part of the
indicator when a question was put meant that, if a lie was being told, nervous excitement was generating
minute electrical currents in the subject’s body.
The device, an adaptation of the conventional type in use by some police centers, was, as Monk well
knew, not entirely infallible; but it offered an excellent guide. And finally, Monk leaned back.
"Now," he said, "that you’ve told your story, Mister—"
"Weaver," said the old man. "Tobias Weaver. I am Teddy’s grandfather."
"Yeah; sure," Monk said. "What I started to say, Mister Weaver, is that it’s very seldom any one gets to
see Doc. Very seldom."
The elderly man quavered. "But I—I so wanted to see Mister Savage. Teddy—"
"You’re going to see Doc," Monk said. "And you’re the first man in three days we’ve thought worth
while to send on up to Doc." Monk rose. "Follow me."
Chapter II. DEATH AND THE BOY
THEY took an elevator of breathless speed to the eighty-sixth floor, and stepped out into a plain
corridor, then approached a bronze-hued door which bore simply a small-lettered legend:
CLARK SAVAGE, JR.
Monk opened the door, which gave into a reception room floored with a deep rug, containing no
furniture but an inlaid table of unusual size, and a large and strong-looking safe.
Crossing this, Monk and Weaver entered a vast library, filled almost to capacity with bookcases
containing ponderous scientific tomes. Continuing on, they came to a laboratory which plainly occupied
the remainder of the floor of the skyscraper—and the building, at its base, occupied an entire block, and
was only slightly smaller up here. The laboratory was a labyrinth of complicated scientific apparatus.
There was a figure at the far end of the great room.
Monk stopped. No doubt he had seen that figure at the opposite end of the laboratory thousands of
times, yet for a moment a touch of something like awe seemed to hold him in a spell. A new respect
seemed to come into his rather uncouth, boisterous manner.
"Doc," he said. "A man to see you."
The distant figure turned. It was a man whose figure seemed to be remarkably well proportioned. A man
who was quietly attired in dark clothing. A man who seemed to be working at a table that was rather
small; it appeared that if the table was a little smaller, it would be a toy piece.
Then the man came toward them, and it was evident why the table seemed small. The table had normal
proportions. It was the man who was big. A giant of bronze. Tropical suns had darkened his skin. His
hair, of a bronze hue only slightly darker than his skin, was straight and smooth as a metal skullcap. The
sinews in his neck and on the backs of his hands indicated strength beyond the usual.
"Doc Savage," Monk said.
Then he left.
TOBIAS WEAVER, the old codger, was shown to a comfortable chair in the library. He, too, seemed in
awe of the bronze giant, which was understandable because, beginning with the surprise of the traffic
cop, the importance of the man had been indicated. The people downstairs, some of them plainly big
shots. The impressive size of this library and laboratory. And the stature of Doc Savage himself. All
contributed to the certainty that this man was out of the ordinary.
"I—thank you for—seeing me," said Tobias Weaver rather nervously.
"You are entirely welcome," replied the bronze man. "Just take your time and tell your story."
Doc Savage’s voice was quiet, but there was a quality in it that suggested great power and facility under
full control.
Tobias Weaver’s hands were shod in cheap gloves. He clasped them around his cane.
"Teddy—Teddy"—he paused and looked at the floor, and his face looked miserable—"Teddy is eight
years old. He was a splendid little boy, and he has been with me four years, since his—his mama and
papa were killed in an automobile accident. I used to take him camping. He’s small, but he liked to camp
out, and we used to go into the woods and cook our dinners."
Doc Savage asked, "And what happened?"
"You know how little boys play," Tobias Weaver said. "They—they play at imitating famous figures. I
remember in my day we played at imitating General Grant and Abraham Lincoln. Teddy’s father, I
remember, used to play like he was Buffalo Bill." Tobias Weaver’s voice, with steady talking, became
less hesitant, like a rusty piece of machinery that worked better after it was used a few times.
"Poor little Teddy," he murmured. "He was injured while at play. It was his back. He cannot be
cured—and—he cannot live much longer. He just lies there, on his little cot—just lies there—"
Tobias Weaver stared at the floor, his hands clenched and his lips compressed, and Doc Savage, in a
voice that somehow seemed to convey comfort and strength, said, "Is there something I can do?"
Tobias Weaver nodded slowly. "I have seen enough to-day to show me that you deal—in large affairs.
