Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 023 - The Mystic Mullah

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THE MYSTIC MULLAH

A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson

http://www.blackmask.com

? Chapter I. THE BROKEN NECK

? Chapter II. THE FIRE-FACED MAN

? Chapter III. THE MYSTIC MULLAH TALKS

? Chapter IV. THE BRONZE SHADOW

? Chapter V. AFTER MONK YELLED

? Chapter VI. THE RESCUED MAN

? Chapter VII. THE WHITE-BROWN MEN

? Chapter VIII. THE WISE GUY

? Chapter IX. TROUBLE CLUB

? Chapter X. TWO MEN IN CANVAS

? Chapter XI. HORROR IN GREEN

? Chapter XII. ASIATIC EXODUS

? Chapter XIII. THE SECRET SERVICE MAN

? Chapter XIV. THE HUMAN SPIDER

? Chapter XV. SINISTER CONFERENCE

? Chapter XVI. SURPRISES

? Chapter XVII. CLUE OF THUNDER AND SANDALWOOD

? Chapter XVIII. THE GREEN FACE

Chapter I. THE BROKEN NECK

IT was a drizzling gray evening full of moaning ghosts. The rain came down in occasional flurries, but

most of the time it remained suspended in the air as mist that the newspapers next day were to call “the

thickest fog within memory.” Harbor traffic was almost at a standstill, and only those boat captains who

were foolhardy, or those pressed by absolute necessity, were abroad. The foghorns of the boats were

the moaning ghosts.

One ghost was especially persistent. It had the particular strident voice peculiar to tugboat whistles, and it

came up through the Narrows from the open sea at a clip that put cold chills on the spines of boatmen

who knew how thick that fog was.

There was something scared, something imperative, and maybe something a bit mad about the tooting of

that tugboat. A coast guard cutter became interested and nosed over to investigate. Coast guardsmen will

go out in anything.

The cutter skipper nosed in close, saw that the tug was the Whale of Gotham, and that there was a

picture of a spouting whale painted on the bows. Then, after the manner of coast guard skippers with

tugboat captains, the cutter commandant swore a blue streak.

“What's the idea of tearing in here like an express train?” he finished.

The tugboat master swore back. He would have been very polite to another tugboat captain, but a coast

guard skipper was fair game.

“Sheer off!” he yelled. “I've got a man aboard, who's been hurt! We're rushing him to a hospital. He's

dying!”

It was a story that satisfied even the coast guardsman, so he sheered off and betook himself away in the

fog. And that set the tugboat captain to chuckling.

A voice at the tugboat captain's elbow spoke an English that was entirely too perfect.

“Why did you tell him that?” it asked. “We have no dying man aboard.”

The tug master jumped as if a transatlantic liner had shoved out of the fog at full speed. He turned, an

angry exclamation on his tongue, for he did not like to be startled, especially in this fog, with his nerves

already on edge. But he held his counsel, for the man at his elbow did not look like one who would take

a tongue-lashing; and furthermore, it would be bad policy to insult a man who is paying a tremendous

sum for the services of your tugboat.

The man had a big hooked nose and a beard that was small and pointed. His skin was a yellow-brown,

dry and wrinkled, and did not appeal to the eye. He wore strange garments.

The tugboat skipper had done his life's traveling in New York harbor, so he did not know that the long,

flowing white mantle which reached down from the hook-nosed man's head was an abah, or that his

embroidered cloak was a jubbah, or that the queer-looking trousers were shirwals. Only one who had

traveled in Central Asia would know what the garments were called.

On the hook-nosed man's forehead was a strange design, an affair of lines which might have been

construed as a likeness of a serpent coiled around a jewel, as if protecting it. The lines looked as if they

were put on with ink, but actually they were tattooed into the skin with a fluid that one of the master

sorcerers of Asia had insisted was composed partially of the dried blood of Genghis Khan, the original.

To the tugboat captain, the mark looked like a dirty smear; and had he known its true significance, he

might have fallen off the bridge of his grimy craft. For it was the Sacred Seal of the Khan Nadir Shar,

Son of Divinity, Destined Master of Ten Thousand Lances, Khan of Tanan, Ruler of Outer Mongolia.

Maybe the tug skipper would not have known what all of that meant. Probably not.

It meant that the hook-nosed man, Khan Shar, was a king, absolute ruler of the city of Tanan, beyond

Outer Mongolia, and monarch over the surrounding provinces.

“Advise me when we tie up at the dock,” requested Khan Shar in his too-perfect English.

“Sure,” said the skipper.

“This dock you have selected—it is secluded?” asked the Khan.

The skipper rolled his tobacco quid in his jaws. The man made him nervous.

“It's an out-of-the-way dock,” he said.

“Excellent!” said the Khan, and left the tugboat bridge, or more properly, the pilot house.

THE tugboat captain rolled his eyes and directed tobacco juice at the feet of one of his two deckhands,

who had come in out of the foggy night.

“Damned if I like this,” he said in a tone which showed he wanted to talk to relieve his mind.

The deckhand, who knew that tone, let his boss talk without interruption.

