Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 032 - Dust of Death

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A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth
Robeson
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
? Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
? Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
? Chapter 4. THE PERIL IN NEW YORK
? Chapter 5. FIRING SQUAD
? Chapter 6. ATTACK IN THE AIR
? Chapter 7. AN OFFER TO SURRENDER
? Chapter 8. SABOTAGE
? Chapter 9. CRACK-UP
? Chapter 10. THE KILLER LAUGHS
? Chapter 11. DISASTER
? Chapter 12. THE HUMORIST
? Chapter 13. CHEMISTRY
? Chapter 14. MORE TO DIE
? Chapter 15. POLITICS
? Chapter 16. FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
? Chapter 17. THE GRAY DUST
? Chapter 18. JUNGLE
? Chapter 19. THE INCA IN GRAY
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter 1. THE COMING OF TROUBLE
THE PLANE slammed down for a landing in a way that stood the hair on end, and conveyed the thought that
the pilot did not care much for his life. The ship sank out of the South American sky in a power dive that
made a moan which could be heard for miles. It hauled out, went into a side-slip that seemed more than a
ship could stand. Then it landed.
The landing told things. The pilot was neither reckless nor a fool. He was a wizard.
The man who got out of the plane looked as if he were about ready to die. Not that he was wounded, not that
he had any affliction. He was just a pale bag of bones, and not a very large bag. His complexion was about
as inviting as green bananas.
The man peered about. Then, quite suddenly, he shoved a hand inside his greasy flying suit.
The flying field was jittery with heat waves. The fighting planes—very modern military planes they were—over
by the army hangars were like baked insects that had just crawled out of hangars that were ovens.
Trouble was coming from the hangars in the shape of a squad of uniformed brown soldiers. There was trained
precision in their advance, even if they were in a hurry. Their faces were grim and their rifles clean—cocked.
The officer in charge of the squad, was dapper, efficient, and, coming up to the flyer who had the look of an
invalid, he presented a blue automatic, muzzle first. He spoke brisk and grim Spanish.
"This is a military airport, señor," he said. "No landings are permitted here. You are under arrest."
"Si, si, amigo,"
said the puny-looking flyer.
He took his hand out of his flying suit and it held papers, official looking. He passed them over.
The officer took them and read them, and his eyebrows went up, then down, and his shoulders did the same.
He spoke English this time and it was not especially good.
"Our consul, he ees not have right for you thees military field to use," he said. "Eet ees not what you
call—call—"
"Not regular, I know," said the flyer. "But suppose you call your chief, contact some one high up in the war
department. I did a little telephoning before I started."
The officer did tricks with his eyebrows while he thought that over.
"I will see," he said. "You wait."
He took the papers, which the flyer had given him, and walked away briskly, going past the hangars and
along the walk which led to the operations office.
THE OFFICER took quick strides, eyeing from time to time the documents which obviously held great
interest for him. He shook his head, sucked his tongue, and spoke to himself.
"If this flyer's identity is as these papers say," he murmured, "it means great and amazing things are to
come."
He turned a corner briskly. The path, virtually an alley, ran between thick walls of shrubbery on either side.
"If this man is who these say he is," the officer waved papers at himself, "the mystery of the Inca in Gray may
be solved after all."
A man came out of the bushes into the path behind the officer. He came swiftly without much noise.
The man was bent over and his hands were across his middle as if he had a permanent pain there. A beggar,
to judge by his looks. His hair was long. His poncho ragged, his fiber sandals frayed. Unless the matter was
given thought, it might not occur that the fellow was excellently disguised.
"
Señor soldado," the ragamuffin, hissed, "I have something to tell, important."
The officer stopped, turned and, surprised, let the tall, stooped bundle of rags come up to him. He was
unsuspicious. In the South American republic of Santa Amoza civilians treated army officers with respect.
Not being suspicious was the officer's mistake.
