Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 044 - South Pole Terror

VIP免费
2024-12-19 1 0 217.56KB 89 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
THE SOUTH POLE TERROR
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. DEATH ON THE SLOOP
? Chapter II. THE "REGIS" MENACE
? Chapter III. THE MYSTERIOUS CABLE
? Chapter IV. THE MYSTERY AT SEA
? Chapter V. THE QUEER SHIP
? Chapter VI. THE DEATH TRICK
? Chapter VII. SEA ENIGMA
? Chapter VIII. HORROR AFLOAT
? Chapter IX. SEA DECOY
? Chapter X. UNCLE PENGUIN
? Chapter XI. THE POLAR GOAL
? Chapter XII. BAD LUCK HAD TWINS
? Chapter XIII. DEATH
? Chapter XIV. COLD LAND
? Chapter XV. RADIO CLUE
? Chapter XVI. DERELICT
? Chapter XVII. GUERILLA SCRAP
? Chapter XVIII. MAROONED
? Chapter XIX. COLD TRAIL
? Chapter XX. PRECIOUS VALLEY
? Chapter XXI. DEATH OVERHEAD
? Chapter XXII. BEDLAM
? Chapter XXIII. TRICK COIN
Scanned and proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. DEATH ON THE SLOOP
DOC SAVAGE happened to be only one of a few million persons who heard about the mystery of the silver
sloop almost at once. When it first came to Doc Savage’s notice, the mystery probably baffled the bronze
man as much as it did any one.
A coast guard patrol boat picked up the silver sloop on Long Island Sound. It was night. The coast guard
hailed the sloop because the craft was carrying no lights. Hailed, and got no answer. The silver sloop was a
silent ghost with slatting canvas. So the coast guard boarded it.
Next morning, it was in all of the newspapers. They put out extra editions in London. Paris and Berlin sheets
had it on the front pages. In remote Japan, they brushed it in queer-looking characters on the public news
boards.
Doc Savage, of course, read the papers. Long ago, Doc Savage had found it advisable to keep a close check
on the news events of the world. This precaution had on several occasions saved Doc Savage’s life. The fact
that it had was due to the highly unusual profession which Doc Savage practiced.
The silver sloop was approximately fifty feet long, and she was a fine hooker with teakwood decks, jib-headed
sails with roller reefing gear and the rest of the newfangled gadgets. She was all mahogany and shiny metals
inside. She was a honey. She made sailors grin from ear to ear and murmur in admiration when they boarded
her.
The coast guardsmen were sailors. But when they went aboard the silver sloop, they turned white with horror;
some leaned over the rail and were sick.
It was an incredible thing which they found aboard the silver sloop. The thing was so horrible that no
newspaper photographers were allowed aboard after the silver sloop was towed into New London harbor.
The American public, whether they know it or not, are often preserved from sights that might turn their
stomachs or keep them awake nights.
What the coast guard found aboard the silver sloop would probably have kept a good many people from
sleeping nights. It did the coast guardsmen.
A dead man was found in the steering cockpit of the silver sloop. He was a well-known banker and
philanthropist—a man who had been known for his kindliness, his gentle manners.
This kindly soul’s dead hand was gripping the hair of a woman whose throat he had cut from ear to ear, and
who, later investigation brought out, had been blackmailing the philanthropist for years over an episode of his
youth.
The coast guardsmen searched farther and found more horror.
THERE had been fifteen people aboard the silver sloop, a later inquiry disclosed. Fourteen of the fifteen were
found, and all fourteen were dead. There was only the one murder, however.
Close examination revealed no wound on any of the bodies, except the cut throat of the woman who had been
murdered by the man she had tormented.
At first, the coast guardsmen thought it was poison gas or something, but they found nothing to bear out that
assumption. All fifteen persons aboard the silver sloop when she had sailed were identified and they were all
either nice or famous people, wealthy for the most part. Even the crew had been decent fellows. Moreover,
while one person had died by visible means, there was a great deal of doubt about what had killed the others.
Physicians were naturally called aboard to make an examination. Detectives came, also. They learned a few
things.
All the victims had a case of fierce sunburn. But the previous day had been a scorcher for late fall, and the
sunburns escaped attention.
The ship’s clock had been knocked off the hook by some one at three o’clock, for it had stopped at that
point. Presumably this was three o’clock the previous afternoon.
