Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 042 - The Midas Man

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THE MIDAS MAN
A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE MAN WHO VANISHED
? Chapter II. THE MUMMY CASE BUSINESS
? Chapter III. THE MANDEBRAN SCION
? Chapter IV. THE STRANGE SON
? Chapter V. A DIFFERENT COFFIN
? Chapter VI. THE HAPPY SKELETON
? Chapter VII. THE DESTROYED CASKET
? Chapter VIII. MYSTERY IN THE MINERS
? Chapter IX. STOCK TRADERS
? Chapter X. FLIGHT
? Chapter XI. QUEER MEN
? Chapter XII. THE BURDEN OF SUSPICION
? Chapter XIII. HAM HAS DIFFICULTIES
? Chapter XIV. THE MAN WHO VANISHED
? Chapter XV. THE GNARLED MAN
? Chapter XVI. THE BRONZE MAN MOVES
? Chapter XVII. THE MENTAL TELEPATHER
? Chapter XVIII. CLEANUP PLANS
? Chapter XIX. THE IMAGINATION FIGMENT
? Chapter XX. THE BRAIN
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. THE MAN WHO VANISHED
THE American public gets many of its ideas about what is going on, from the newspapers. Newspapers
sometimes make mistakes, so the public, on occasion, fails entirely to get the true significance of things that
are happening. It was thus in the Jethro Mandebran case.
Maybe it was just as well that the public did not catch on to the true significance of the Jethro Mandebran
affair. A good many heads might have turned gray.
Jethro Mandebran vanished on Sunday afternoon on his private golf course. He knocked his ball into the
rough, which was a patch of woods, and went in after it. That was the last they saw of him. It was utterly
confounding. A swarm of private detectives could find no tracks. Some one finally thought of the old-fashioned
idea of using bloodhounds, but the dogs picked up no trail.
The newspapers broke out their biggest headline type, because Jethro Mandebran, in the staid city of
Philadelphia, amounted to something.
As a matter of routine, an examiner, on Monday morning, began checking the books of the bank which
Mandebran owned—The Mandebran Trust Company. That afternoon, they took the examiner to a hospital, a
potential nervous wreck.
There was slightly more than twenty million dollars missing.
When this came out, not a newspaper in town carried the story. They were afraid to. Such a colossal
shortage in the accounts of one previously as honest as Jethro Mandebran smacked of impossibility. The
editors of the journals, visioning big libel suits, would not allow a word in their columns. But after a corps of
examiners corroborated the findings, the front pages of the newspapers could hardly hold the story.
An examiner who liked the bright light of publicity gave out a list containing the names of those whose money
was among the missing funds. The list was a long one. It contained the name of almost every prominent
person in Philadelphia, as well as numbers of financiers in New York, Boston, and elsewhere.
Clark Savage, Jr., was the three hundred and seventy-sixth name on the list.
The next day, Clark Savage, Jr.’s name as a loser made the headlines. Clark Savage, Jr., was the stuff that
newspaper copy is made out of. Most of the journals, however, instead of calling him Clark Savage, Jr.,
designated him as Doc Savage.
The mention of Doc Savage’s name in the newspapers led to his being involved in one of the most incredible
adventures of a remarkable career.
NEWSPAPER reporters and cameramen made a rush for a headquarters which Doc Savage maintained on
the eighty-sixth floor of New York’s most distinctive skyscraper. They were met at the door by a tall bag of
bones who wore a suit many times too large. A monocle with a thick glass was attached to this man’s coat
lapel by a ribbon. He received a certain deference from the newspaper reporters, which was surprising,
reporters usually being unimpressed by big-shots.
The string of bones with the monocle was William Harper Littlejohn, one of the most famous archaeologist
and geologists. He was asked where Doc Savage could be found.
"Prognostication effectuates diaporesis," the bony gentleman replied.
One journalist, fortunately, carried a pocket dictionary, so the reporters managed to gather that these
seventeen-dollar words were meant to convey that Doc Savage’s present whereabouts was a puzzle to the
bony gentleman. Further questions got more replies that had to be translated. Approximately half an hour
elapsed before it dawned on the reporters that they were being kidded and told nothing.
