Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 046 - The Vanisher

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THE VANISHER
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. THE ONE WITH THE QUEER BACK
? Chapter 2. THE AMAZED MEN
? Chapter 3. THE GIRL JOURNALIST
? Chapter 4. PICTURE SHOT
? Chapter 5. THE FIFTY-DOLLAR PHOTOGRAPH
? Chapter 6. OIL IN MEXICO
? Chapter 7. MUSIC BOX AGAIN
? Chapter 8. SIGMUND HOPPEL
? Chapter 9. TANGLE
? Chapter 10. TWO BEFUDDLED MEN
? Chapter 11. THE WORD TWISTER
? Chapter 12. THE VANISHING SAILORS
? Chapter 13. MYSTERY’S REIGN
? Chapter 14. A NEAR CAPTURE
? Chapter 15. THE TRAP
? Chapter 16. THE HUMPBACK ACCUSES
? Chapter 17. TWO MEN IN A DILEMMA
? Chapter 18. THE JAIL WAIT
? Chapter 19. THE TELEPORTER
? Chapter 20. THE PLOT
? Chapter 21. MASTER OF CUPIDITY
Scanned and proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter 1. THE ONE WITH THE QUEER BACK
THE early fall issue of a magazine of national circulation had carried a feature write-up about Doc Savage.
The item was dramatic, well-written, and particularly interesting because it carried an excellent picture of Doc
Savage. Good pictures of the man of bronze were scarce. The story told about Doc Savage’s strange,
Galahadian life work of traveling to the ends of the earth, righting wrongs, aiding the oppressed, and punishing
evildoers. It told about the bronze man’s scientifically developed brain and his equally remarkable muscles,
and gave examples of the fantastic feats he could accomplish, and some of his eerie adventures. The writer of
the article had drawn on his imagination only a little. Almost every one got around to reading the article.
So it was not so remarkable that John Winer, penitentiary guard, should be reading the magazine article at
the moment when the horrible and incredible thing known as "The Vanisher" made its first public
appearance—or, perhaps more correctly, disappearance.
That John Winer was reading the article was a coincidence because the mystery of The Vanisher was going
to involve Doc Savage in one of the most startling adventures of his unusual career. John Winer was one of
the night guards at the prison. He was reading in the northwest corner tower. The hour was three o’clock in
the morning.
John Winer had a habit of talking to himself.
"Hey!" he said, suddenly. "What was that?"
There was no one around. He simply asked himself this question because he had heard a small grating
noise. He got up, went to a powerful searchlight and turned it on, raking the prison yard below, and the terrain
outside, with the beam. The light roved like a great, deadly white spook.
Inside the prison wall, in a large open space, stood an ordinary freight car. This had been switched inside the
prison earlier in the evening. It held a great deal of complicated machinery in boxes and crates.
John Winer knew there was nothing but machinery in the car, because he had been one of a squad of guards
who had searched it. The car was billed as holding the new pipe organ which a rich man was giving to the
prison chapel.
The rich man donating the organ was named Sigmund Hoppel. This fact became something to think about
later.
John Winer gave the freight car only cursory inspection, because he knew it was harmless. Hadn’t he helped
search it? Freight cars and trucks were customarily frisked upon entering the prison walls, lest they be used
to smuggle guns inside.
But John Winer would have found a closer watch on the freight car productive of interesting things. For
instance, he might have seen a furtive shadow drift swiftly from the car to a near-by wall.
Some one had left the freight car and was now prowling the interior of the prison. The sound which John
Winer had heard was the freight car door opening and closing.
EVEN a close observer might have experienced difficulty in getting an idea of what the furtive prowler looked
like. For one thing, the being kept where the shadows were darkest. Light seemed malign.
If it was a man—and there could be no certainty on this point—it was not a large man. The contrary, rather. In
stature, the individual would hardly have topped a youth in his early teens. The Senegambian marauder did
not have the slimness of youth, however; although the legs were spindling, the torso was burly and
misshapen.
Just what gave the prowler the queer look became evident when a faint gleam of light chanced to be
encountered. The creature was a pronounced humpback!
