Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 041 - The Black Spot

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THE BLACK SPOT
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. DEATH’S REVELRY
? Chapter II. HANDS IN THE DARK
? Chapter III. THE DEATH TRAP
? Chapter IV. THE DEATH FEAR
? Chapter V. MORE BLACK BLOOD
? Chapter VI. THE RIVER BURNS
? Chapter VII. THE ABDUCTED BODY
? Chapter VIII. MESSAGE IN FIRE
? Chapter IX. MURDER EXPECTED
? Chapter X. EYES IN THE DARK
? Chapter XI. MR. MATHERS AGAIN
? Chapter XII. RUNAWAY PATIENT
? Chapter XIII. MR. MATHERS CRASHES
? Chapter XIV. HABEAS CORPUS WRIT
? Chapter XV. DOC IS TRAPPED
? Chapter XVI. DEADLY HOOK-UP
? Chapter XVII. THE CASE OF HOBBS
? Chapter XVIII. DOC IS MISSING
? Chapter XIX. MR. MATHERS DIES
? Chapter XX. MURDER INVITATIONS
? Chapter XXI. THE MURDER PARTY
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. DEATH’S REVELRY
ANDREW PODREY VANDERSLEEVE had guests in his Westchester mansion. Guests in strange garb.
Grotesque guests in exclusive Westchester hills. Their conduct was as incongruous as their queer clothing.
Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve was not perturbed by all this. For the master of several millions was very dead.
He sat at his ornate mahogany desk with his arms sprawled. Blood black as ink had flowed from his
aristocratic veins.
The Vandersleeve guests enjoyed themselves in unseemly fashion. They shouted at each other. Some voices
were hoarse and menacing. Women emitted squealing screams. Occasionally a gun popped viciously.
Upstairs, one dead hand of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve lay in the little pool of purplish-black blood. No other
person appeared to have been with him in the big library. The door and windows now were securely locked.
Outside the immense house, the walled estate was filled with the odd, roughly clad women and men. Many
women wore cheap and garish dresses.
Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve had only a black spot over his heart. The upper social strata of Westchester,
an exclusive residential suburb of New York, was due for a shock.
Wild merriment rippled the night mist over the hills. The several hundred guests might have been hoodlums
and their molls.
Yet upstairs, beside Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve’s inert head, much real money lay undisturbed. There were
a number of century notes and bills of small denomination. These were in a neat pile, with a few pieces of
silver weighting them down.
Because of the character of the party, guards were everywhere. The guns in their low-slung holsters had the
businesslike mark of the law upon them. Four men wore the uniforms of State police.
The State coppers remained on the highway outside the Vandersleeve estate. Their keen eyes surveyed the
occupants of each arriving automobile.
In pairs, the four State policemen were stationed at the front corners of the estate wall. One wearing the
insignia of a sergeant was growling aloud.
"I’ve got a hunch something’s due to crack wide open before this thing’s over."
"Well, it could happen," said the other policeman.
A swanky car swung past them. The chauffeur was sitting upright, with a scornful expression on his clean
features. His passengers were shouting and singing.
Meeting this sedan head-on another car swung down the road. This, too, had a dignified chauffeur. Its
occupants were roughly clothed. Their faces were masked.
It seemed for a split-second as if the cars would collide. But both chauffeurs were adroit drivers. With an effort
they avoided a direct clash. The fenders grated and rubbed. One car slid into the shallow ditch.
The driver of the other car braked to a stop. Five or six men in masks spilled onto the concrete.
"If it ain’t Happy Joe himself," shouted one of these men, with a laugh. "All right, Joe, shove them dames out
an’ alla you line up!"
Three women were pushed out. They uttered little screams and sent their white hands into the air. Three men
lined up beside them. One of the three men was young, but his eyes were bloodshot. He was the one called
"Happy Joe." He seemed to take some pride in the cognomen.
While three of the masked men kept pistols pointed, the others started relieving the victims of their cash and
jewelry. They met with no resistance. The two State policemen walked closer. They were thinking this
"holdup" was part of the horseplay of the "gangster party."
"Please, don’t take that!" suddenly pleaded one of the women.
She pulled back a slender hand. On one finger was an emblem ring that might have been a family heirloom.
"Says you!" rapped one of the masked men. "There won’t be any holdin’ out! Oh, you would—"
The young woman had slapped him. His mask fell off. The man seized the girl’s arm and twisted. With rough
fingers, he jerked at the emblem ring. The metal circle came free, tearing the skin and flesh of the woman’s
finger. She screamed now with real pain.