The tarlike seam compound had been squeezed out of some of the deck’s seams. A journalist wrote a wild
story about it looking as if a giant hand had seized the craft.
The other point was the most interesting.
One person was missing.
That there was a missing individual was realized immediately that it became known that fifteen persons had
sailed aboard the silver sloop for a day’s outing on the Sound. A check was made of the names of those
sailing.
Velma Crale was the missing name.
Velma Crale’s name went into the newspaper headlines with a bang. Velma Crale was famous already; she
was the outstanding he-woman of the day. She had flown the Atlantic, the Pacific. She had brought legendary
white Indians out of the Amazon wilds. She had received the keys to New York City and had dined with the
president.
Velma Crale’s latest exploit had been an exploration by air of the South Polar regions. This project had not
been so hot, apparently. There had not been the usual publicity upon Velma Crale’s return, two weeks
previously. Velma Crale had simply announced that she had discovered nothing of value.
This was unusual. Velma Crale was known as a publicity grabber, a lens louse, a show-off who made a big
whoop and holler, even if she had not accomplished much. She maintained she could do anything better than
any mere man, and she was not backward about telling the world.
That Velma Crale should come back from the South Polar regions and say she hadn’t done anything worth
while had simply floored the newspaper boys who knew her. They had once dubbed her "Thunderbird" Crale.
Now they wondered why.
Velma Crate had even seemed reluctant to let the cameramen shoot her really snappy profile.
And now Velma Crale was missing. Gone. And she had left fourteen dead madmen and madwomen behind!
The world began looking for Velma Crale. She was not accused of anything. In fact, it was thought that some
of the maniacs must have thrown her off the silver sloop during the holocaust. This theory gathered more
weight as time passed, and no trace was found of Velma Crale.
Then Doc Savage heard from Velma Crale.
DOC SAVAGE was known in many far corners of the world, and his was a name calculated to make certain
types of shady gentry have a good shake in their boots when they heard it.
Almost every one who had heard of Doc Savage knew that he practiced one of the most unusual professions
ever pursued by a man. Doc Savage was a modern Galahad. He went around mixing in other people’s
troubles, aiding the oppressed, righting wrongs, meting out his peculiar brand of justice to evildoers.
This had not proved to be a very profitable profession for Doc Savage. He never took pay from those whom he
aided. But he had managed to amass wealth until no one knew how much he controlled.
But very few knew that Doc Savage was financially able to buy some nations outright.
Doc Savage was known more for his fabulous mental ability, his uncanny mastery of electricity, chemistry,
surgery, and other professions. Doc Savage was recognized as one of the most skilled in, not one of these
professions, but a number of them.
Doc Savage’s physical development came in for attention, as well.
The eighty-sixth floor of one of New York’s most impressive midtown skyscrapers was the site of Doc
Savage’s headquarters—his library, laboratory and trick reception room. Laboratory and library were both so
complete that scientists frequently came from abroad to examine them. The place was replete with scientific
contraptions.
The telephone robot was one of the contraptions. It was put on the telephone wire when Doc Savage was not
there. You called up, and a mechanical voice told you that the bronze man was not there, and that any
message you cared to give would be recorded for Doc Savage’s attention when he returned.
This device was merely an adaptation of the dictaphone, phonograph and vacuum tube amplifier, all built as
one instrument.
DOC SAVAGE spent the afternoon delivering a lecture to an eminent group of paleontologists, leaving the
group amazed at some of his research work on the subject. Then Doc returned to his headquarters and found
the following conversation recorded on the telephone robot.
"This is Velma Crale," a rather pleasant voice had said. "Something awful is happening, and your help is
needed. Later in the afternoon, you will receive a package. Please examine the contents and use your own
discretion about what to do."
At the end of this brief advice, the robot had automatically recorded the following words, taken off a
mechanical clock which gave the time vocally: "This message was received at 3:10 this afternoon."
Doc Savage played the message back at a quarter to six.
Doc Savage called the package receiving room of the skyscraper. Sure enough, there was a package,
addressed to Doc. He had it sent up.
The package was not quite a foot square, wrapped in brown canvas and tied with a copper wire. It was very
heavy.
Doc Savage was a cautious individual. Otherwise, he would have died long ago. He put the package under an
X-ray machine, to see if it contained a bomb. He switched the X-ray machine on.