So furtively did this strange individual move that nothing more was seen or heard of the sinister presence until
a tiny light appeared in the section of the prison set aside for offices.
It was evident from the manner in which the light roved about the offices that the strange skulker had not been
there before, and knew little of the layout. Finally, a metal filing case was located. This held cards which
showed in what cells the prisoners were confined.
The marauder seemed interested in those cards dealing with only certain prisoners.
A drawing of the prison hung on the wall. The prowler consulted this for some moments; cells holding the
selected prisoners were being located.
The shadowy, humpbacked one produced a cane from inside darksome garments. It was a dark cane which
looked heavy. Exactly similar canes were commonly carried by guards within the prison. The guards were not
permitted to carry guns; the canes were their only weapon.
The humpbacked one eased soundlessly out of the offices, haunted shadows under the walls, and a few
minutes later approached the guard in front of the huge cell house which contained the bad ones. The
approach was made boldly.
The guard was alert. He frowned at the newcomer, noted the regulation cane the fellow carried, and must
have believed the strange person was a guard. The light was not good.
"I’m a guard of the day shift," said the humpback. "Making an inspection round. Is everything all right?"
"Yep," said the guard.
He did not notice that the other had stopped so that the end of the cane was thrust forward almost below the
guard’s face. Nor did the guard notice a grayish vapor which was now pouring from the end of the cane. The
vapor arose, and the guard unwittingly inhaled it.
The guard fell over on his face, unconscious almost at once, and began to grovel and kick. In time he became
limp, absolutely senseless.
The guard carried keys to the cell block. These were appropriated by the humpbacked one and employed to
unlock the grilled door.
From the central interior court, the door of every cell could be seen. Ordinarily, only a single guard was on
duty inside the cell blocks at night, but since this was the building housing some bad actors, two guards
were on duty.
The humpbacked marauder acted with heartless rapidity. The anaesthetic fumes from the cane accounted for
both guards while they stood in front of the strange intruder and asked suspicious questions.
THE humpbacked prowler now secured the cell keys, moved to the barred door of a cell which housed one of
the selected prisoners, opened the door, crept in and shook the inmate.
The cell occupant aroused, took one look at his visitor and acted as if confronted by a genuine witch.
"A woman!" he exploded.
"Sh-h-h-h!"
warned the other. "Don’t make wild guesses! Are you Jules R. McGinnis?"
"Yes—yes," gulped the prisoner. "What in blazes is going on here?"
"You were sentenced to fifteen years for forgery?"
"Y—yes. Damn them! I wasn’t guilty!"
"I know all about it. Now listen to this: Will you spend a year of your life fighting those who sent you here, if I
get you out?"
Jules McGinnis said, "Eh?"
"Will you do absolutely what I tell you, warring on the men who framed you, for a period of one year from
to-night in return for my getting you out of here?"
"What the heck is this, anyway?" gasped McGinnis.
"It is a chance to get out of spending fifteen years here."
McGinnis swallowed several times. He seemed to be trying to think and having a difficult time getting his
thoughts organized.
"I’m to—to do—to do what you say for a year?" he stuttered.
"You’re taking too long to make up your mind." The deformed prowler then made a move as if to close the cell
door on McGinnis.
"Wait!" McGinnis exploded. "I’ll do it! Hell, yes!"
"Help me get the others," directed the humpback. "There are exactly twenty men here, including yourself,
whom I want. They have all been framed by the same men who sent you here."
McGinnis looked utterly dumfounded. "Twenty! You mean there’s that many here—in this penitentiary alone?
That many of their victims?"
"Twenty, exactly," said the other.
McGinnis made croaking, stunned sounds in his effort to speak.
"I didn’t dream the system was that—large!" he gulped finally.
"The system, as you call it, has become a billion-dollar industry," said the hunchback. "It has become a
Juggernaut."
There was a gritting, metallic intensity about the strange figure’s remark. A radio actor would have called it a
registration of utter hate.
McGinnis peered closely at his strange benefactor.
"Good love!" he muttered. "You’re just about the homeliest hag I ever saw!"
THE humpbacked creature seemed to mind the insult not at all. Low, businesslike orders were issued. Cell
after cell was opened. Prisoners were questioned as to their identity and then propositioned.