The ragamuffin had a knife concealed in his hand. But the officer did not see that until he looked down at his
chest and saw the hilt sticking out over his heart. Queerly, the army man kept his mouth closed tightly. But,
after a moment, strings of crimson leaked from the corners of his mouth, a string from each corner at almost
the same time. Then the army officer, in a slow, horrible way, got down on his hands and knees and lay on
the knife hilt so that the point was shoved on through, and the point came out of the back of his neat khaki
uniform.
He kicked as he died.
THE KILLER was a thrifty soul. He got his knife. Then he got the papers. After which he scampered away
through the brush, making as little noise as he could.
Beyond the flying field was jungle, where there was rainfall down here on the coast where sat Alcala, capital
city of Santa Amoza. Once in the jungle, the slayer ran as if his shadow were a devil. After a time, he came
to a house, a very miserable looking hovel and apparently untenanted, but which held a modern telephone.
The telephone set-up was remarkable. Not the instrument itself, which was ordinary, but the box of apparatus
through which its circuit ran. The device was what is known as a "scrambler" and it was ordinarily employed
by telephone companies on government lines where eavesdroppers were not wanted. Only the proper
unscrambler at the other end would make intelligible what went over the wire.
"Word must be got to the Inca in Gray," said the killer. "The thing we feared has happened."
"What do you mean?" demanded a coarse voice.
They were speaking Spanish.
"Major Thomas J. Roberts just arrived at military field," snapped the slayer. "I thought I recognized him. I
used my knife on a fool officer, and got diplomatic passes which prove the man is indeed Major Thomas J.
Roberts."
"And who might Major Thomas J. Roberts be?" the voice over the wire demanded.
"Who was your father, my friend?" asked the killer.
"He was a man of Inca blood, of which I am proud," rapped the other. "And what has that to do—"
"I thought he must have been an ox," sneered the slayer, "for naught but an ox could sire a son so dumb.
This man Roberts is more commonly known as Long Tom."
"And so what, insulting dog?" demanded the other. "Is this Long Tom Señor Diablo himself?"
"He is worse," declared the ragamuffin. "He is the assistant, one of the five assistants rather, of the one man
our master, the Inca in Gray, fears."
"Continue, man of many words and little information," directed the voice on the wire.
"Doc Savage!" said the killer. "Long Tom is the assistant of Doc Savage."
There was silence. It was a long silence, as if the man on the other end of the wire had been hit a hard blow
and was recovering. Then he began to swear, and his profanity was like the explosions of bundles of
fire-crackers. He started in a loud scared voice and swore until he ran out of breath.
"Wait," he said.
The killer waited. It was all of five minutes. Then the other was back on the line.
"The Inca in Gray will direct this personally," he said. "This Long Tom will be disposed of."
"Good-by, son of an ox," the killer chuckled and hung up.
BACK AT the military flying field there was excitement. For the body of the knifed officer had been found. It
was orderly excitement, grim. For these soldiers of Santa Amoza were well trained—and long trained, for the
war had been going on for four years already.
"Long Tom" Roberts was in the office of the field commander, standing stark naked, for he had been stripped
as they searched him. He looked more than ever like a man who was waiting for a coffin. But there was
nothing moribund about the Spanish he spoke. It was good Spanish. He used plenty of it, pointedly, loudly.
"Call Señor Junio Serrato, war minister of Santa Amoza," Long Tom bellowed. "He'll okay me. He knows I'm
coming."
They finally did call Señor Junio Serrato, war minister, and what he said must have been emphatic and
plenty. For the flying field officials turned suddenly apologetic.
"My treatment of you is to be regretted greatly. But you must understand our country is at war," the field
commander himself said. "And the mysterious murder of the officer—"
There was much shrugging, in the middle of which Long Tom Roberts left. He took a horse-drawn hack driven
by an old woman who looked like the Yankee conception of a witch. All gasoline was commandeered for
military use in Santa Amoza and all ablebodied men were in the army. Long Tom eventually got into town.
Alcala, after the fashion of South American cities, was a bright-colored town, made brighter by the flags
which hung in profusion. Bright sunshine made the white houses whiter and filled the streets with heat waves.
Tourists would have ecstasized over the place.
But there were no tourists. There was war!