There was a stabbing flash, a terrific concussion, and the entire top of the skyscraper seemed to fly to
pieces.
Chapter II. THE "REGIS" MENACE
DOC SAVAGE’S headquarters had been the scene of violence on other occasions, so newspaper reporters
had learned to keep an eye on the place. Half of Manhattan Island heard the explosion, and a goodly number
even saw smoke shoot out of the top of the skyscraper, and saw brick and glass fall to the street. Luckily, no
one was injured seriously by the falling débris.
Reporters and photographers rushed to the spot. The police were there first, however, and kept every one else
out. The journalists did a bit of squawking, but they were not allowed to enter. The police also refused to
divulge any information.
Directly, six men in white carried a stretcher out of the skyscraper lobby. The journalists craned their necks.
A howl of excitement went up.
The form of a giant bronze man lay on the stretcher, extremely quiet. The features were remarkably regular,
and the bronze texture of the skin was distinctive. The flake gold eyes were wide open, unmoving. One hand
was not covered by the white shroud.
This hand was amazing. It was long-fingered and perfectly proportioned, and it had an incredible equipment of
tendons. It was a hand of fabulous muscular strength.
Every one recognized the figure on the litter. Every one also saw something else.
The bronze head was severed from the body!
For moments, not a newspaper man said a word. They were stunned. They knew some of the perils which
the man of bronze had faced in the past, and he had always miraculously escaped. It hardly seemed possible
that he could be dead. But the evidence was there before their eyes, although the police made an effort to
keep them from observing.
There was no mad rush for pictures. There was no shouting. The silence was funeral-like. Heads bowed. The
litter bearing the form of Doc Savage was placed in an ambulance which was, significantly, black.
Later, questions were asked. Yes, the explosion had all but demolished the laboratory of Doc Savage’s
headquarters. The form on the stretcher had been picked up in the wreckage. No, photographers could not
take pictures. What would be done with the body? That had not been decided yet.
Who was responsible for the blast? Had Doc Savage been experimenting and had an accident?
The police replied that they had nothing to say as yet.
At this point, a man who was not a journalist appeared and tried to get through the police lines. He said he
had to see Doc Savage. He was told Doc Savage was dead.
"Velma Crale!" this man exploded.
WHEN the man gasped the name of Velma Crale, it was the signal for sharp attention from a policeman who
overheard it.
"What’d you say?" the cop demanded.
The stranger who had made the exclamation had bony hands and a face that made one think of a Shetland
pony. His hair was blond and stood up like the bristles on a scrub brush. His eyes were remarkably blue. His
expensive clothing did not fit him any too well.
"Eh?" he muttered evasively to the policeman. "What do you mean?"
"Didn’t you say something about Velma Crale?" asked the officer. "Velma Crale is the one person missing off
that silver sloop loaded with dead madmen and madwomen."
The bony, blond man shook his pony-like head violently.
"I said, ‘Oh, my—hell!’" he said. He spoke it again, "Oh, my—hell!"
It did sound as if he might have said that instead of "Velma Crale!" The officer was almost satisfied.
"Who are you?" the cop questioned.
"Derek Flammen," replied the other.
The officer frowned, scratched his head, then brightened.
"The South Pole explorer!" he exclaimed.
"The same," agreed Derek Flammen. "I was interested in getting Doc Savage to finance me in an exploration
of the South Polar continent. I came to see him for that purpose."
The cop bowed his head.
"I’m sorry," he said.
Derek Flammen groaned, "So Doc Savage is dead!"
"They just took the body away in a hearse," said the policeman.
"This is hideous!" groaned Derek Flammen.
Then Derek Flammen moved away.
The policeman who had talked with Derek Flammen also moved away. He entered the skyscraper, picked up
a telephone, and spoke.
"I’ve got something to report that might be of interest."
"Go ahead," an expressionless voice told him.
The officer repeated exactly what had been said between himself and Derek Flammen.
"The guy might have said, ‘Oh, my—hell!’ instead of ‘Velma Crale!’" he finished.
"Thank you," said the expressionless voice.
DEREK FLAMMEN was collared by a newspaperman before he left the vicinity of the skyscraper. The
spotlight of publicity frequently fell upon Derek Flammen’s name, because he was a rather well-known figure
in the realm of exploration.