The scribes then retired to the nearest bar, which happened to be on the corner, and swapped information.
There was conjecture about what could have happened to Jethro Mandebran. Had he vanished of his own
accord? Did he have the twenty millions with him in a couple of motor trucks, which would probably be the
size of the vehicles necessary to haul away such a sum? Why had a man previously so honest done such a
thing?
These newspapermen later had occasion to remark on just how far wide of the facts were their conjectures on
this occasion.
Not one of the journalists guessed anything near the incredible truth!
When the collective conversation shifted to such subjects as the horse races, and the pet insanities of
certain city editors, two men detached themselves from the group. They did this casually. One of the pair
carried a large press camera. The other wore a suit which needed pressing, and had a vest pocket stuffed full
of copy pencils.
As a matter of fact, the man was not a reporter. Neither was his companion a news cameraman.
THE two mysterious gentlemen held a conference outside, covering up with the business of lighting
cigarettes.
"Not so hot, huh?" muttered the one with the camera.
"You said something," agreed the other. "That skinny gink with the big words was not putting out information.
I believe Doc Savage is taking a hand in the Mandebran business!"
"But how could he have gotten wise?"
"Maybe he isn’t—entirely."
"You figure he don’t know how big the thing really is?"
"Probably not—yet."
"Then we gotta make him stop nosin’ around before he finds out too much!"
"Yeah," the man with the seedy suit and the pocket full of copy pencils agreed. "That’s the chief’s orders."
"You got any ideas," demanded the first, "about how to do it?"
"I always got ideas," said his companion. "Come on."
They now walked rapidly down a side street, and got in a certain taxicab which had been waiting for them.
The driver of the cab was a casual-mannered young man, with a face which was noteworthy for its absence of
chin.
"The Museum of Natural History," directed one of the passengers as they got seated.
"What the hell?" snorted the driver. "You guys decided to get an education or something?"
"Stick around us," he was told, "and you’ll get an education!"
Some three quarters of an hour later, the trio stood looking at a case in the Museum of Natural History. The
case held a small plaque which, the card on the case stated, had come from the tomb of the famous
Tutankhamen.
It was not a busy time for the museum. The room was empty, except for two guards.
Without appearance of undue haste, two of the men sidled over to the guards, drew blackjacks from under
their clothing and swung them against the heads of the two guards. Both watchmen fell without an outcry.
The other man inserted a small jimmy under the wooden lid of the case and broke the lock. He lifted the
tablet out and shoved it inside his shirt under his belt. Then he tightened his belt to hold it there.
The three men walked out of the museum with their loot, attracting no attention.
TALL, bony William Harper Littlejohn came to the door of Doc Savage’s skyscraper headquarters wearing a
weary expression. He also looked slightly annoyed. He had been examining the almost perfect skull of a
prehistoric man, which a cowboy in Wyoming had brought to light while digging post holes. The skull was
likely to prove the existence of a high type of man in America much earlier than any one expected.
William Harper Littlejohn instantly recognized two of his visitors as having been with the contingent of
reporters and cameramen. The third had the attire of a taxi driver.
"Salutations," William Harper Littlejohn said, not very enthusiastically.
"I got to talkin’ with them other scribblers, after we left here, and found out you were an archaeologist," said
the man who had played reporter. "I had a friend who died a few weeks ago, and willed me his belongings.
About the only thing he had was a trunk full of junk. Old jars, tablets and such things. I thought I’d bring one
of the things to you, and maybe you could tell me whether the stuff was worth anything or not."
The man now drew out of his shirt the tablet from the museum.
William Harper Littlejohn gaped at the object.
"I’ll be superamalgamated!" he exploded.
"It worth anything?" demanded the fake reporter.
"Antiquity indubitable!" murmured William Harper Littlejohn.
"There’s a lot more of these thing," said the fake gentleman of the press.
"Is perlustration a potentiality?" murmured William Harper Littlejohn.
The visitors looked dizzy. The one playing the part of reporter grinned.