"Why, you dumb ox, you can’t do that!" yelled the young man named Happy Joe.
He accompanied his protest with swift action. Though clearly drunk, he carried a quick punch. One balled fist
smacked squarely into the chin of the man who had pulled off the ring. The man teetered on his heels.
Then an automatic cracked. Happy Joe’s left was starting a swing that might have been a finisher.
"Why, damn it," he coughed out, "you—you’ve shot me!"
His swinging arm carried him around. Blood spurted in little jets from the side of his throat. It pumped directly
from his heart. His next words were gurgled. Then he fell down, twitching convulsively.
The two State coppers were not close enough to see clearly what had happened. But both had whipped their
guns into their hands. The sergeant started running and shouted:
"Hey! That’ll be about enough outside!"
Red death erupted from beside the chauffeur. This was a machine gun at close range. The State coppers
jack-knifed as if solid blows had been struck across their stomachs.
The five or six masked men rolled back into their car. The chauffeur freed it smoothly. The car whirled away
into the darkness.
FOR a minute or two, the other State coppers did not move to the scene of death. Nor did any of the several
guards near the entrance of the estate. They were aroused to the tragic reality when a young woman ran
screaming down the highway toward them.
She was waving a bloody-fingered hand.
"They’re dead, I tell you! Oh, won’t somebody do something! It’s Happy Joe! They shot him!"
Then the policemen and guards came upon the results of the orgy of blood in the highway. One State copper
stayed on the scene.
"Get headquarters!" he ordered the other, crisply. "Captain Graves himself, if he’s there! Put the lid on that
stuff inside! Hold everybody under guard, an’ use Vandersleeve’s hired men! Anybody might’ve known what’d
be likely to bust out of this!"
CAPTAIN GRAVES, of the State police, was soon contacted. After he had viewed the murder victims outside,
he made his way directly to the library of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve.
A small gray mole of a man, who said he was Arthur Jotther, a distant cousin of the millionaire and his
secretary, told Graves that Vandersleeve had not appeared at the party downstairs.
In view of the party’s unusual wild character, this was of itself a peculiar circumstance. Graves knew
Vandersleeve as a Wall Street plunger. He had continued to prosper during the depression. Real estate
transactions and political options were his specialty.
Jotther was unlocking the library door.
"Mr. Vandersleeve had some important business to look after," he said, mildly. "He left word he was not to be
disturbed. So he must have locked himself in."
"Didn’t want to be disturbed!" snorted Captain Graves, the muscles of his square face twitching angrily.
"What a helluva time to pick out for important business! Two of my men dead, an’ another—"
Captain Graves clamped his long lower teeth suddenly on his upper lip. The library door had swung open. A
desk lamp shed a white circle over the desk in the middle of the big room.
It had become abruptly apparent to Captain Graves that Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve was permanently
removed from all responsibility for the weird and tragic affairs of this wild night. Only a glance was required to
tell that the millionaire was dead.
Captain Graves rattled out orders. These included one that barred any person departing from the
Vandersleeve house. Next he sent outside for the medical examiner, who had come up with him. After which,
Captain Graves permitted only Arthur Jotther and two policemen to enter the library.
The captain remained at some distance from the polished desk. He was classifying every object with possible
relation to the position of the millionaire’s body.
The doctor was a fat, little man.
"Dead an hour, perhaps two hours," he announced almost as soon as he had touched Vandersleeve’s body.
"The body has stiffened, but it doesn’t seem to be like rigor mortis. It’s like he’d fought something and his
muscles set that way when he died. Most unusual!"
"No more unusual, doc, than for ink to be spilled where there doesn’t seem to be any ink to be upset,"
pointed Captain Graves. "His right hand spilled it, but there isn’t any inkstand or bottle."
The medical examiner poked a fat finger at the little black pool on the desk alongside the dead man’s right
hand. The pool had nearly dried.
"Well—well—well!" sputtered the doctor.
He was rubbing the finger that had touched the dried black stain on the desk. He lifted the dead man’s right
hand. With one palm he rubbed the top of the smooth desk thoughtfully.
"Humph! Chemically impossible!"
"That’s what I thought," said Captain Graves, "but I was waiting for your opinion. His wrist is slashed by the
broken glass. That would be his blood. I’ve heard some of the old families claim it’s blue, but I’ve never heard
of that color even with a black sheep."
"Yes, his wrist was cut by the glass," said the medical examiner. "He had been drinking. Some one was with
him."