Since Doc Savage had been a famous explorer, Derek Flammen was asked to make a statement on the
bronze man’s death. Derek Flammen thought for a moment, then made his statement.
"The world little knows the true importance of the lifework of the man of bronze," he said, "but it will long
remember. It is my prediction that the grindstone of time, which dulls the memory of most celebrities, will but
etch more sharply the name of Doc Savage. His character was a diamond which will cut sharply through the
ages. Mankind has to-day suffered one of its greatest losses."
"That’s a swell statement," said the newshawk.
Derek Flammen worked through the throng in search of a taxicab. It was dark by now. Not until he reached
the outskirts of the throng now about the skyscraper did he find a cab.
He was so interested in the job of locating a conveyance that he did not pay too much attention to his trail.
He might easily have been shadowed.
Nor did Derek Flammen seem to be in any great hurry to get to his destination, which he gave as a popular
uptown hotel. He sat back on the taxicab’s cushioned back seat, and his aquiline face was thoughtful. Once,
he made a small sound that might have been a chuckle or a snarl, since his face showed neither hate nor
delight.
"Damn Velma Crale!" he said quite distinctly. "I wonder why the hell she was ever born?"
Derek Flammen alighted from the taxi in front of his hotel, paid the driver, smiled at the doorman, smiled at
the elevator operator, and unlocked the door to his suite with a key which he had been carrying. The suite
was dark. He stepped in and turned on the light, somewhat absent-mindedly.
"You may as well hold that pose!" said a crisp, throaty voice.
Derek Flammen did anything but hold the pose. His hand was still on the light button. He doused the lights.
Simultaneously, he jumped to one side. He crouched there.
Came a swish! A hard blow hit Flammen’s right shoulder. He grunted, struck wildly in the darkness, hit
nothing, and changed his position.
Almost instantly, he was struck another blow. He swore. He changed his position a third time. The interior of
the room was as black as a bats’ cave.
Yet the attacker found him again, unerringly. This time, Flammen was all but stunned by a smash to the side
of his head.
Flammen snarled. He had suddenly discovered why the other could see him. His hands. There was a glowing
substance on one of them. A phosphorescent stuff, obviously. He glanced at the door and saw where he had
gotten it from. Off the inner knob!
"You might as well give up!" advised a voice in the darkness. "Otherwise, I shall start shooting."
"What is the meaning of this?" barked Derek Flammen.
The lights came on.
Derek Flammen stared, blinking, at the single other person in the room.
"Velma Crale!" he gulped.
VELMA CRALE had frequently been called the female Amazon of the twentieth century, because of the feats
which she had performed. She did not look the part.
She was a small girl who looked as harmless as a mouse, and who had, just now, about the same coloring.
Her arms did not bulge with muscles, despite the manner in which she had been whacking Derek Flammen
about. Her features were regular, but not outstanding.
Velma Crale, just now, did not look like a heart smasher over whom two dignified Englishmen had fought a
duel, and for whom an Indian nabob had renounced a province and twenty-two wives. This was because
Velma Crale had dyed her hair to a nondescript hue, and was wearing no make-up, besides wearing some
very plain clothes.
Velma Crale, when she had on her war paint, was really something to look at. What was more effective, she
had glamour, personality, and a nice quota of brains.
Velma Crale was, incidentally, noted for her lack of interest in men. Thus far, her heart had been a rock on
which luckless admirers had dashed themselves unavailingly.
She waved the big pistol which she held, and with which she had been clubbing Derek Flammen.
"I’ve shot men before!" she said, meaningly.
This was true. She had, singlehanded, fought off a war party of cannibals on an occasion when her plane was
forced down in a New Guinea jungle.
Derek Flammen wet his lips. He kept his eyes on the gun’s muzzle. The girl seemed to be considering her
next move. They stood thus for some moments.
During those moments, something happened that neither of the two in the room noticed. The window raised a
fraction of an inch. This was especially remarkable since the window opened on the side of the hotel which
was sheer for twenty stories down and ten upward.
Derek Flammen sighed loudly.
"You are not going to get away with this!" he growled.
Velma Crale sniffed. It was the same kind of a sniff she would give a toothless dog who made out as if he
were going to bite.
"You are as conceited as all men," she said, scathingly. "I’m not afraid of you."