My little request is so insignificant in comparison. It concerns only an old man and a little boy who will not
be in this world much longer. It may seem a small request. But to the little tike it would mean a lot. You
see, he has read about you, and heard of you, young as he is."
The elderly man hesitated, staring at his hands, then added, "You see, Teddy was playing he was Doc
Savage, and was climbing on the house as he heard you can climb; and he wasn’t careful enough, and got
his injury while imagining he was you."
Doc Savage’s metallic features showed sincere regret, and a troubled expression came into his eyes—the
eyes that were probably the most remarkable of the bronze man’s features. They were like pools of flake
gold, always stirred by tiny, invisible winds. At times the eyes seemed to have a power, something
compelling that was almost hypnotic.
"Would you visit Teddy?" asked Tobias Weaver. "It would make—his end—as happy as such
a—thing—could be made."
"Of course," the bronze man said simply.
Tobias Weaver bowed his head, and for a moment bent his efforts toward controlling himself.
"Thank you," he said. "I know now that you are a truly great man. Poor Teddy will be delighted."
Doc Savage, obviously to get the old gentleman’s mind out of its morbid channel, asked, "Where do you
live?"
"In the little town of Stormington. You—you drive through town on the main street, turn—turn right—and
it is a large gray house on top of the hill. There—there is an iron deer in the yard. But—but could—of
course—you are too busy to go with me now?"
Doc Savage arose. "No. We’ll leave at once."
Tobias Weaver arose from the deep library chair. And in the laboratory, the great room beyond, a small
indicator light in a large instrument panel went dark.
Down the street, the bronze man and Weaver entered a dark coupé, one of several cars which the
bronze man owned, and drove away.
There was a limousine parked across the street, a large discreet car, the rear seat occupied by an
exotically exquisite woman with a slightly Asiatic cast to her features. The limousine did not follow Doc
Savage’s coupé—but it did take another route for the same destination.
STORMINGTON was a bit of the old world set down close to New York City. An antique asleep in
the hills. The streets were narrow, and some of the houses dated back to the Revolution. One main street
ran through the center of the town, continued on, and passed around various hills, and atop one of these
hills sprawled the house where Doc Savage stopped the coupé.
A winding lane led up from the road to the house, which was surrounded by a low stone fence. In the
lawn, not too well tended, stood an iron deer.
"I—want to apologize—for my house," quavered Tobias Weaver. "It has been—in my family for
centuries—and I do not have the—finances—to keep it in repair."
The house was of gray stone, outwardly ornate after the old way, which frescoes, tall, arching windows
of stained glass, and a sharply gabled roof. The door creaked on its hinges and let them into an
atmosphere of museum antiquity, uncarpeted floors and plain, stark old walls stamped infrequently with
ancient oil paintings and prints.
In the vestibule stood a rickety table, on this an aged silver holder for four candles; and Tobias Weaver
applied a match to the candles, then handed them to Doc Savage. It was gloomy in the old house.
"This is a—queer old house," he said shakily. "It was built—by an ancestor who was—eccentric.
Teddy—Teddy will enjoy telling you about it, if you care to listen. And later, I will show you—the
strange place."
He advanced toward a door, and the door opened before he reached it, making a strange, low sigh as it
did so.
"Teddy will be asleep," Tobias Weaver said, pointing through the portal, "and it would be wonderful if
you would go to him alone and awaken him. Teddy—will think it is—a dream." He pointed again. "You
just go straight ahead, through the doors."
Doc Savage nodded and passed through the door, leaving old Tobias Weaver behind. The bronze man’s
tread was easy for one of such physical build, and silent except for an occasional creak of old flooring
underfoot. The flames of the four candles leaned backward slightly in the air as he moved forward and
the tips of the flames gave off little yarns of smoke.
The first room through which Doc passed was narrow and long, made dark as a vault with drawn
shades, and furnished only with a carved table at which stood two fragile chairs. There was no sign of the
party who had caused the opening of the first door, and as the bronze man approached the door on the
far side of the bare chamber, that also opened, making as it did so a low sound that was between sigh
and groan.
And, stepping through that aperture, the bronze man lifted the candles; but there was no trace of human
presence, except his own Gargantuan shadow leaping along the aged walls when he moved. Here, also,
there was no furniture, but only plain floors, plainer walls, and antiquity everywhere.