"I’d judged that," said Captain Graves, referring to the decanter of red liquor and the two glasses on the desk.
One of the glasses was shattered. "Perhaps he brought his hand down suddenly and broke the glass. It
might have been he was struck."
"He wasn’t struck," said the medical examiner. "There is no sign of violence, except for the cut on his wrist."
Arthur Jotther spoke unexpectedly with his meek, small voice.
"I don’t think Mr. Vandersleeve was quarreling with any one. He seemed to be in an extremely jovial mood.
As a matter of fact, it was I he was drinking with. He invited me, which was most unusual. We had two
drinks. Then he said he did not want to be disturbed. I heard him lock the door."
"Well—well—well!" sputtered the medical examiner. "I was about to say perhaps the liquor—it might have
had something to do with the color of the blood—but wait!"
With expert movement, the doctor produced a small lancet. With this he made a slight, deep incision across
an area of the dead man’s arm. The blood of the corpse was thick and did not flow.
But in the opened vein it was as black as that staining the desk.
"I suffered no ill effects from the drinks," suggested Jotther. "If you’ll pardon me, I think perhaps the money
might have something to do with it."
"I’ve been thinkin’ about that money," said Captain Graves. "There’s several grand on the desk. So it wasn’t
robbery. Doc, is there evidence of poison?"
"Well, it’s my first experience with dark blood," retorted the examiner. "Offhand, I’d say it probably is poison."
"Then it could be suicide," said Captain Graves, but his eyes were boring into Arthur Jotther. "Or there might
have been poison placed in his glass. By the way, Mr. Jotther, what do you think?"
The quick, direct question indicated Captain Graves already had a suspicion of his own. Arthur Jotther’s reply
came with a slap of surprise.
"I don’t believe Mr. Vandersleeve killed himself," he said, wildly. "There is considerable money missing.
Would you object to my counting the money on the desk?"
Captain Graves whistled to himself.
"As far as Mr. Vandersleeve’s death is concerned," added Arthur Jotther, "perhaps I could be said to have
good reason for wishing it. Though I was his secretary, he was bitterly opposed to my hope of marrying
Geneva, his daughter. Despite that, I believe I have been bequeathed a small fortune in his will."
"I’ll be damned!" exploded Captain Graves. "O. K.! Count the money!"
The mild little man fingered the notes and silver quickly. "It comes to $18,450.80," he specified. "That means
the sum of $131,549.20 is missing."
Captain Graves exclaimed again.
"That’s a lot of money and it’s a clever cover-up! It proves no ordinary crook pulled this job. Somebody’s
smart, too smart! All right, doc. Any more ideas on what killed him?"
The medical examiner had stripped back the millionaire’s shirt. He was tentatively touching a mark directly
over Vandersleeve’s heart.
This was a round black spot, round as a perfect circle.
"Funny," murmured the medical examiner. "And it seems to penetrate deeply. It’s something more than a
surface discoloration. It will require an autopsy, of course, to determine its true character, but I would say
offhand that black spot either originated from the heart or goes all the way in."
"Then he was hit?" quizzed the captain. "By what kind of a weapon?"
"No, I don’t mean that. It isn’t a bruise. The skin is unbroken and so are the veins underneath. It’s—well, it’s
just a black spot—black like his blood."
Captain Graves eyed Arthur Jotther keenly. The mild little man must be clever. Without reason he had
volunteered the admission he stood to profit by Vandersleeve’s death. That he had wanted to marry the
millionaire’s daughter.
"How do you know about the correct amount of money?" Graves suddenly questioned.
Arthur Jotther was not in the least disturbed.
"Mr. Vandersleeve brought $150,000 cash out from the city," he said quietly. "The sum was to take up a
secret land option on the harbor. The other party insisted the payment be made in cash."
"And who is this other party?"
"I have no means of knowing," said Jotther. "Mr. Vandersleeve did not confide in me. Also, I know he
destroyed the letter he received. He informed me of the purpose of the money. He was to have completed the
deal tonight."
"Has big deal on—doesn’t want to be disturbed—and pulls a gangster party," muttered Captain Graves.
Chapter II. HANDS IN THE DARK
CAPTAIN GRAVES’S words cleared up much of the mystery of the night’s weird happenings. While Andrew
Podrey Vandersleeve had died at his desk with a mysterious black spot over his heart, his guests had staged
their own conception of how hoodlums might enjoy themselves at a blowout.