The human male is by nature a suspicious cuss. This was proved by the fact that not a single cell inmate
agreed instantly to being freed. Two even flatly refused after hearing it explained that they were to be freed to
fight a common enemy.
The humpback calmly blackjacked the two who refused to leave their cells.
"Carry them along," the creature ordered, harshly. "If they do not want to go willingly, we will draft them."
Most of the freed prisoners had by this time gotten a fair look at their benefactor. Several had shivered. A
movie director would have made up such a monster as this humpback to haunt a spooky castle.
"Who in blazes are you?" asked one of the rescued cell inmates.
"I am your brain for the next year," said the camel-backed person.
Which was an answer that was something to think about.
A bit later, another of the criminals, after staring for some length at the humpback, said, "I don’t think you’re a
woman after all."
The camel-backed one did not reply.
"Sure, it’s a woman," said McGinnis. But he sounded unsure.
The last crook on the list was taken from his cell.
The twenty convicts and their remarkable rescuer filed out of the cell block. The convicts saw the limp guards,
and they began to get scared.
"We’re in a hell of a jam!" one groaned. "We can’t get outside the walls!"
Another echoed, "We’ll get solitary for this!"
The humpback spoke with brittle calmness.
"Shut up! Walk to that freight car and get inside!"
The convicts stared incredulously.
"Listen," one growled, "there ain’t no way of that car gettin’ outside the walls. They even got it fixed so a
railroad engine can’t be used to smash down the walls."
The humpback produced a big revolver. "Get in that freight car!"
THE twenty men got in the freight car. They did it very carefully, making no appreciable noise, and when they
were inside, the weird figure with the distorted torso produced a flashlight which exuded a tiny beam. This
light roved over the box car floor, illuminating a number of objects in succession.
Jules R. McGinnis goggled at what the light was revealing. He was speechless.
"G-g-good love!" he choked. "Why these—what—what - why are the men here?"
The camel-backed individual replied in a violent, fanatical whisper, "They are to be placed in the cells which
you men just left."
Stunned silence held the freed convicts.
Jules R. McGinnis started a laugh; something almost mad was in his mirth. He did not get far with the laugh,
because the humpback grabbed his mouth with rough fierceness. "You fool! Be quiet!"
McGinnis had recovered his composure when he was released.
"I don’t understand this," he said, hoarsely.
"You don’t need to," rasped the humpback. "This is the first move in a strange campaign."
Chapter 2. THE AMAZED MEN
IT must have been half an hour later when John Winer, the penitentiary guard in the wall tower nearest the
box car, heard a small sound. He peered over the tower side. At first, he saw nothing: then, near the box car,
he perceived a skulking figure.
The tower was equipped with a searchlight. John Winer turned this on, pointed the thin beam, and saw a
weird figure, a humpback. The humpback drew a gun; the gun banged, and the searchlight went out. It was a
good shot.
John Winer knew something was wrong. He seized his rifle, leaned out and began shooting. He could discern
the camel-backed figure in the gloom of the prison yard.
John Winer did not realize he himself was outlined against the moon, which was behind the tower, and
furnished an excellent target. A bullet fired by the hunchback, hit John Winer almost exactly in the middle of
the chest. Then it was too late to think about being a target.
Guards came running and found Winer a broken, dying heap. He was lying in a grotesque position, so they
hastily straightened him out.
Words came from Winer’s lips. As a dying man sometimes will, he mouthed fragments of speech about
something which had lately come to his attention.
"Doc Savage!" mumbled John Winer. "Man of bronze— trouble—"
"Eh?" exploded one of the guards "Who shot you, Winey?"
John Winer never heard that question. His incoherent mumblings simply continued.
"Doc Savage," mumbled John Winer "Fights men— outside the law—"
The guard straightened and growled "Doc Savage shot you? Who the hell is Doc Savage?"
"If I was that dumb, I’d at least keep quiet," said another guard. "Don’t you ever read the newspapers?"
"No. Reading hurts my eyes."
John Winer at this point gave one final great, violent kick and let out a breath that sprayed crimson over the
surrounding shoes and trouser legs. When the guards looked again, he was dead.