"Not with that gun, you wouldn’t be!" Flammen grumbled.
Velma Crale smiled nastily. Then she did a thing which was indicative of the spirit which had earned her
reputation.
She tossed her loaded gun on the bed. Then she walked toward Derek Flammen with her fists up. Flammen
looked delighted, lunged for her. His delight vanished. She hit him in the right eye, pulled some hair out of his
head, and kicked him in the midriff, all before he could help himself.
The next instant, Derek Flammen was flat on his face, the remarkable young woman seated on his back,
holding him with a neat jujitsu hold which dealt awful agony.
"I’m not afraid of anything that wears pants," said Velma Crale.
SHE searched Derek Flammen, relieved him of a pocketknife and a large, straight-stemmed pipe. She tied
his hands and ankles with bedsheets from the bedroom.
Stepping back, she examined the pipe. The inlaid stem interested her. She pointed it at the wall and tried
pressing various bits of the inlay.
She got a small zing! of a noise. Something hit the wall, and she went over to examine it—a tiny dart.
"Poisoned, I’ll bet!" she snapped, and glared at Derek Flammen.
The latter said nothing, but he did not appear to be in a comfortable state of mind.
Velma Crale stamped over and glared at him.
"Where is Thurston H. Wardhouse?" she asked.
"I never heard of such a man!" snapped Derek Flammen.
"Of course not!" Velma Crale laughed, harshly. "But Thurston H. Wardhouse is sailing from Southampton on
the liner Regis to-night, and when I get my hands on him, plenty is going to happen!"
Derek Flammen kept silent. But he became slightly pale.
"I’ve been doing plenty of sleuthing around," advised Velma Crale. "I know the whole story. I know just how
many millions are at stake."
Derek Flammen swallowed, plainly with some effort, but still did not speak.
"When your crowd tried to run a whizzer on me, you tackled the wrong person!" snapped the young woman.
"I’m going to run you ragged! I’m going to do myself a lot of good in this. And Thurston H. Wardhouse is going
to help me. You didn’t know that, did you?"
Derek Flammen seemed about to choke.
The window had not opened more than the fraction of an inch which it had risen earlier.
There came a knock on the door.
Velma Crale got her gun from the bed and sidled over to the door.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Telegram," said a masculine voice outside. It sounded like the voice of a youth.
Velma Crale was too foxy to take a chance on what might be an old ruse.
"Shove it under the door," she called.
A yellow telegraph envelope was promptly shoved under the door.
The young woman looked relieved, picked up the telegram, saw the name of Derek Flammen through the
transparent window, and tore the envelope open. She plucked out a folded yellow sheet.
Then she gave a loud gasp and fell to the floor.
Chapter III. THE MYSTERIOUS CABLE
A KEY immediately clicked in the door, and the lock tumblers were operated, after which the door opened.
Half a dozen men stepped in silently, and the last one closed the door hastily. The men were quietly dressed,
and had the look of outdoor fellows. Their faces were not what could be called "angelic-looking." All of them
had a rather pronounced sunburn, or what appeared to be a sunburn.
"Tie her up and gag her," said the leader. "That gas stuff in the envelope will only knock her out for a minute
or two."
The leader stood out from his followers for several reasons. He was bigger, and he looked meaner. He also
wore spectacles with unusually thick lenses of a slightly yellowish glass.
A man bent over the girl. He promptly made a gasping sound and all but fell, then managed to stumble to one
side.
"Hell, Cheaters!" he gulped. "Some of that stuff is still in the air!"
"Drag her to one side to tie her and gag her," ordered the leader, answering to the cognomen of "Cheaters."
His unusual spectacles made it no mystery why he happened to be called Cheaters, this being a slang term
sometimes applied to glasses.
The orders were carried out on the girl, and none too soon; for she began to mumble from behind the gag, and
her eyes sparkled irately.
Derek Flammen rolled and wrenched at the sheets with which his wrists and ankles had been tied by the
young woman.
"Turn me loose!" he barked.
Cheaters leered at him.
"Take it easy, blondy!" he growled. "You ain’t out of the woods yet."
Derek Flammen relaxed, a peculiar expression on his ponylike features.
"I am at a loss to understand what this is all about," he said.
"That’s swell," said Cheaters, ominously. "If you understood, you would probably be at a greater loss. You
would lose your life."
