Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 052 - The Land of Fear

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THE LAND OF FEAR
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. SKELETON DEATH
? Chapter II. A STRANGE WARNING
? Chapter III. SEIZED!
? Chapter IV. THE STRANGE HOUSE
? Chapter V. A WARNING ALARM
? Chapter VI. DEATH TRAP
? Chapter VII. A KILLER’S DISGUISE
? Chapter VIII. AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
? Chapter IX. AN EFFICIENT COMPASS
? Chapter X. GATS SEES A GHOST
? Chapter XI. THE CHASE
? Chapter XII. A MIDNIGHT INTRUDER
? Chapter XIII. A TRAP THAT FAILED
? Chapter XIV. A KILLER’S PLAN
? Chapter XV. THE BATTLE ABOARD THE YACHT
? Chapter XVI. DESTINATION—GENLEE
? Chapter XVII. THE SECRET REVEALED
? Chapter XVIII. AN OFFER
? Chapter XIX. A GHOST COMES BACK
? Chapter XX. FINIS TO A KILLER
Chapter I. SKELETON DEATH
THE customs inspector thought later that perhaps he should have done something about it. But there was
nothing he could have done. Customs inspectors can prevent contraband from entering the country, but
fear can pass any boundary line, duty free.
The inspector was a war veteran. He had seen fear in many forms, but never such fear as was mirrored in
the eyes of the three who came in on the S. S. Gentina that morning.
Afterward, the inspector understood a little, and felt an icy grip on his own heart when he realized that
one of those three who stood before him had already been doomed, that a strange, horrible death was
going to strike before the sun set.
The policeman who stood at the dock was attracted at first by the costumes the trio wore. He was no
style expert, but it didn’t take a style expert to know that the clothes were old-fashioned. Then, as he
stepped forward, his curiosity aroused, he forgot all about the clothes. He knew fear when he saw it.
There were two men and a girl. Their faces were bewildered, and they slipped along furtively, huddled
together.
The S. S. Gentina was not one of the aristocrats of the seas; it seldom carried passengers. There was no
huge crowd of welcoming relatives and friends to greet those who disembarked. Only roustabouts were
on the wharf.
But even these the three drew back from, their eyes betraying a panic that could not have been induced
by the sound of city traffic, the mournful toots of tugboats. The policeman stepped forward and spoke
gruffly.
"Here, you! Where do you think you’re going?"
The men stopped, faces suddenly white. Only the girl seemed able to speak, and her voice was little
more than a whisper—a soft whisper of slurring consonants.
"We—we want to see Doc Savage," she said.
The policeman’s air of harshness dropped from him, and his voice was one of deep respect as he
answered, "An’ shure, miss, that won’t be hard to do. Just get a taxi, an’—"
The policeman stopped. His audience had vanished, had slipped by him so quickly that he was surprised
to find them gone.
A frown crossed his Irish face. Half irritated, he walked down the wharf and addressed the first mate.
The S. S. Gentina’s officer shook his head. "You know as much about ‘em as I do, copper. They kept
to their cabins most of the way across. Seemed to be afraid of their shadows, almost. That girl’s a looker
though, ain’t she? Comes from Genlee, somewhere in Africa, though I’ll be blasted if I know where it is."
The policeman scowled and turned back. Then he shrugged. The girl had said they wanted to see Doc
Savage. That was a good sign.
THE taxi darted under elevated tracks, missed a truck by an eyelash and halted with shrieking brakes at
a red light, barely averting a collision with a car ahead. No words of caution came from the rear seat. The
driver was annoyed, vaguely. Usually when he drove, strangers to the city held their breaths and looked
alarmed.
Then, although the driver listened closely, he heard nothing that was being said by his fares. Accustomed
as he was to eavesdropping, he was balked.
"You really think this Doc Savage can help us?" one of the men passengers asked. His head was bowed,
his attitude that of resignation. The others barely stirred. It was as if the question had been asked many
times in recent days, as if question and answer were merely part of an accustomed routine.