"Don’t you know any little ones?" He held up a hand with thumb and forefinger separated about half an inch.
"Little ones about that long? Words, I mean."
"Can I see this trunk?" asked Littlejohn, thereby proving that he did know some small words.
"You sure can," said the reporter. "It’s in my rooming house. You wanta go out?"
"Subitaneously!" agreed William Harper Littlejohn.
William Harper Littlejohn was ordinarily a gentleman of caution. His long association with Doc Savage had
made him so. He was one of a group of five men, each one remarkable in his way, who had associated
themselves with Doc Savage, partially for the sake of the adventure involved, but also because they had an
unbounded admiration for Doc Savage.
William Harper Littlejohn was a bug on archaeology, and highly enthusiastic over this tablet. He had
recognized it as genuine, and had visions of turning up a find of archaeological relics.
His enthusiasm evaporated in an explosion of colored lights inside his skull, a moment after he was seated in
a dark-blue taxi on the street. He did not even see the blackjack blow coming.
By the time he got himself organized, handcuffs were on his ankles and wrists, and a piece of sponge filled
his mouth, strapped there with adhesive tape.
The blue taxicab threaded through city traffic. A lap robe was thrown over William Harper Littlejohn,
concealing his bony form on the floorboards. He struggled, but upon receiving a kick in the ribs, desisted. He
could hear his captors talking.
"That was simple," declared the captor who had played cameraman.
"Brains," said the other. "Brains is what makes the world go ‘round."
Chapter II. THE MUMMY CASE BUSINESS
THE blue cab went through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey.
William Harper Littlejohn squirmed, and managed to get hold of the floor carpet. He took a firm grip. Then he
groaned loudly. The groan was to cover the sound of the carpet tearing as he ripped a piece out. He had to
groan three times and strain with all of his might before he was successful. When victory crowned his efforts,
he held a piece of carpet about the size of the palm of his hand.
Thanking his lucky stars for the presence of the enveloping lap robe, William Harper Littlejohn worked with the
bit of carpet.
What he was doing took almost fifteen minutes.
The lank geologist’s apparent inactivity had allayed the caution of his captors only a little. When he reared up
suddenly, violently, they fell upon him. William Harper Littlejohn, however, struggled with great ferocity.
He managed to stand up straight and shove his head hard against the top. It broke through.
In the excitement, the men failed to note the bit of rug being flung from his manacled hands through an open
window.
William Harper Littlejohn was wrestled down and received a booting for the trouble he had caused.
"We’re gonna lose patience with you!" one of the men gritted.
The last half hour of the journey was through sparsely settled country. The car rolled into what seemed to be
an estate. William Harper Littlejohn was now blindfolded, lifted out and carried across a porch that creaked
into a house. His blindfold was removed and the sponge taken out of his mouth.
He was in a dark cave of a room. The walls were painted black, which was unusual. There was a solid black
rug on the floor, which was even more unique.
But the one article of furniture was most startling of all. It was approximately eight feet long and three
wide—an irregularly shaped box with a lid. William Harper Littlejohn was startled into using small words,
something he rarely did.
"A mummy case!" he gasped.
A man went out, evidently to the car, and came back carrying a pair of pliers. He showed these to the
prisoner.
"See these?" he demanded. "They’re gonna reduce your vocabulary."
William Harper Littlejohn could hardly help seeing them; they were almost jammed in his eyes.
"An anagrammatical conjugation of exigency!" he muttered.
"There!" growled the man with the pliers. "That’s what I mean! No more of them words! Them jawbreakers! For
every big word you use, we’re gonna pull one of your teeth. A tooth for each word we can’t understand!
Savvy?"
William Harper Littlejohn blinked and looked as indignant as a securely bound man could.
"I don’t understand what this is all about," he snapped. "Why did you seize me?"
"You have no idea?" demanded the other.
"No!" retorted William Harper Littlejohn. "I’m completely puzzled!"
"Swell!" grinned the other. "You’re gonna be more puzzled, before we get done!"