"Poor Winey," they said.
"It was a guy named Doc Savage who shot him," growled the man who never read the newspapers. "Didn’t
you hear him say so?"
"You’d better read the papers some, even if it does hurt your eyes," he was advised. "You’ll learn this Doc
Savage is not the kind of a lad who goes around shooting pen guards."
A deputy warden came up, bawling orders. He wanted the prison looked over to see if anything else was
wrong.
They looked the place over and they found plenty wrong.
THEY found twenty strange men in their penitentiary. Twenty men who had never been convicted by any court
of law, or committed to the pen through regular channels. Twenty men whom nobody had seen in the pen
before.
The twenty men were asleep. They could not be awakened immediately, so it was judged they had been
drugged. The prison doctor went to work administering stimulants in an effort to awaken the strangers.
The senseless guards in the cell house were found. It was also realized that twenty genuine prisoners were
missing from the cells in which the strangers had been found.
The siren, a big one which was used only to announce an escape, began shrilling. Squads of searching
guards left the prison in cars.
The senseless guards awakened and muttered about a humpbacked witch of a creature who had invaded the
place and made them senseless. There was expressed doubt as to whether the camel-backed one was male
or female.
About this time, something else that was strange happened. Guards gathered about the freight car and
listened. They were hearing a weird noise. It came steadily from the box car.
The noise was like nothing so much as the tiny tinkling of a child’s toy music box.
The guards did not pay particular attention to the tinkling notes at first. At least, the true importance of the
sounds as relating to something mysterious having to do with the freight car did not immediately impress
them. But they were curious after a bit.
"There’s a pipe organ in the car," a man volunteered. "Gift of some bird named Sigmund Hoppel."
"That noise must be the pipe organ," hazarded another.
"Nut! Pipe organs don’t play themselves, do they?"
"Well, they have player pianos, don’t they? Maybe this is a player pipe organ."
IN the meantime, the small, fantastic tinkling notes were continuing to come from the freight car. A man went
over and tried the freight car door. It did not give. The man failed to notice that the seat was broken and that
the car door seemed to be fastened from the inside.
"Must be a mouse running over the pipe organ strings or something," some one decided.
This got two or three laughs.
"Well, what’s wrong?" demanded the fellow with the mouse theory.
"A pipe organ don’t have strings."
Bloodhounds were kept in the prison for the purpose of chasing escaped convicts. This old-fashioned method
of pursuit had managed to hold its own in the age of radios and high-speed automobiles.
The bloodhounds now set up a baying. They came straight to the freight car and stopped. Immediately,
machine guns were trained on the freight car. A squad brought up tear gas. The pups were led in a circle
around the freight car and did not bay another trail. It was evident that the convicts had gone into the freight
car and had not come out.
A deputy warden rapped on the car and called for those inside to come out. He got no response. An ax was
brought. The deputy warden took the ax and his courage in his two hands and chopped the door in. He made
an opening large enough to admit himself. He stepped inside.
Instantly, he screamed as if he had lost his legs. As, indeed, it developed, he almost had. For he fell back
out of the car and shriek after shriek poured from his lips. All the while, he pointed frantically at his legs.
His shoes were gone. So was a great deal of the flesh off his feet. The awful, denuded bones of his feet clung
to the stumps, and as he kicked, these flew off.
Prison guards are hard-boiled babies, but two of the onlookers fainted at the horrible sight.
QUITE naturally, there was a bit of a dither during the next few minutes. The prison officials, who thought the
escaped convicts were in the car and had managed in some way to take all the flesh off the deputy warden’s
feet, drew back a safe distance and gave some orders that resulted in numerous drums of machine-gun
bullets being poured into the freight car. After the shooting, tear gas bombs were hurled into the car.
Guards charged.
But the charge was unfortunate and did not show what could truthfully be called good sense.
First guard through the freight car door emitted a screech which shamed his predecessor, and fell down in
some manner. His shrieks increased in terrible violence. In a moment, he came flying out of the car.
Some gooey substance on his shoes had eaten, not only the major part of the shoes, but some of his feet.
Moreover, the same stuff was consuming his hands.