Doc went on. The air was not dank, for dankness is moisture, humidity; and this air had the dryness of
something shut up for a long time. The kind of air that would be expected in a desert tomb, where they
find the mummies that have been there a half dozen thousand of years, and which collapse the instant
there is a freshening of the air.
Even the wails of the boards underfoot were dry whinnies. And then the flooring changed to stone, and
the walls, too, and there was another door which opened in the same uncanny fashion as the others, with
no one to be seen; apparently no human agency was behind the phenomenon.
The giant bronze man, silent now, stepped through the opening, holding his candles out to one side,
where the light would not get in his eyes. It was inevitable that the eerie, labyrinthian old house would
create an effect on his mind, but his metallic features had not changed expression. But he came to a stop
now, holding the four candles high.
This room was smaller. Of stone, too—ceiling, walls and floor, all gray, flinty rock; while the door—the
one through which he had come was the only door—was of wood on one side, and sheeted with steel on
the inside.
The sheeting had the appearance of ancient doing. The stone walls here were marred with strange
carvings; initials and hearts pierced with arrows, and one or two funny faces. There were dates on the
walls, all old—l773, 1780, 1761. In another place, "Down with the Kind!" was cut in the stone. All
which indicated this had been some kind of prison, probably, back in Revolutionary days.
It was a strange place for a boy to be.
THE little fellow lay on a bed directly in the center of the room in a great four-poster bed, the four legs
extending up and meeting crossbars of an awning support. The awning was of old lace, and the sheets on
the bed were heavy, very white, almost as substantial in appearance as canvas.
Swathed as it was under the sheets, not a great deal could be told about the boy’s figure. There was a
sleeping stocking, a kind of dunce cap, drawn over the small head almost to the brows; and the face,
wasted until it looked aged, and very pale, was a sallow spot above the sheet.
The fixed eyes were open, dark pools, and Doc Savage went over to the bed, which was the only article
of furniture in the room.
The dark eyes followed him, growing wider, and the wan lips parted, then warped up at the ends in an
incredulous grin which spread over the whole of the tiny face.
"You—you are Doc Savage!" chortled the figure on the bed, weak-voiced.
The bronze man was silent for a moment, as though embarrassed by the incredulous admiration of the
wan form. Then the figure on the bed spoke.
"Could—could—I touch you?" the little form asked with pitiful eagerness.
The bronze man showed by his unease that he was in a situation with which his remarkable training had
not prepared him to cope. Doc was a scientific product, in a sense; but science had failed to do one
thing: it had failed to put a shell around his heart.
And so Doc brought a hand down to touch the little figure on the bed. And a hand that was not as tiny as
it should have been, and certainly not as wasted, came darting out from under the covers with the speed
of a rattlesnake.
The fangs it held—one fang, really, and that the drooling nozzle of a hypodermic needle—hit the bronze
man’s arm accurately near the veins and emptied its contents into his life stream.
The hypodermic needle stabbed again. Doc shifted backward, evading it.
Out of the bed came the "boy." No boy at all. A grown man, with a tiny face which artful disguise had
made into the visage of a dying tike. Where his body had lain in the bed, the mattress was hollowed out;
and the form that had shown under the covers was only a dummy of the type which ventriloquists use.
The man sprang away from the bed.
The trickster was fast on his feet. Even then, he had no need of the needle again, for Doc Savage, a
strange expression on his features, seemed to comprehend that the stuff which had gone into his arm was
quick-acting. He whipped toward the door.
That door closed, with an abrupt groan, and there were the muffled sounds of other doors closing, with
groaning sounds—noises made, it was now evident, by electrical mechanism which operated the doors.
The big bronze man bent at the knees and sank, swayed a little and upset on his side, and thereafter did
not move.
It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the day was Tuesday.
Chapter III. TWO MEN AND A TRAIL
IT was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the day was not Tuesday, but Wednesday. There were more
visitors than ever in the office. Monk was paying no attention to them. As a matter of fact, Monk was
busy. He was doing a crossword puzzle.
Right now he was stuck. Only one word was needed to complete the puzzle. And Monk, in vain it
seemed, was scratching his furry head for the answer. Then, suddenly, he gave a loud "Whoop!" that
startled every one and grinned as he put down the answer.
Monk looked as if he didn’t even know the answer to what two and two added up to. Not that Monk
didn’t possess any brains. The fact was that Monk, whose low, apish forehead did not appear to hold
room for a spoonful of brains, was one of the world’s greatest chemists.