"He—he’s got to, Richard!" the girl breathed. Her round face was flushed; her small hands opened and
closed convulsively.
"And he will, Virginia," the second man said, His voice was intended to be reassuring, but there was no
mistaking the undercurrent of doubt and worry.
"He must," the girl said simply. Her round face was framed by black curls that fell to her chin; her lips
were soft, but there was more than a hint of determination in her fear-clouded eyes. A cape was about
her shoulders, despite the warmth of the day—a cape that enhanced the ruffled sleeves, the wide, flaring
skirt of her gown.
The strained faces of the men tightened as she glanced at them. One, the smaller of the two, had the
pathetic appearance of a bewildered watchdog. The other, tall, brown-eyed, smooth-shaven, was
younger, but his features appeared tired; his broad shoulders slumped.
The cab slid to a stop before a hotel.
"I’m Harlan Spotfield," said the taller of the two men, as he halted before the room clerk. "I want three
adjoining rooms for myself and my companions." A strange ring, a large cameo set on a gold band,
flashed as he reached for a pen.
The room clerk glanced at the register after they had signed. "Harlan Spotfield. Virginia Jettmore.
Richard Castleman. All of Genlee, Africa," he read.
Spotfield turned, broad shoulders squared. "I’m going to Doc Savage at once," he said. "You two go to
youah rooms. Stay there. If—if you don’t hear from me in two hours, you know what to do. Carry on.
Much depends on us. Many lives are at stake."
Many tragedies might have been prevented, many people would have been saved much trouble, if the
three had used a simpler method of getting in touch with Doc Savage—if they’d used a telephone.
At least one person would still be alive. But that realization was only to come later, long after the damage
had been done, when even Doc Savage’s trusted lieutenants were beginning to know the meaning of fear.
VIRGINIA JETTMORE already knew. Her wide, flaring skirt billowed and swung as she paced the
hotel room, small hands clenched, face frozen. She watched a clock ceaselessly.
"Two hours—and no word." The girl’s voice was emotionless, devoid of feeling, but its very flatness
carried an ominous note.
The little man started. His head lifted, and the fear he’d shown before was nothing compared with the
stark terror his face now reflected.
"It’s followed us!"
The little man rose to his feet, his eyes darting wildly, like those of an animal seeking to escape from a
trap; his mouth worked spasmodically, but no words came.
"Stop it!" cried the girl. "Moah than our lives are at stake! Wait!"
Richard Castleman sank back, the light of sanity slowly returning to his features.
Virginia Jettmore walked to the phone, lifted the receiver. "Get me Doc Savage’s office, please," she
said. Her voice was steady, but the hand that held the receiver was white, the fingers twisted and
strained.
A voice answered. For a moment, Virginia’s face dropped its tenseness; then her words poured out in a
steady stream. She stopped, and her features changed.
The small man watching her needed no explanation to understand the words she was hearing.
The girl’s voice died away. With a hand that trembled violently, she replaced the telephone receiver.
"He—he never arrived!" she faltered. Her face was an ashen caricature of human features surrounded by
the charcoal of black curls.
"And Doc Savage?" Richard Castleman’s voice was barely a whisper.
"He’s not theah, either, but is expected soon."
The little man’s shrunken shoulders seemed to swell. His deep-set eyes glowed with a hidden fire. For a
moment, it was possible to forget that he was small, insignificant. Courage flared briefly in a body that
had been made for carrying out orders, not for initiative.
"I—I’ll go—and I’ll reach Doc Savage!" he said.
MANY blocks away, a bronze giant was driving along slowly in a big car. Tendons like cables stood out
on the hands holding the steering wheel. The bronze of his hair was a little darker than the bronze of his
skin.
Seated in the automobile, it was difficult for the casual observer to realize the true proportions of the
bronze giant’s stature. Corded muscles meshed under his skin in a manner which made their tremendous
size scarcely noticeable.