The prison guards now used judgment. They brought lights and mirrors. Holding the mirrors and lights in the
car, they managed to look the place over without endangering any one else.
What they found was quite a shock to everybody.
There were no prisoners in the freight car.
There was no humpbacked mystery person, man or woman.
There was no pipe organ.
The car, much to the surprise of prison authorities, and later, to the puzzled astonishment of railway officials,
was floored with ordinary glass. The glass was thick. It had been covered with the board flooring of the car,
every one decided, but the flooring was now gone.
The strange music box tinkling sound had stopped. It had ceased, as a matter of fact, sometime during the
machine-gun volley which had been poured into the car.
The car’s floor was covered to a depth of something like two inches with a gooey mess. This goo was potent.
When they thrust a stick into it, the stick was consumed in a remarkably short space of time.
The prison guards stood around muttering profane, puzzled comments, and the guard and deputy warden who
had been burned whimpered and moaned as the prison doctors worked on them.
THE warden arrived. His coming focused attention upon the twenty strangers who had been found in the cells
vacated by the missing convicts. These individuals were beginning to revive.
Newspapermen were by now on the scene, and they listened in on the interview with the twenty strangers. As
a result, the newspapermen had spasms.
Not one of the twenty men could explain how he happened to get in a penitentiary cell in place of a missing
convict. They were absolutely insistent upon this point. They just didn’t know.
Their stories all agreed upon one point. They had gone to sleep rather queerly after drinking various kinds of
beverages with their dinners. Consensus of opinion was that they had been drugged.
The men were naturally asked to identify themselves. They did this without trouble. The result surprised every
one.
Each one of the twenty men was quite a big shot in one of two lines.
Some of them were well-known financiers in charge of holding companies. These companies bought stocks
and held them for a rise. Besides stocks, they bought houses, office buildings, steamship lines, blocks of
farms, or anything else that could be purchased cheaply and might be sold for more money later on. All of
these so-called holding companies were very prosperous, among the most prosperous of their kind.
The rest of the twenty men were directors in mutual insurance companies. The companies of which they were
directors were large, but not especially spectacular. The companies of which these men were directors were
known as conservative. They had never shown any great profits.
A lot of heads were scratched when the twenty men made known their identity. Just what connection twenty
men who were prominent in insurance and holding companies could have with twenty convicts was a
mystery.
Or was it? A puzzling angle came to light very shortly, when the warden had a brilliant idea and summoned
Doc Savage.
"You say John Winer, the slain guard, mumbled that Doc Savage shot him?" the warden asked.
Confirming nods from the rest of the guards and the relating of Winer’s last words seemed to convince him.
"Send for Doc Savage," directed the warden. "He may be able to help us. It is hardly reasonable that he could
have had a hand in this murder."
The warden knew Doc Savage by reputation.
Chapter 3. THE GIRL JOURNALIST
DOC SAVAGE, when the warden’s phaëton brought him through the prison gates, created quite a sensation.
It was now daylight, and a bright, sunny day well lighting the bronze man’s arrival.
The prisoners had been kept in their cells, and from the windows of these, a great many could look out and
witness the coming of Doc Savage. More than one of these observers had a cold chill and hastily ducked
back. For Doc Savage was the nemesis of evildoers.
The sensation of the bronze man’s arrival did not extend alone to the prisoners. The guards craned their
necks and their mouths came open and their eyes went wide. They had been wondering what to expect.
When they saw Doc Savage, they were not let down.
The bronze man was a physical giant. After he had stepped out of the car and a bit away from it, so that he
was not close to anything to which his size might well be compared, he did not seem so large. This was due
to the remarkable symmetry of his physical development.
There were other striking things about Doc Savage. His skin was of an unusual bronze hue, as if burned by
countless tropical suns; his hair was straight, fitting like a metal skullcap, and of a bronze hue only slightly
darker than his skin.
Most striking of all, perhaps, were his eyes. Weird they were, like pools of flake gold always stirred by tiny
gales. They seemed to possess a hypnotic power, an ability to compel.
Doc Savage was taken to the warden’s office. There were a number of newspapermen and one
newspaperwoman present. The newspapermen had the usual baggy suits and worldly looks, but the
newspaperwoman was different. She did not look as if she belonged. She kept in the background and did not
seem to care about having her face show.