They laid hands upon the skeletonlike form of Littlejohn, lifted him, and calmly plunked him down in the
mummy case.
WLLLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN had been able to give the mummy case merely the slightest of inspection,
but he had recognized it as being a genuine article. And the idea of lying in a mummy case failed to appeal to
him.
"I object to this treatment!" he yelled.
"We know how you feel!" said one of the men, with grim sympathy.
William Harper Littlejohn growled, "Inacquiescence is—"
The man with the pliers sprang forward. He endeavored forcibly to pry the prisoner’s mouth open. There was
brisk action for several moments, during which the pliers failed to get a firm hold on any of the captive’s teeth.
"I’ll let that one go!" the man with pinchers decided, grudgingly. "But for every big word from now on, you lose
a tooth! Listen! They call you ‘Johnny,’ don’t they?"
"Yes," William Harper Littlejohn admitted. "But what—"
"Johnny, you just shut up and lay there!"
One of the men left the black room. It was fully half an hour before the fellow reappeared. During this interval,
"Johnny" made several attempts to leave the mummy case, but was knocked back into the sarcophagus. All
he could do was to lie there and glare indignantly.
The returning man bore a newspaper.
"I see Jethro Mandebran had a son who was in Europe," he declared.
"So what?" asked one of his fellows.
"So the son is tearing home to try to help find his old man," announced the fellow with the paper. "It says
here that he chartered a plane and flew out five hundred miles in the Atlantic to catch a transatlantic steamer.
It says his plane landed on the ocean and was hauled aboard the ship. It also says that the son is gonna
leave the ship in his plane as soon as he’s within five hundred miles of New York. In fact, the son is probably
in the air again right now."
"I’ll see if the chief has any orders about this," one of the three captors said, and left the room.
JOHNNY strained against the handcuffs, but they were too strong. He indignantly tried to push the sides out
of the mummy case, but had no luck. He tried to get out of the case, but they hit him on the head with a
revolver barrel.
He lay back, pain making his eyes water. He was caring less and less for the inside of the mummy case.
Possibly it was only imagination, but he thought he could smell traces of its original occupant.
Johnny yelled, "Was there any trunk full of archaeological relics?"
"No!" grinned the man who had practiced that deception.
"Shut up, you fool!" snapped the other. "You should have told him there was!"
"He won’t dream what it’s all about," retorted the first. "And, say, pal, don’t be so free about who you call a
fool."
Johnny addressed the fellow who had objected to being insulted. "You haven’t much pride, letting him call
you a fool and get away with it. Shows you’re short on nerve."
The man grinned widely.
"You ain’t kidding anybody, you bag of bones," he chuckled. "You’re trying to start a fight. Not a chance! This
guy and me are great pals, even if he does have a face built for nibbling cheese."
The other man, whose features did have something of a mousey look, shoved out his jaw, made fists with his
hands, and it seemed for a moment as if there was going to be a fight after all.
The man who had gone out of the room—to get orders from the mysterious "chief," he had said—came back.
He looked very cheerful.
He said, "Doc Savage really don’t know a thing about this business. We made a mistake when we grabbed
this bag of bones."
Johnny swallowed several times. This was the truth. But how had they learned it?
The man looked at Johnny. "We can’t turn you loose, because you would tell Doc Savage what has
happened and he would meddle. So we gotta figure what to do."
There was a silence. It did not look to Johnny as if they were doing much thinking. It looked as if they already
knew what they would do with him, and it would not be pleasant.
A man demanded, "Is the Happy Skeleton business going through okay?"
"The Happy Skeleton business? Sure! No slips there."
"You fools had better quit talkin’ so much," the third man told the rest.
They fell silent.
All of this conversation made not the slightest sense to Johnny.
"What do you fellows want with me?" the gaunt geologist demanded, angrily.
"Nothing now," said one of the men. "We’re through with you, brother!"
"You haven’t done anything with me!" Johnny looked bewildered. "I mean—nothing that made sense."
"It makes plenty of sense, if you only knew!" the other assured him.
"Then turn me loose!" Johnny ordered.
The other seemed to consider this at length.