People turned, to stare with awe and admiration. Doc Savage apparently was unaware of their scrutiny,
but his gold-flecked eyes missed nothing.
A voice came from a loud-speaker cleverly concealed somewhere in the car.
"Doc! A girl just telephoned. Appeared frightened. Wouldn’t say what the trouble was."
The bronze man stepped down on the accelerator; the big car shot ahead through city traffic. The
message had come from Doc Savage’s office over a special micro-wave radio beam.
There was nothing to tell Doc Savage that this call was any different from the others he received each day
asking for aid. A majority of those calls referred to trivial matters. Every one knew his reputation, asked
him for help.
But it took something big—something beyond the ken of ordinary criminologists—to put Doc Savage on
the trail.
There was one part of the laconic message that interested him, however. The girl had sounded frightened
and hadn’t said why. That was unusual, for those who answered his telephone were adept in drawing all
details from callers.
A DOZEN blocks away, Richard Castleman was having his difficulties. There was a reassuring sound in
the hum of motors, in the undertone of voices and traffic. Policemen stood at corners, and there was the
comfort that comes from brushing elbows with others.
Richard Castleman should have felt easier. He didn’t. One hand held a small sheet of paper—directions
for reaching Doc Savage’s offices written for him by the room clerk. The other hand was clenched; his
eyes were bewildered. Every now and then his frantic gaze swept the crowd behind him.
Perhaps it had been imagination, but he’d thought he’d seen some one following him. It was hard to be
sure in a crowd, but there was no use taking chances.
The little man stopped a policeman, asked a question and darted on. He was beginning to breathe easier
now. He had almost reached his goal.
Doc Savage’s headquarters was in this same block—in the one skyscraper which occupied the entire
block.
A traffic light changed. The crowd swarmed across the street. For a moment, Richard Castleman was
standing almost alone. He glanced in a window and saw a reflection. Instantly, he threw back his head
and emitted a shriek of such terrible fear, that it carried above all street noises.
People turned to look, paralyzed, and what they saw left their faces masks of panic—left them with a
scene of such terror, that it recurred in nightmares for weeks.
Richard Castleman had turned, had thrown up his arms and started to run. Then his body seemed to
fade. There was a faint cloud that resembled steam, but where it started at, where it went, none later was
able to say.
Where the man had been, a strange heap fell to the sidewalk.
A few hardier souls stepped forward, looked once, then added their cries to those of others. Some
fainted.
What had been a man was now only a ghastly, grinning dried framework. It was as if the body had
belonged to a person dead for centuries, instead of seconds. Clothes that had been strong and
serviceable had crumpled away.
A big car drew up at the curb, and a bronze giant stepped out. Doc Savage had sped to his office to
investigate the strange call received from the girl. As he saw the skeleton, a peculiar, eerie trilling note
filled the air—a fantastic sound that seemed to come from everywhere and yet had no definite source.
The trilling was a small, unconscious thing which Doc Savage did when under sudden stress—or when
greatly surprised.
Chapter II. A STRANGE WARNING
THE bronze man could not have prevented the murder. Richard Castleman was dead before Doc
Savage reached the scene.
At the rear of the crowd, a figure turned and walked away, melting into obscurity, hidden by curious
forms as New Yorkers played true to custom and crowded forward with necks craned to see what had
happened.
No one but Doc would have noticed that vanishing figure. His gold-flecked eyes photographed the move,
caught a fleeting glimpse of a slinking form before it vanished in a sea of struggling humans.
It would have been useless to attempt pursuit. The crammed street prevented movement. And besides,
there was nothing definite to connect the disappearing figure with the strange pile of bones on the
sidewalk. But the incident was impressed firmly on Doc’s brain.
Since childhood, he had gone through a routine of exercises daily—a routine that not only had developed
him physically, but had trained his mind so that he could couple cause and effect more swiftly than the
ordinary man.
The average person would never have seen a connection between the laconic message Doc had received
and the murder in front of the building where the bronze man had his offices.