It showed in something besides the numbers of uniformed men. There was a grimness, chill in the faces, a
thing as distinct as the snow-capped Andes, which could be distinctly seen inland.
Long Tom surrendered his conveyance, because marching squads of soldiers frequently held him up and he
could make better time walking.
The walking, Long Tom concluded in short order, was a mistake. There were beggars; war makes beggars.
Tattered and filthy and pleading, they tagged at his heels. He tossed them coins, knowing that was a
mistake, for it drew more of them like sugar in the midst of flies. He tossed more coins, but they grew bolder,
more insistent. They scuttled alongside him, tugged his clothing.
The presence of the beggars was not strange, for tropical cities are commonly infested with mendicants.
But suddenly it was strange. It was sinister. It had a purpose.
One whining rogue, ragged and dirty as the rest, shuffled up, arms held loosely at his sides, bare feet scuffing
the dust of the unpaved street. Then, unexpectedly, his long arms were wrapped around Long Tom's slight
figure.
"Spy!" screamed the beggar. "He is a spy!"
The mob burst out in a roar. The suddenness with which it happened showed this all had been arranged.
Unclean hands closed upon Long Tom. There seemed to be dozens of them.
"Spy!" they shrieked. "Kill him!"
"Kill him!" a score echoed.
Then Long Tom—he who resembled an invalid—picked up the first beggar who had seized him. Using the
victim as a club, Long Tom bowled over fully half a dozen others. It was a feat the burliest wrestler would not
have blushed to recount.
In the next few seconds, Long Tom demonstrated some of the qualities which qualified him as an assistant to
that man whose name was legend to the far corners of the earth—Doc Savage. Long Tom used his fists at
first, and they landed with noises only slightly less than pistol shots.
A ring opened around Long Tom, in it the bodies of those who had become senseless. The mob roared,
circled the man whose mild appearance was so deceptive.
"Kill him!" it bawled. "A spy!"
Then they closed in, and many knives appeared. They tore a stoop from in front of a house, and hurled these
sizable rock fragments. Long Tom got one in the chest and it put him down.
Lying there, gasping, he drove hands into his pockets. They came out with small glass bulbs. He broke these
in the street, and they made wet splashes which vaporized away almost instantly. It was gas, odorless,
producing quick unconsciousness if breathed—a product of Doc Savage's inventive genius. Long Tom held his
breath so as not to get any of it. He got up and ran.
Into a door, Long Tom dived, not knowing where it led. He was lucky. It admitted into a patio, and he climbed
a palm tree to a roof, crossed that, got into another street, after which it was doubtful if a man in the mob
could have kept up with him. He could hear them yelling.
"Spy!" they screamed. "Kill him!"
"Whoever hatched that murder scheme," Long Tom grumbled as he ran, "was clever."
Chapter 2. THE GRAY DEAD
ALCALA, CAPITAL of Santa Amoza, had the outward aspects of a backward city and a poor one. It was
neither. Santa Amoza was a country rich in natural resources—nitrates and oil among others—and before the
war a flood of exports had poured out of Alcala, the seaport, and a flood of gold had poured in. Alcala had
been a rich field for American salesmen.
The government hospital was a typical example of just how modern Alcala was. The building was huge, white
and of fine stone. The interior was also white and sanitary, modern to the extreme.
Long Tom Roberts was following a stern-faced male nurse down a hall and into a big room, where a man lay
on a white cot.
The man on the cot was a mummy in bandages, except for his hands and his face. He had an interesting
face. At some time or other his nose had made forcible contact with an object harder than its tissue and
bone. The nose gave the man a face remindful of the countenance of an English bulldog. Inside the bandages
the man's frame was probably angular and capable.
The bandaged man did not see Long Tom at first.
Long Tom grinned and said: "All wrapped up for shipping."
The bandaged man turned over. His blue eyes all but came out of his head. He tried to bound out of the cot
and fell on the floor.
"Long Tom!" he howled. "You old corpse, you old rascal, you sonuvagun!"
"Ace Jackson," Long Tom chuckled.
Long Tom helped him back on the cot, and they grinned and mauled each other a little, shouting things which
did not make much sense.