Doc Savage was presented to the warden. The warden was an honest tough guy who did not believe in
beating around bushes and who would have stood up for his rights against the president as quickly as he
would have stood up against one of his guards.
"A dying prison guard named John Winer stated that you shot him this morning," said the warden bluntly.
"The shooting occurred at a quarter of five this morning. Have you an alibi?"
"No," Doc Savage said.
The bronze man had a voice in keeping with his appearance. It was not loud, nor low either, but it had a
timbre, a quality of vibrant power and pleasantly musical undertone which marked it instantly. It was a voice
which obviously had received years of intensive training.
"Then you’re under arrest," said the prison warden.
The State prison official who had gone to get Doc Savage shoved himself forward.
"I’m afraid arrest is not the wise thing," he said. "I found this Doc Savage giving a lecture on something or
other—"
"On electrokinetics," Doc Savage supplied.
"On electro—electro—well, he was lecturing," said the official. "He was lecturing to a fellowhood of big-shot
scientists and they had been in session, and this bronze man had been talking to them, all night."
"Are you sure?" asked the warden.
"Sure I’m sure. And the scientists raised hell when I broke up the lecture!"
"It was an important lecture and demonstration," said Doc Savage dryly. "We hoped it would lead to the
solution of the problem of transmission of energy by Hertzian waves."
"It looks," said the warden, "as if you have an alibi."
THE woman newspaper representative eased about among the onlooking members of the press. She held in
one hand some small object, a mechanical device of some description, which she was attempting to keep
concealed.
Doc Savage waited, his metallic, extremely good-looking features expressionless. Only his flake gold eyes
belied his easy attitude; they seemed to be in motion steadily, never to rest in their scrutiny of his
surroundings.
The warden growled, "Why didn’t you tell me you had an alibi?"
"An alibi is technically a plea of having been elsewhere when an alleged act was committed," the giant
bronze man explained. "The word somehow has grown to have a stigma attached and does not appeal."
The warden scratched his head. "You know anything about this?"
"Nothing."
"And there’s no funny business about stigmas and words about that?"
"None."
The young woman journalist was still shifting her position. She seemed to be attempting to work into a
position where she could lift the object in her hands and point it at Doc Savage.
The warden turned as a messenger entered the office. The messenger bore an envelope which he handed to
the warden, and which the latter in turn opened, and read. The warden looked up and eyed Doc Savage.
"From the governor," he said. "He suggests that while you are here you might be kind enough to look the
situation over and afford us some assistance."
"Of course," Doc Savage said.
The warden abruptly thought of something concerning this unusual man of bronze.
"Will you want us to send for any of your assistants?" he asked.
"That will not be necessary," Doc Savage assured him.
The press representatives were permitted to accompany Doc Savage and the warden, together with some
prison guards, as they moved on a tour of inspection. The fidgety young woman journalist went with them.
She kept hidden the thing in her hands as best she could.
When out in the brilliant sunlight, it became evident that the young woman was rather a looker. She wore a
coarse frock with practically no lines, but it failed what it was probably intended to do, conceal a lithe young
form that did not leave much to be desired.
She wore a spinsterish hat which allowed only a tendril or two of hair to show, gossamery hair that was
almost the color of polished silver. Spectacles did not do justice to a pair of entrancing eyes, and lack of
rouge and lipstick did not detract a great deal from the ravishing effect of the rest of her features.
DOC SAVAGE’S examination of the scene inside the prison was rapid enough to surprise almost every one.
He seemed to give only a glance here and there.
"The guy ain’t half trying to solve the mystery," a reporter in the background grunted.
"Don’t fool yourself!" jeered a companion journalist. "That guy is a wizard!"
摘要：

THEVANISHERADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.THEONEWITHTHEQUEERBACK?Chapter2.THEAMAZEDMEN?Chapter3.THEGIRLJOURNALIST?Chapter4.PICTURESHOT?Chapter5.THEFIFTY-DOLLARPHOTOGRAPH?Chapter6.OILINMEXICO?Chapter7.MUSICBOXAGAIN?Chapter8.S...

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