Doc did not know there was such a connection, but his gold-flecked eyes were glinting strangely.
Easily, his huge shoulders cutting a path for him, Doc moved through the crowd and entered an office
building, a huge structure of brick and steel that towered high in the air.
Doc stepped into a special high-speed elevator; it went to the eighty-sixth floor, rising with such speed
that an ordinary man would have sagged and gone to his knees. Doc Savage withstood the strain without
apparent effort.
As he approached his office, a door swung open suddenly. A shadowy figure appeared on the opposite
wall of the hall, a slender well-dressed figure carrying a long cane under one arm—and a
strange-appearing pig under the other.
Without pausing, the bronze man walked straight ahead, and the door of the office closed behind him.
A ROAR of rage came from one of the two men who confronted him.
"You ape-faced missing link! You misguided freak of nature! Where did you get that?"
The two men were paying no attention to Doc—the words were not addressed to him.
The speaker was a tall man with lean shoulders and thin hips, attired in a fashion that was sartorially
perfect—and who resembled the shadowy figure that had appeared on the hall wall, except that he had
no pig under one arm.
"Just a gentle reminder of your upbringing," said the second man. His voice was small and childlike, and
came strangely from a homely face composed mostly of mouth. Tiny eyes were sunk in pits of gristle.
Long, hairy arms hung below his knees.
In appearance, he did resemble a bull ape. Hardly more than five feet in height, almost as wide, his
nubbin of a skull looked as if it held scarcely a thimblefull of brains. But that was misleading.
The two turned, faced Doc. "This—this—" The tall man broke off, as if at loss for words. Which was
unusual. Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, better known as "Ham," was one of the most
astute lawyers in the world. The halls of Harvard still shouted his praises. "Monk—" he began again, then
gestured resignedly and stopped.
"Monk," Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, grinned, his homely features lighting up amazingly.
One of the greatest living industrial chemists, he had a perpetual quarrel with Ham. Much of it dated back
to an event which took place during the World War, when Brigadier General Brooks had once been
accused of stealing a pig—an offense he had always laid at Monk’s door.
"I really got the goods on him this time, Doc," Monk grunted. "I got a picture of him walking around with
a pig under his arm."
At Monk’s right elbow was a small movie projector. It had been pointed toward the door, and when the
door had opened to let Doc enter, the scene had flashed on the wall of the hallway.
"He’s faked that picture!" the dapper Ham squawled. "He’s taken a picture of that pig, Habeas Corpus,
he always has around him, and made it look like I was carrying him!"
"You received a message from a girl, a call for help?" Doc broke in.
Monk and Ham abruptly stopped their bickering. They knew the bronze man—knew every inflection of
his voice. And that voice indicated now that something serious was in the air—something probably
connected with the telephone call.
"We made a record of the conversation," Ham said.
Doc nodded, went to a desk and opened a drawer. Through a robot arrangement, every telephone call
received at his office was recorded, if no one was present to take it. And often when some one was
present the voice was recorded so the bronze man himself could hear the message.
In silence, the dapper Ham and bulky Monk watched as Doc put on earphones and listened. Twice Doc
repeated the record, missing no shade of inflection, no word of the message.
"She mentioned a Harlan Spotfield," the bronze man said. "Call all hotels, starting with the best ones, and
see if a man by that name is registered at any of them."
Ham leaped to do his bidding.
Monk’s homely face lighted up. "Is something doing?"
"More, perhaps, than you think," Doc Savage said quietly.
Monk grinned delightedly.
"You can tell the girl was frightened when she called," Doc Savage went on. "But her voice had
character. It was not the voice of one easily disturbed. She needed help, badly, it appears."
"I’ve located Spotfield, Doc," Ham called, "or rather the hotel where he’s staying. He registered shortly
after noon with a Miss Virginia Jettmore and a Richard Castleman."
"Good," said Doc. "It was probably Miss Jettmore who telephoned. We will go—"
He broke off suddenly. The door to the office had opened. A figure stood just outside—a strange figure,
with face obviously disguised.