"Ace Jackson," Long Tom chuckled. "Same old Kiwi. Haven't seen you since you were flying a Spad, back in
the Great War."
"Same here," chortled "Ace" Jackson. "Swell of you to drop in to see me, you pint of dynamite."
"I was down in Argentina on a hydro-electric project," Long Tom explained. "Buzzed up here as soon I heard
that you had tried to do a bit of flying without wings. What's the idea? Been flying so long you thought you
had sprouted wings?"
Ace Jackson looked suddenly grim and did not answer.
Long Tom stepped back and eyed the bandaged aviator seriously.
"It must have taken some sky battler to bring you down," he said dryly. "Did they gang you? I'll swear no one
man could outfly you."
"The Inca in Gray may not be a man—I think sometimes," Ace Jackson said slowly and distinctly.
FOR THE first time, Long Tom became aware there was a girl in the room. She was tall, dark haired. And her
complexion had the utter fairness of the pure Castilian. She came forward when she saw that Long Tom had
perceived her.
Long Tom had the sudden feeling that he was looking upon the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.
Ace Jackson made introductions.
"This is Señorita Anita Carcetas, daughter of the president of this republic," he said. "Anita, I want you to
meet Major Thomas J. Roberts, better known as Long Tom, electrical wizard extraordinary. And a lug who
would rather fight than eat. And he loves his food. Where there's trouble you'll find Long Tom, and he's a pal of
mine."
"I have not been so dazzled since I saw my first sunrise," Long Tom said gallantly.
His eyes told him things. These two were violently in love.
The girl was patting pillows, adjusting coverlets and bandages and otherwise making Ace Jackson
comfortable. She was getting such a big kick out of it that Long Tom let her continue for a while. Then he
spoke.
"You said something a moment ago," he reminded Ace Jackson.
The wounded flyer looked around the girl at him. "Eh?" he queried.
"The Inca in Gray," Long Tom explained.
Over Ace Jackson's face came an expression as if he had just met, face to face, a bitter and detested
enemy.
"I guess it's a man," he muttered. "Sometimes, though, that don't seem so sure."
"Riddle me again," Long Tom suggested. "I like guessing games."
A thought struck Ace Jackson with all the visible effect of a physical blow. He reared up on the hospital cot,
heedless of the girl's admonishing gasp.
"Gimme straight dope on something," he requested.
"Sure," Long Tom said.
"Did Doc Savage send you to Santa Amoza?" Ace Jackson asked pointedly.
Long Tom's answer was prompt.
"I came here solely to see an old pal, who had cracked up. And for no other reason," he said. "Now what is
this ranting about an Inca in Gray? Is it a secret?"
Ace Jackson sat up rigidly on the cot.
"You won't believe this," he clipped. "But I'll give it to you, anyway."
"Go ahead," Long Tom invited. "I'm rather gullible."
"The Inca in Gray is responsible for this war!" Ace Jackson leaned back as if he had gotten something heavy
off his chest.
Long Tom squinted at the bandaged aviator.
"I suppose this Inca in Gray is the nickname of some general of Delezon, the country Santa Amoza is
fighting," Long Tom suggested.
"You don't get me right," Ace Jackson corrected. "The Inca in Gray is something—something horrible. No
one knows whether he is from Delezon, or what."
Ace Jackson sat up on the cot again. He leveled a gauze-wrapped arm at Long Tom.
"I'll give you one example," he said. "At one time the Santa Amoza army apparently had Delezon licked. We
had broken through their lines in a big drive, and were marching across the desert toward their capital. Then,
one night, every officer of consequence in the expeditionary force died, mysteriously. It was the work of the
Inca in Gray."
"Sounds to me like the work of an espionage agent," Long Tom corrected.
Ace Jackson shook his head. "This Inca in Gray has done horrible things; murder, butcherings, things
deliberately calculated to stir our nation into a frenzy. Our enemy, Delezon, would hardly do that. General
Fernanez Vigo, commanding the enemy force, is a straight shooter, even if he is hell on wheels in a fight."
Long Tom grunted. "I still say espionage."