CHEATERS now went over to Velma Crale.
"I don’t think you’ll be squawking for the police," he said. "They’re looking for you for sending that bomb to
Doc Savage. The attendant in the skyscraper’s package room remembered that it had your name on the
return address. It’s all in the extra editions of the newspapers."
He ungagged Velma Crale.
The young woman stared at Derek Flammen.
"I thought you were the leader of the other mob—of this outfit!" she said in a puzzled manner.
"I don’t know anything at all about anything!" snapped Flammen.
Cheaters nudged the girl gently with a toe. "You know me?"
"Cheaters Slagg!" she grated. "You’re a rogue; and you’ll eventually get hung!"
"After you, my dear," grinned Cheaters. Then he scowled. "On second thought, I don’t think well give them a
chance to hang you. Even though they’d probably lynch you for killing Doc Savage, in spite of the fact that
you’re a woman."
Velma Crale sniffed. "Nuts to you."
She did not sound very enthusiastic.
Cheaters Slagg rocked on his heels. He lifted his thick, colored spectacles and rubbed his eyes as if they
ached. This gesture was, in fact, a habit with him.
"So Thurston H. Wardhouse is working with you now?" he growled.
"No," Velma Crale said, promptly.
"We listened outside the door, so don’t lie about it!" retorted Cheaters Slagg. "We’ve been shadowing you for
days, my female go-getter, and we have copies of the cables you’ve sent to Wardhouse. We know
Wardhouse is taking the liner Regis to-night."
Slagg bent forward suddenly. His ugly face wore an expression far from benevolent.
"We’re taking precautions!" he gritted. "Wardhouse will never see New York again!"
The girl nipped her lips and apparently could think of nothing by way of reply.
"Bring them both!" Slagg rapped suddenly.
Velma Crale and Derek Flammen were lifted bodily and borne out of the room. It developed that the mob had
a freight elevator waiting, with a frightened—and evidently crooked—hotel flunkey in charge. He took them
down, then grasped a twenty-dollar bill greedily when it was passed to him.
"I won’t say nothing about this!" he gulped.
Cheaters Slagg, seizing an opportunity a moment later, calmly inserted a long knife into the hotel flunkey’s
heart from behind.
"Not in this world, you won’t say nothing!" growled Slagg, holding the dying man’s mouth so that he could not
make a sound.
They got out into an alley without being noticed and distributed themselves in two cars which were waiting
there.
"A lot of guys are going to get themselves dead if this keeps up," Cheaters Slagg said, calmly. "But my idea
is that it’s worth it."
THE men were fairly confident of themselves, and, anyway, too much looking around would have been likely
to attract attention as they drove out on the street, so they did not notice a shadowy form near the mouth of
the alley.
Had they noticed, they would have been interested, for the lurking individual had a very furtive manner.
Moreover, the person kept so thoroughly concealed in the shadows that it was impossible to tell whether it
was man or woman.
The skulker remained sheltered for a time after the cars had departed. Caution was apparently the motive for
this. The Cheaters’s mob might have scouts lurking about to keep an eye on the scene.
But apparently they hadn’t, and after a bit the blot of shadow moved, faded with other patches of murk, then
vanished entirely from the vicinity.
A short time later and some distance down the gloomy street, glass broke on one of the grills that admitted
to a sewer flood drain. It was a peculiar flat bottle, and a shoe ground the fragments to bits so that they all
dropped out of sight.
A bit later in the evening, a police patrolman chanced to stop near the drain, and twirling his club, absently
looked down. He saw a peculiar glow and studied it for some time, even getting down on his hands and knees
to peer through the grating. He never did quite decide what he had seen.
Long before curiosity was consuming the officer, however, the clerk for a cable company discovered on his
摘要：

THESOUTHPOLETERRORADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.DEATHONTHESLOOP?ChapterII.THE"REGIS"MENACE?ChapterIII.THEMYSTERIOUSCABLE?ChapterIV.THEMYSTERYATSEA?ChapterV.THEQUEERSHIP?ChapterVI.THEDEATHTRICK?ChapterVII.SEAENIGMA?ChapterVI...

展开>> 收起<<
Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 044 - South Pole Terror.pdf

共89页,预览18页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：89 页 大小：217.56KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-19

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

高考理综 人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 89
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注