Words poured from the newcomer in a rapid stream.
"Have nothing to do with Virginia Jettmore, or with those with whom she came," the figure said. "The
skeleton death awaits all who come in contact with those from the land of fear."
The door slammed.
A roar of rage came from Monk; his apelike figure shot forward. Ham whipped his cane from a table,
raced after him. That cane really contained a long, slender sword, which Ham could use with deadly
effect. Its point was tipped with a chemical that brought quick unconsciousness, but didn’t harm the
victim.
Doc Savage sat quietly at his desk.
OUTSIDE, he could hear Monk lumbering down the hallway. Monk looked slow, but his bulky figure
covered ground with amazing speed.
Sounds of the chase faded. After perhaps five minutes of silence, discouraged footsteps returned.
Monk and Ham reëntered the office, their faces long. "He got away," Monk said laboriously.
Doc said, "Any one who planned an open threat such as that, would have made sure his line of retreat
was open. But it does not matter. We will go to the hotel, call on Miss Virginia Jettmore and find out
what it’s all about."
Ham perked up. "What did he mean by ‘skeleton death’?" he asked.
Carefully, Doc explained the scene he had witnessed when he arrived at the office building.
Monk’s eyes grew wide. "But—but that couldn’t be done! There’s no way that—"
"Doc said it happened, didn’t he?" glared Ham, glad to get back at Monk for the pig trick.
Monk swallowed, and shut up. Doc said nothing.
"What about that ‘land of fear’ that fellow mentioned?" asked Ham.
Doc shook his head. "We’ll find out."
Crowds still milled about the sidewalk as the three reached the street and started for Doc’s car. An
ambulance had backed up to the curb, although the grim cargo it was taking aboard was far beyond any
help a surgeon might give.
A police car was also at the curb, and two patrolmen were busy holding back curious spectators. A
second police car appeared at the corner, casually cruised nearer.
Doc skirted his big machine to get in on the driver’s side. The cruising police car speeded slightly.
The bronze man glanced toward it. Light was flickering on the shiny end of a snub-nosed machine gun.
The hideous roar of exploding shells rose over the sound of traffic.
Doc only had an instant’s warning. But he had trained himself since childhood for just such emergencies,
for acting fast in moments of peril.
He’d had the key to the car door in the lock, had half turned it. However, there would have been no time
to open that door, to swing inside the machine where he would have been protected by bulletproof glass
and cold steel
INSTANTLY Doc dropped, and so perfect was the coördination of his muscles that he was already
rolling under the machine before the first volley of bullets struck where he’d been standing a split second
before.
Monk and Ham were on the far side of the machine, protected by its impregnable bulk.
A curse of anger came from the machine-gunner. But the gunner was no novice. His second burst of
bullets was directed down, so that they struck the pavement just under the running board of Doc’s car, to
ricochet savagely toward the curb.
Had Doc remained under the car, that second hail of lead would have caught him. But he’d twisted, had
slipped out from under the car in the rear.
The policemen on the sidewalk had drawn their .38s. They stared bewilderedly for a moment at the
police car, then realized the truth. The men in that machine were not dressed in the blue uniforms of
officers of the law. They were in civilian dress.
Monk whipped a weapon from his pocket. In appearance, it was something like an overgrown
automatic, but it had a circular magazine. This magazine held bullets, not of solid lead, but thin-shelled
projectiles that contained a chemical. Called "mercy" bullets, they did not kill, but only brought
unconsciousness to those they struck. The weapon had been designed by Doc.
The hairy chemist’s weapon came up, but the police car had spurted ahead. Doc stepped back behind
his own auto as another savage volley of lead rained toward him. The other men were firing now.
The policemen on the sidewalk fired. Instantly, it seemed, one of them doubled and fell as the
machine-gunner turned his weapon on them.
The crowd frantically sought hiding places in doorways and stores. Not all succeeded. Some fell under
that withering blast.