"As soon as Jethro Mandebran’s son lands in his airplane," the man said, "I think we shall shoot you."
Chapter III. THE MANDEBRAN SCION
ALEXANDER CROMWELL MANDEBRAN was, as was natural under the circumstances, a public figure for
the time being, a celebrity. Alex Mandebran had been interviewed aboard the transatlantic liner and had
named the airport at which he expected to land in the United States. As a result, reporters and cameramen
were on hand to greet Mandebran’s plane.
The airport selected was one on the outskirts of the city of Philadelphia, the metropolis from which the
missing Jethro Mandebran had disappeared.
The plane was a small English amphibian, sturdily built. An English pilot employed by Alex Mandebran was
at the controls, and, fairly early in the morning, he made an excellent landing. He taxied up to the hangar of
the airport, and immediately the ship was surrounded by a crowd.
Alex Mandebran proved to be a large man, with an especially good pair of shoulders. He had full lips, a
square jaw, and his general appearance indicated considerable physical strength. His hair was smeared with
gray at the temples, despite the fact that his age had been reported in the newspapers at twenty-eight.
"Really, now, I cawn’t be expected to waste much time, can I?" he said, when asked to answer questions.
"Nawsty thing, you know. Fair takes my breath. I’m in rawther a hurry to get to Philadelphia and investigate
the beastly mess."
Despite the affected English accent, Alex Mandebran seemed a nice enough young man.
"What do you think has happened to your father?" he was asked.
"Really, I cawn’t say yet," he replied.
"What do you think has happened to the twenty million dollars?" was the next question.
"Really, I’d rawther not say as to that either," the young man murmured.
"Do you know anything at all about the case?"
"I am sure that the name of my father will be cleared in the end, oh, definitely! I am going to Philadelphia at
once. I trust I shall have more to say, after I am there a short time."
A reporter inquired, "How long have you been abroad?"
"Most of my life, to tell the truth," said young Mandebran.
AT this point, a very large Negro, wearing a neat blue uniform, stepped up to Alex Mandebran and saluted
deftly.
"Ah got an official cah waitin’ foh yo’, suh," he said.
Alex Mandebran blinked. "I do not understand."
"Police, boss," said the Negro. "They done want to be nice to yo’ all. In this heah cah, ye’ can make a quick
trip, an’ it won’ cos’ a cent."
Taking off his hat, Alex Mandebran ran his fingers through his hair. "The police want to question me?"
"Ah reckons dey do," said the big black man. "Ah wouldn’t know."
The car proved to be a large, dark limousine. The big Negro in the uniform handed young Mandebran into the
rear and got behind the wheel. The car rolled away from the airport and headed for Philadelphia.
Three other cars followed. These machines held newspaper reporters, who had orders to keep tab on young
Mandebran.
The three cars of the newspapermen started out with full expectations of keeping the machine ahead in sight.
They received a surprise. The dark limousine traveled faster and faster. The newspapermen pushed their cars
to the utmost, but they were rapidly left behind. Within twenty minutes, the newshawks had lost all trace of
the black car. Thus they missed a bit of drama which would surely have been good for headlines.
Alex Mandebran in the black car became alarmed at the excessive speed.
"I say, driver!" he called. "We are hardly going to a fire!"
This got no results. Alex Mandebran rapped sharply on the glass which separated the driver’s compartment.
The big Negro piloting the machine did not even look around. The young man tried to crank the glass down. It
would not budge. He endeavored to open the doors. They would not open. He tackled the windows. No luck
there, either.
"What the hell does this mean?" Mandebran shrieked, completely shedding his English accent.
Getting no answer, he wrenched off a shoe and employed it to beat against the glass. The glass was like
armor plate. Alex Mandebran sank back on the cushions, somewhat pale.
The black limousine had left the main highway by now, and was jouncing over rough roads. Turning off sharply
into a grove of trees, it stopped. The driver got out, calmly opened the rear door.
"Damn you, whoever you are!" Alex Mandebran gritted, and leaped to the attack.