"I'll give you another example," Ace Jackson said. "There was—"
Entrancing Señorita Anita Carcetas interrupted.
"Let me give you the example of Señor Ace Jackson," she said.
Ace Jackson scowled at his bandages. "I look like a swell example."
THE GIRL went on as if she had not been interrupted.
"Ace Jackson is commander of our Santa Amoza air force," she explained. "He learned that a fever was
sweeping a certain mountain tribe of natives. Serum was needed to save them. Ace Jackson volunteered to
fly this serum to the spot to save these people."
"Am I blushing," Ace Jackson muttered.
"The Inca in Gray tried to kill Ace Jackson," the girl finished. "Our enemy, General Vigo, would not have tried
that. The fever epidemic is as much in his country as in ours."
Long Tom shook his head. "This doesn't sound reasonable."
"I know it," Ace Jackson growled.
"Just who is this Inca in Gray?" Long Tom demanded.
"Mystery," Ace Jackson retorted. "Nobody knows. He is just a name that you hear whispered."
Señorita Anita Carcetas looked at Long Tom, but spoke to Ace Jackson, saying, "Ace, you might tell Long
Tom what we were talking about this morning."
Long Tom interposed: "How did this Inca in Gray get you, Ace?"
"You know I never go up without going over my plane," Ace Jackson said. "I did this time not ten minutes
before taking off. But a wing came off just the same. My parachute had been tampered with. It split, but
evidently not as much as they had hoped. I got broke up some."
Long Tom nodded. "Now, what is this thing you were talking about?"
Ace Jackson opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. A door of the room had opened. A male nurse, the
same one who had guided Long Tom, entered, carrying a glass of milk and some food on a tray. The nurse
seemed very weary, as if he had worked long and hard hours. Perhaps, that explained the small accident
which now befell him. An accident innocent of itself, but one which was to have grisly consequences.
He stumbled. Milk and viands landed on Long Tom's coat.
"Thousand pardons, señor," the nurse gasped contritely, seizing a towel and mopping at the mess he had
made. The towel did not help much.
"Forget it," Long Tom said.
"No, no, senor, I will clean it," the male nurse gasped. "Only a few moments will be required."
Long Tom grinned and removed his coat.
"Sure, sure," he smiled, "if it'll make you happy."
The nurse took the coat, still bubbling over with apologies—possibly the presence of the president's daughter
had helped unnerve him—and, backing to the door, used one hand behind him to open it. He stood there
bowing again and again, half in the room and half out.
No one noticed that the arm over which he had draped Long Tom's coat was extended into the corridor while
the rest of his person was in the hospital room.
"I am so sorry, señor," he told Long Tom again.
"Forget it," Long Tom repeated. "Accidents happen."
The nurse backed into the corridor and shut the door.
Señorita Anita Carcetas said: "Poor fellow, he is doubtless overworked."
Long Tom asked Ace Jackson: "Now, what were you about to tell—"
A sound came from the corridor outside the door, an unpleasant sound, obviously a body falling. And there
was one shriek, brief but hideous, in a man's voice.
Long Tom swung to the door and wrenched it open. Señorita Anita Carcetas made a shrill sound, expressive
of utter horror. Ace Jackson got out of his cot, could not stand, and slumped to the floor.
Long Tom looked up and down the corridor. No one was in sight. Then the electrical wizard bent over the
body of the man on the hallway floor.
The man on the floor was on his back, dead, with his eyes open and a terrible agony reflected in their still
depths. It was the nurse. Long Tom's soiled coat was still draped over his arm.
But it was the dead man's face that held Long Tom's gaze. The face was gray, almost white. Long Tom
looked more closely to ascertain what made the dead man's face gray.
What looked like gray dust coated the fellow's features.
Long Tom fanned with his hand close to the visage of the corpse and the gray stuff was stirred like dust in a
little cloud.
"Get away from it!" Ace Jackson screamed.
Chapter 3. SUBSTITUTED MESSAGE
WITHOUT TURNING, Long Tom rapped: "Why not touch it?"
"That man was killed by the Inca in Gray!" Ace Jackson shouted.