The luridly painted women and the snarling, roughly garbed men were members of the swankiest set. The
guns they used were loaded with harmless blanks. Members of society were giving an imitation of their belief
how the underworld would dress and act.
It had been a "gangsters’ party." Staid, exclusive Westchester would be many a day recovering from the
night’s bloody orgy. For the scene in the highway had not been on the program.
"We’ll have every last man and woman in the house come through this room," announced Graves. "I want no
word passed out as to what they will see, until they are in here to see it."
Among all of the gasping socially elect conducted through the death room were two distinctive figures.
Perhaps it was because their hair was of somewhat the same flaming color.
"Red" Mahoney, a movie news cameraman, had been grinding out some "shots" of the gangster party. It
would go to the screen under the heading, "Oddities in the News."
Red was now seething with enthusiasm for his calling. The big six-foot cameraman with the blazing red hair
was now on the trail of real news. It is a real picture when a playboy of the prominence of Happy Joe
Carpenter and a couple of State coppers lie dead together on a highway in Westchester.
It was even bigger news for Red when he learned the millionaire who had sponsored the party was himself
murdered. Mahoney welcomed that visit in the library. His picture-minded ambition was all set on getting a
news-reel shot of Andrew Podrey Vandersleeve as he sat at his desk, dead.
To that end, Red was spotting every possible nook of concealment for a camera.
The other person with bizarre hope was a young woman. No amount of badly placed cosmetics could conceal
her beauty. Even the unusual redness of her painted lips only brought out the golden intelligence of her eyes.
This young woman’s hair was not red. It was more like each separate hair had been rubbed with glistening
golden powder.
For this outstanding guest at the Vandersleeve gangster party was none other than Patricia Savage. She was
a cousin of the noted Doc Savage. At times, she had shared a small part of the adventures of the great
scientist, humanitarian and man of action.
The body of the dead millionaire had been placed to cause the black spot over his heart to show to each
person entering. It was a gruesome experiment. Policemen stood handy.
When a woman screamed and fainted, she was promptly removed. Captain Graves was not usually a hard
man. But two of his best men had been killed.
Graves was convinced the confederate of the outside holdup men was still among the guests. With his men
well stationed, he was studying the reactions of each person coming into the room.
An assistant with Red Mahoney slipped a movie camera and a magazine on which the film is run, into the
library. Intent on his psychological experiment, Captain Graves did not note the failure of two visitors to leave
the library with the others.
Patricia Savage slipped behind the velvet drapery in an alcove.
As the last line of guests moved out, Patricia learned about the black blood, the black spot and the curious
circumstance of the missing money.
Captain Graves closed the library door. The guests had passed out of the room.
Graves turned to Arthur Jotther.
"The circumstances remain such that I’ll have to hold you for questioning," he said. "Now you might tell us
what you’ve done with the hundred and thirty-one grand? I suppose you thought by breaking Vandersleeve’s
whisky glass, it would escape analysis. I expect we’ll find this black poison on the pieces."
Arthur Jotther remained cool.
"I expected to be arrested," he said, quietly. "I don’t see how you could do anything else. However, I hope I
get clear soon enough to help find the real murderer."
Captain Graves, after formally holding Arthur Jotther, seemed puzzled as to his next procedure.
"We’ll have an autopsy as quickly as possible," he instructed the medical examiner. "There isn’t much to be
done until we find the character of the poison."
The doctor had been examining the dead man’s eyes.
"Maybe there’ll be poison, but I doubt it," he decided.
"There’s got to be something!" growled Captain Graves. "What’s that black spot?"
"You tell me that, and we won’t need an autopsy," said the examiner.
Before Captain Graves could reply, the library flared brilliantly with a white light. From behind an alcove
curtain close to Pat Savage came the little clicking grind of a movie camera in operation.
Red Mahoney had made a quick set-up. He was burning a calcium flare that would last about a minute and a
half. Already he had the biggest murder news of the day recorded in the running strip of celluloid.
Captain Graves roared and his big body shoved across the room. He snatched the drapery to one side. Red
grinned at him evenly.
"Hello, captain," he remarked calmly, still turning the little crank. "Saw a chance to get a good shot and
thought I wouldn’t bother you. Mind moving over just a little."
"You’ll get no shot in here, an’ you know it!" rapped the State police captain. "Here! Gimme that magazine!"
"But I’ve already got it," chuckled Red. "It’s now the property of the Future Pictures Corporation and—"
"I don’t care if it’s the property of all Hollywood, you’re not taking it with you!" roared Captain Graves.
"Johnson, grab the machine!"