His laboratory was a penthouse affair down near Wall Street, and such was his ability that spending only
a short time there at wide intervals, he was able to make all the money he needed. And having a great
liking for excitement, Monk therefore spent most of his time as one of Doc Savage’s small group of five
assistants.
Monk had two other enjoyments of life: One was a great delight in pursuing every pretty girl that met his
eye, an avocation at which he had remarkably good luck considering that he was as homely as the
proverbial mud fence. His other joy was a never-ending battle, verbal and otherwise, with the dapper
lawyer, Ham.
Monk pressed an interoffice communicating system which was connected with Doc’s eighty-sixth floor
headquarters, and got no answer. A worried expression came over his homely face, and he fell to
frowning at the pig with the large ears and long legs, which sat beside the desk.
"Wonder what’s happened to Doc, Habeas Corpus?" Monk asked the pig seriously.
"I ain’t studied mind-reading, Monk," the pig, Habeas Corpus apparently said.
Monk was a strange fellow. He liked to use a certain ability as a ventriloquist which he possessed to hold
facetious discussions with his pet pig.
Abruptly, Monk announced that receptions were over for the day and shooed the aspirants out and
locked up.
At this point, Ham, the dapper lawyer, put in an appearance. He wore this afternoon a completely new
outfit which, if possible, was more immaculate than his sartorial splendor of the previous day.
"Task, task," Monk said sarcastically. "Gosh, but you’re pretty this afternoon."
"It wouldn’t hurt you to spruce up a little!" Ham snapped.
"But I’ve got me a suit of clothes for every day in the week," Monk snorted.
"And where are they?"
"This is it I’ve got on," Monk explained.
Ham scowled. He could scowl with a great deal of browbeating dignity, an art he had learned in
becoming one of the most astute lawyers in the land.
"Here, Chemistry, old top," Ham called.
Chemistry appeared. Chemistry was Ham’s pet anthropoid. Ham insisted Chemistry was a
pure-blooded, blue-blooded member of, the strain anthropopithecus troglodyte. Monk’s claim was that
Chemistry was an ordinary mangy runt of a baboon. But regardless of who was right, Chemistry, the pet
ape, bore a resemblance to the homely Monk that was distressing to the chemist.
Monk did not care for Chemistry. Ham did not care for Habeas Corpus. Monk did not care for Ham. It
was a combination which never gave any one any peace.
"Doc," Monk said thoughtfully, "has been missing since yesterday."
"Yes," Ham said soberly, "he has."
It was a strange animosity these two had. They could drop it instantly if anything serious came up.
"We better go up and see what we can learn," Monk suggested.
MONK and Ham entered the great establishment on the eighty-sixth floor. There was no sign of Doc
Savage. They went through the mail, and there was no note from the bronze man.
"The last seen of Doc, he went away with that old codger yesterday," Monk reminded. "Let’s see what
they talked about before they left."
Ambling into the laboratory, Monk opened a section of the wall which looked quite solid, and worked
over a complicated piece of apparatus contained in the niche thus revealed.
The apparatus, among other things, consisted of two large reels of fine steel wire. The reels were geared
so that the wire passed slowly between the poles of a powerful electromagnet. The contrivance, in fact,
was a device for magnetically recording sound on wire.
By running the wire through a playback, Monk reproduced through a loudspeaker all that had been said
between Doc Savage and Tobias Weaver.
This apparatus, wired to hidden supersensitive microphones, reproduced all that was said in the bronze
man’s headquarters. The device, far from being an unnecessary crack pot scientific gadget, had done
valuable service in the past.
Finally the talk between Doc and Tobias Weaver, as repeated by the wire recording, ended.
"Huh," Monk muttered, "nothing suspicious about that. The old fellow just came to get Doc to visit a little
boy who was dying."
Ham snapped his fingers suddenly, "Monk! Do you know something?"
"Not to hear you tell it," Monk said suspiciously. "What you getting at, shyster?"
摘要：

THEFEATHEREDOCTOPUSADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THETOTTERINGMAN?ChapterII.DEATHANDTHEBOY?ChapterIII.TWOMENANDATRAIL?ChapterIV.THREEMENANDABLANK?ChapterV.THEVOICES?ChapterVI.BUYORDERS?ChapterVII.TROUBLEFORLONGTOM?ChapterVII...

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