Long Tom spun around. "What?"
"The gray dust," Ace Jackson snapped, "is always on his victims."
Señorita Anita Carcetas said: "The death was meant for you, Señor Long Tom."
"I know it," Long Tom growled. "Only the coat on his arm was visible when he stood in the door. The killer
thought it was me with my coat over my arm."
The word exchange had taken but a moment. Long Tom whipped glances up and down the corridor. He
decided the fleeing killer would have gone to the right toward the exit. Long Tom ran in that direction.
He reached the entrance and saw a uniformed military guard there, rifle alert. The fellow must have heard the
death sound.
"Did any one pass?" Long Tom demanded in Spanish. The sentry said no one had passed and Long Tom
turned back, trying doors to the right and to the left. There were cries, running footsteps from other parts of
the hospital, these no doubt made by persons coming to see what the excitement was about.
It was in a big white operating room, banked with instruments, that Long Tom came upon an object of
interest.
The object was a man; a rather small man who was attired in immaculate blue serge. He had Latin
handsomeness and a mustache that was a dark neat line on his upper lip.
There was a distinct smear of gray dust on the right sleeve of his blue serge suit.
Long Tom rushed to the small man's side. The fellow was struggling to get up, his writhing lips bending and
unbending his black line of a mustache.
"A fiend—cloaked, masked," he gulped. "He struck me down and fled."
He pointed to an open window.
Long Tom whipped to the window. There was no one in sight. The ground below was sun baked enough not to
hold footprints, and there was shrubbery enough about to have concealed a small army.
Long Tom shouted an alarm and a soldier appeared, began searching the grounds.
Going back to the neat little man with the mustache, Long Tom studied the fellow narrowly. Abruptly, Long
Tom seized the man's arm.
"Free me!" the other sputtered. "What is the meaning?"
"You were attacked," Long Tom told him dryly. "But that's you story. You haven't got a mark on you."
The man tried to speak. But Long Tom shook him, then marched him, angrily incoherent, back to the room
where Ace Jackson had gotten back on his cot.
Ace Jackson's eyes flew wide and he said: "Don't mind who you manhandle, do you?"
"What do you mean?" Long Tom growled.
Ace Jackson pointed at the mustached prisoner. "No idea who this is?"
"I don't get you," Long Tom said.
"He is Señor Junio Serrato," Ace Jackson advised.
"For the love of mud," said Long Tom.
"Exactly," Ace Jackson agreed. "Señor Serrato is war minister of this nation!"
LONG TOM hurriedly released his captive. One did not drag war ministers around as if they were common
culprits. For, in these South American countries, war ministers usually had more actual power than the
president.
"I deeply regret my tremendous error, Señor Serrato," Long Tom murmured.
That was diplomacy. Regardless of what one thought, one did not accuse war ministers of crimes which there
might be difficulty in proving they had committed.
Long Tom was somewhat surprised when Señor Junio Serrato took it graciously.
"It is no indignity to be handled roughly by a man who belongs to one of the most famous little groups in the
world," he murmured, "I have heard much of Doc Savage and his five aides."
Long Tom was trying to think of something equally polite when there was an uproar out on the hospital
grounds. They hurried to the windows and saw the squad of soldiers who had been searching the ground had
made two seizures. They were bringing the prisoners in.
The captives were a Jett and Mutt pair in stature. Both were well dressed.
"The soldados have made a mistake," war minister Serrato murmured at Long Tom's elbow.
"You know the prisoners?" Long Tom queried.
"Oh, yes," minister Serrato nodded.
"Count Hoffe is the tall one," minister Serrato explained. "He is the representative of the European munitions
concern which supplies our needs in arms and ammunitions."
"The short one?" Long Tom suggested.
摘要：

ADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.THECOMINGOFTROUBLE?Chapter2.THEGRAYDEAD?Chapter3.SUBSTITUTEDMESSAGE?Chapter4.THEPERILINNEWYORK?Chapter5.FIRINGSQUAD?Chapter6.ATTACKINTHEAIR?Chapter7.ANOFFERTO...

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