Johnson, a burly State copper, seized the magazine. The knobby fist of Red punched outward and upward.
The State copper was unfortunately exposing his chin. But as he started to topple, Captain Graves fastened a
throttling hold upon Mahoney.
The captain hooked the movie magazine with his other hand.
"That punch will get you about sixty days to cool off," he advised Red Mahoney. "And we’ll take good care of
this movie shot. It’s one that will never reach—"
The lights went out. The darkness came so quickly it seemed to puff black smoke into every one’s eyes. Red
twisted loose from Captain Graves. But the irate trooper, Johnson, was up and swinging. He paid Red back in
full for the sock on the chin.
Captain Graves felt the movie film magazine ripped from his hand. He swung wildly at a figure he could not
see in the darkness. A man’s hard, sinewy fingers gripped his throat, then let him go.
Patricia Savage was slithering across the room. Her small feet made no sound in the deep rug. She was
groping for the outer door when it swung unexpectedly in her face.
Pat got through before any one could interfere. All lights in the big house were off. From downstairs came
feminine shrieks.
Pat could hear some one moving rapidly away from the library. She could not tell if the unseen person had
been inside or close to the door on the outside.
Pat was recalling the position of a telephone in the hallway off the reception room downstairs. She wanted to
call her cousin, Doc Savage, at his Manhattan skyscraper headquarters.
BACK in the library, Graves produced a flashlight. Red Mahoney was sitting on the floor. Blood was oozing
from his chin where Johnson’s knuckles had rapped him.
"Now hand me back that film magazine!" ordered Captain Graves.
"Don’t make me laugh," said Red. "My face hurts!"
"Who grabbed the box?" demanded the captain.
His light swept the faces of his men. It picked out the medical examiner. Arthur Jotther was standing
peaceably beside a State policeman. The flashlight uncovered no other person in the room.
"If I thought you had some one do that, I’d have you up six months for resisting and assault," the captain told
Red.
"You’ll never be famous," predicted Red, gloomily. "You can’t buck the news-reels, an’ I haven’t got the thing,
anyway." Mahoney was speaking the truth. He didn’t have it.
UP on the eighty-sixth floor of New York’s most impressive skyscraper, a slight buzzing started.
A voice spoke mechanically.
"This is a robot speaking. You are advised Doc Savage is absent. But any message you care to deliver will
be recorded on a dictaphone and will come to Doc Savage’s attention later. You may proceed with whatever
you wish to say."
"Doc," said Pat Savage in a low voice, "I am at the Vandersleeve residence near Port Chester. Vandersleeve
has been murdered. Three other persons have been killed. There was a black spot over Vandersleeve’s heart,
and a large amount of money was taken in a queer manner. There was—"
In Doc Savage’s headquarters the mechanical device recorded Pat’s words thus far. It also recorded a muffled
gasping sound. This, too, came from Pat’s throat. The instrument further put on the dictaphone record for Doc
or his men a slight bumping crash.
This latter was the telephone being slapped from Pat Savage’s hand.
The palm grasping Pat’s mouth was smooth and cold. In her ear a voice muttered:
"If you’ve brought Doc Savage into this, it will be his last big adventure. As for you—"
Pat had no opportunity to scream. Her sudden captor discovered he had got hold of a wildcat in the darkness.
Tapered toes bruised his shins. One small hand with strong fingers fastened on an ear and twisted.
The man breathed heavily and swore vilely in Pat’s face. She lowered her head and tried to butt the man on
the nose or chin.
"You red-headed hellion!" grated her captor. "I’ll fix you for that!"
Pat always became madder when she was called redheaded. Though she couldn’t breathe, she dug an elbow
into the man’s ribs. They crashed against a door. This led to the basement stairs. It was unlocked and it
swung open.
Pat collected a number of bruises in the next two seconds. It is likely her captor gathered more. They rolled
together down the stairs and landed on a concrete floor in the darkness.
Pat was half stunned. But now she was blazing mad. She had come to the "gangster party" armed with her
special automatic. In keeping with the occasion, it had been loaded only with blank cartridges.
But even blanks, at close range, are hard on the eyes. Pat waited until the man let out a revealing snarl. The
pistol erupted into his face. The man recoiled, swearing lustily.
Luckily for him, the automatic contained only blanks. The two flashes of hot powder were blinding. The sharp
explosions brought a rush of feet in the upper hallway. Red Mahoney and a State copper with a flashlight
appeared on the stairway.