The thirty seconds or so which ensued were brisk and discomfiting to Mandebran. Not only did he fail to bear
the other down with his charge, but he was seized, lifted and slammed to the earth so hard that the breath
left his lungs.
The captor held his wrists easily, searched him for a weapon, but found none.
"Blast you! What are—"
Alex Mandebran went abruptly silent, for he had gotten a look at one of his captor’s wrists.
Some of the disguising color had been rubbed off the wrists in the struggle. The captor was unmistakably a
white man.
"What’s the meaning of this?" Alex Mandebran demanded.
THE reply of the mysterious black driver was to begin wiping more of the coloring off his features. He worked
rapidly, employing a chemical remover which came in a tube, and which he had been carrying in a pocket.
Alex Mandebran began to stare in amazement. He all but rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
"Good night!" he gasped.
"So you recognize me?"
Alex Mandebran wet his lips. "I—I recognize you from your pictures!" he admitted, jerkily.
Alex Mandebran was now urged into the limousine, and the erstwhile Negro chauffeur got behind the wheel.
The car was shortly swallowed by the woods.
Chapter IV. THE STRANGE SON
IT was around noon when a tall and very huskily built young gentleman presented himself at the office of the
Philadelphia police chief and requested the privilege of an interview with whoever was in charge of the Jethro
Mandebran investigation.
"What name shall I say?" inquired the reception clerk.
"Alexander Cromwell Mandebran," said the young man.
A few minutes later, the young man was confronting the police chief, district attorney, a Federal investigator,
police officials and a number of newspaper reporters.
"We had expected you earlier," he was told.
"I took the wrong road," the young man explained.
The district attorney asked, "Do you object to the presence of newspapermen?"
"Not at all."
"You are Alexander Cromwell Mandebran, Jethro Mandebran’s son?" he was asked.
"I think I can prove that," the young man said, and smiled slightly. "I have a number of letters." He now
produced envelopes addressed to Alexander Cromwell Mandebran in assorted English and European cities.
These were examined.
While the scrutiny was taking place, a newspaperman nudged his companion. Both of the journalists had
been at the airport when Alex Mandebran landed, and had been with the party of scribes which had later lost
the scion of missing wealth.
"Notice anything queer about friend Alex?" whispered the scribbler.
His companion examined Alex Mandebran intently. "Nope. Why?"
"Maybe it’s my imagination," said the other.
The investigators handed back the letters which they had been scrutinizing.
"Satisfactory?" demanded the young man.
"Yes," he was told.
THE Federal investigator studied Alex Mandebran, then asked, "Are you married?"
"No."
"At one time you were engaged to a young woman named Sylvan Niles," the investigator stated.
Alex Mandebran looked surprised. "How did you know that?"
"We are leaving no stones unturned," the other assured him. "Sylvan Niles broke your engagement herself,
did she not?"
Alex Mandebran moistened his lips, then admitted, "She did."
"The engagement was broken at a London night club, was it not?" the investigator persisted. "There was
something of a scene. Sylvan Niles called you some things and threw your ring at you, did she not?"
Alex Mandebran nodded uncomfortably.
"Why did Sylvan Niles break her engagement?" the government man asked.
Alex Mandebran hesitated. He not only looked uncomfortable, but indignant.
"She caught me going out with another girl," he snapped.
Some of the reporters laughed at this, and their mirth drew a scowl from Alex Mandebran.
The district attorney now took over the questioning, asking, "You are an only child, are you not?"
"Yes," admitted Alex Mandebran.
"And, as your father’s only offspring, you should be his principal heir?" the prosecutor questioned.
Alex Mandebran admitted, "I suppose so."
The district attorney took a long breath. "Then tell me," he directed, "why your father’s will cuts you off
摘要：

THEMIDASMANADocSavageAdventureByKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEMANWHOVANISHED?ChapterII.THEMUMMYCASEBUSINESS?ChapterIII.THEMANDEBRANSCION?ChapterIV.THESTRANGESON?ChapterV.ADIFFERENTCOFFIN?ChapterVI.THEHAPPYSKELETON?ChapterVII.THEDESTROYEDCASK...

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