Monk fired. A queer expression crossed the face of one gunner. He slumped across his weapon.
The second policeman, face a hideous mask of rage, raced into the street, his service pistol barking. He
had seen a companion shot down, the unforgiveable crime.
The policeman’s marksmanship was not the best. He was excited, but a lucky shot went home. The
police car, which had been picking up speed, swerved suddenly and crashed into a traffic light. The
impact was terrific. The shattered and now lifeless bodies of the men inside were folded up in crumpled
metal.
Doc Savage glanced around quickly. The ambulance attendants, ignoring danger, were already at the
sides of those who had fallen. All that could be done for them was being done.
"Looks like that fellow certainly meant his warning," Ham drawled.
"A blasted trap to make us run out and get killed!" growled Monk.
"I think so," Doc agreed. "At least, it shows that it is certainly time for us to find what this is all about."
Unruffled, he got into his car, slid behind the wheel. The others stepped in after him. The attack had been
so sudden that few knew it really had been directed at the bronze man and his companions.
Doc’s car headed toward the hotel where Ham had learned Harlan Spotfield had registered with a girl
and a second man.
THE hotel clerk was inclined to be voluble.
"Yes, they’re registered here. And a strange-appearing trio. I never saw such clothes, outside of the
movies. But it wasn’t that which impressed me so much." His voice dropped, became a confidential
whisper. "They were all afraid, deathly afraid. One of them went out at once. He never came back. Then
a second man went out. He hasn’t come back."
Doc nodded. "And the room number of Miss Jettmore?"
"1252."
The bronze man expressed his thanks and went to the house telephone.
Only the muted sound of a ringing signal answered his call.
Doc, still holding the receiver, glanced at Ham. His cane swinging, his attire the envy of the wealthy idlers
around him, Ham strolled to the desk, asked casually, "Miss Jettmore didn’t go out, of course? She is still
in her room?"
"Oh, yes," said the clerk. His smirk conveyed the idea he certainly would have noticed if she’d gone out.
Doc replaced the receiver, walked to the elevators.
"No answer?" rumbled Monk.
The bronze man shook his head.
As they stepped from the elevator on the twelfth floor, Doc was slightly in advance. A casual observer
would have thought nothing of the way the three walked down the hallway. But one accustomed to the
ways of Doc and his aids would have known that this seemingly aimless alignment was one of strategy.
At Room 1252 Doc halted, knocked. There was no answer. He tried the door. It was locked.
A ring of keys appeared in one of his hands. The hotel management would have been astonished to know
that the door’s burglarproof lock could be so deftly opened. But the door swung free in a very few
seconds.
THE bronze man swung the door wide, then stood motionless on the threshold. Nothing was to be seen
except the ordinary furniture of a high-priced suite.
Monk started to press forward, only to halt as one of Doc’s hands dropped on his left arm. Ham stood
so he could see down the hall, swinging his head to watch both directions,
Then Doc entered the room. A faint frown appeared on his face.
Nothing seemed amiss; there were no signs of a struggle, or indications even that the room had been
occupied recently. But the bronze man’s nostrils caught the faint scent of perfume. It was hardly
discernible.
Slowly, Doc started forward, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.
A door opened—a door leading to a bedroom. An audible gasp came from Monk. Always susceptible
to beauty, he stood amazed at the vision that confronted him.
Small, her eyes wide in her rounded face, her black curls clinging close to her head, a girl stood in the
doorway, looked at them strangely. Her glance passed over Monk’s homely face to return to the
bronzed countenance of Doc.
"I’m Doc Savage," said the bronze man. "This is—"
摘要：

THELANDOFFEARADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.SKELETONDEATH?ChapterII.ASTRANGEWARNING?ChapterIII.SEIZED!?ChapterIV.THESTRANGEHOUSE?ChapterV.AWARNINGALARM?ChapterVI.DEATHTRAP?ChapterVII.AKILLER’SDISGUISE?ChapterVIII.ANUNEXPECTE...

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