Pat’s assailant had fled through the rear of the basement. State policemen searched the cellar. They returned
empty-handed.
"He crawled out through a back window," one reported.
Red Mahoney was fast for a big man. While Pat was watching the coppers carry on their hunt, Red set up his
camera. He was grinding away as a calcium flared.
Pat had been explaining how a man had seized her in the hallway. She evaded the real reason for the attack.
She said she had tried to telephone to a friend.
STATE POLICE were searching upstairs for a man who might show powder burns. None was found. A check
showed there was no accurate guest list whereby a missing man could be discovered.
Red Mahoney grinned at Pat Savage.
"I lost the film of Vandersleeve upstairs," he said, mournfully. "I haven’t got a thing that’s—say! Look at this!"
He was digging into his leather case for a new magazine. He closed the case suddenly and stepped close to
Pat.
"Listen, Miss Savage," he confided. "That picture of the murder room has been put back in my case."
Mahoney scratched his head in perplexity.
"Whoever doused the lights and grabbed the film wants that picture to appear on the screen," stated Pat,
wisely. "Now I wonder why?"
Red supplied the answer.
"To throw a scare into somebody, I’ll bet," he said.
Pat nodded. Captain Graves was still holding Arthur Jotther. The social register guests of the "gangster party"
were being checked as witnesses and released.
Pat was hoping Doc Savage had received her message.
Chapter III. THE DEATH TRAP
CLARK SAVAGE, JR., was the inconspicuous lettering in bronze. This was set on the metal door. Doc
Savage’s headquarters occupied the eighty-sixth floor of a towering mass of glittering metal and stone. This
was one of Manhattan’s greatest skyscrapers.
An elevator came up. The car made a slight hissing noise. This elevator was Doc’s private car. It traveled with
greater speed than the wind.
An uncouth figure stepped forth. The man’s motion could only be described as ambling. Hairy hands trailed
below the knees of short legs. Fat ears and the low forehead were covered with stiff reddish bristles.
The man himself might have been a huge trained ape. His broad nose sniffed. In front of the door bearing the
sign, he paused to listen.
Doc’s five staunch companions had formed this habit of caution. This was why they continued to survive
almost incredible dangers.
The apelike individual was "Monk." The world of chemistry knew him as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett
Mayfair. He was one of the world’s leading industrial chemists. But to his companions and to his friends he
was just Monk.
Monk entered Doc’s reception room. Some of the world’s most hunted and most dangerous criminals had
been received there. In this room had been formed campaigns of adventure reaching into the uttermost parts
of the world.
Sometimes a telephone message started Doc Savage and his five men upon quests strange and wide. But
none had ever been stranger than that already recorded in the voice of Patricia Savage on the dictaphone
record of the telephone.
Monk perceived such a record had been made. It was a rule that the first man to arrive would take the
message. Usually this would then await the coming of Doc Savage.
But at the first words pouring into his furry ear, Monk twisted his ugly face into an even uglier grimace. The
apelike chemist sensed danger. This apparently threatened Pat Savage. Monk’s regard for Doc’s beautiful
cousin stirred an immediate deep emotion.
"Dang everything!" he muttered. "Some day she’s goin’ to get in a jam she won’t get out of! An’ Doc ain’t even
in town!"
But Doc Savage was in Manhattan. At that moment he was moving toward his headquarters. But Monk was
not aware of this. He did not know where to reach the remarkable man of bronze.
"All over some buzzard of a millionaire!" piped Monk, shifting the recording needle and listening again to the
bumping disruption of the circuit at the end. "An’ somebody’s grabbed Pat!"
He had heard the slapping commotion when the phone at the Vandersleeve mansion had been snatched from
Pat’s hand.
Monk thumbed through a directory of Westchester County. The location of the Vandersleeve estate was
easily established. Monk went into one of the back rooms. When he returned, there was a bulge under one
arm. He was equipped with an automatic superfiring pistol and various other defensive devices.
Monk then called a certain exclusive apartment residence club in upper Manhattan. The voice replying was
acidly sharp with sleep and annoyance.
"I’d know that monkey squeal in any zoo!" it snapped. "And anybody else would have too many brains to
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THEBLACKSPOTADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.DEATH’SREVELRY?ChapterII.HANDSINTHEDARK?ChapterIII.THEDEATHTRAP?ChapterIV.THEDEATHFEAR?ChapterV.MOREBLACKBLOOD?ChapterVI.THERIVERBURNS?ChapterVII.THEABDUCTEDBODY?ChapterVIII.MESSAGE...

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