“Damned if I like it,”' repeated the skipper. “I get a radio to go out to the Atlantic Queen, that new liner

that's fog-bound, and take off a passenger. I get out there, and, by golly, if it ain't three passengers, and

two of 'em the queerest-lookin' ducks you ever saw! Take that one who was just in here.”

“I'd rather take him than the other man,” said the deckhand in a queer tone.

The skipper scowled. “Whatcha mean?”

“I mean that the other duck has a knife as long as your arm up his sleeve,” said the deckhand. “I just saw

it. He's standin' outside the door of your cabin. Looks like he's guardin' the girl.”

“The girl!” The skipper sighed. “Now she's what I call a nifty number. She's white, too. Wonder what

she's doin' with these two funny-lookin' buzzards?”

The skipper was not a bad judge of femininity. The girl was a “nifty number.” In fact, she would have put

a movie casting director up on his toes.

She was tall, with dark hair and lashes that were altogether delectable. But there was something else

about her. She was businesslike, capable. Her person radiated efficiency.

Her clothing was thoroughly modern, and so was the blue automatic which she held in her hand as the

door opened.

The hook-nosed Khan Shar looked at the gun and smiled as if it might have been a cocktail the young

woman intended offering him.

“I do not feel there is danger,” he said. “We have not heard of the Mystic Mullah since our caravan left

the Gobi.”

The girl kept the gun in her hands. “A thousand lives depend on what we are doing,” she said dryly. “If

you want to be dramatic, you can put the figure higher.”

The Khan's dark face drained of its color, giving him a stark, agonized look.

“You could put the figure higher—and not be dramatic,” he said thickly.

Neither spoke again, for the tugboat engine had changed its regular pulse and was running slowly; it

accelerated, then pounded, as if the craft were backing. Shouts rang out, and scraping sounds on deck

indicated ropes dragging. There was a bump, rather violent, then lesser bumps and the tug heeled so that

the Khan put out a hand to steady himself. There were four large rings, each with a big jewel, on his

fingers.

“I trust we have tied to a secluded dock,” said the Khan.

“Hadim!” called the girl.

The door opened and a lean man with a long, brown face came in. He was dressed in a flowing jubbah

and shirwals that fitted his legs tightly, and he carried his left arm stiffly, as if not wishing to disturb the

long knife which the deckhand had seen up that sleeve.

This Hadim did not present an appealing picture, for someone had made a pass at him with a sword or a

knife in the past, and had come just close enough to groove his face with a permanent scar from forehead

to chin. He bowed deeply to the girl.

“Yes, Miss Joan,” he said.

“You will leave at once, Hadim,” said the girl “You know what you are to do, the message you are to

deliver. And you know how much depends upon our finding this man.”

“Yes, Miss Joan,” said Hadim. “My four brothers, my father and mother and my sisters have died when

touched by the green soul of the Mystic Mullah. Need I more to remind me?”

“You will die if you make a mistake,” said the girl. “And if we do not reach this man we have come to

see, many more may follow you. Just how many, there is no telling.” She extended her automatic. “Better

take this.”

Hadim tapped his sleeve. “I know better how to use this.”

Joan directed, “Have the man get in touch with us.”

Hadim murmured, “Aye, and this man's name—”

“Doc Savage,” said Joan. “Hurry. We must find him, or learn where he is.”

THERE was rawness in the fog, a damp chill, and the vapor had long since washed the moon and stars

out of the sky and had put the dank water-front streets in the grip of the clammy mist from the sea.

Hadim embraced the soupy fog as one at home in his element, and he took to the shabby, narrow

water-front thoroughfares without hesitation. He did, however, walk in the middle of the street—until

almost run down by a prowling taxicab. Hadim looked the hack over carefully, after the driver stopped

to see if he had done any damage. The driver had an honest face, so Hadim used his cab to go uptown.

Hadim, let out at his destination, stared up at the building which he was to enter, and stark amazement sat

upon his scarred, brown face. This building was the pride of native New Yorkers. To Hadim, it was an

architectural wonder such as he had not dreamed existed. It was a modernistic structure, somewhere

near a hundred stories in height, and was a blinding exhibition of white stone and shining metal.

“What a lot of camels would be needed to haul the stones for this house,” Hadim murmured.

Then he went inside, asked questions, made a few mistakes, but eventually got in an elevator which let

him out, after a frightsome ride upward, on the eighty-sixth floor. The corridor was as impressive as the

building exterior.

“Even the palace of the Khan does not excel this,” Hadim told himself.

Then he jerked to a stop. He could feel a slight breeze through the corridor. And he had heard a hissing

sound. This last was very faint.

Hadim turned slowly—and his voice went out in a sudden, wild shriek of terror. It was ear-splitting, that

shriek. In it was all of the agony of a man who knows he has met death.

Down the corridor, floating in the air, strange, fantastic things were approaching. They were like fat

snakes, their color an unholy green, their diameter perhaps that of a human wrist, their length the span of

an arm from hand to elbow. They whirled, contorted with a sort of dervish dance. They seemed to grow

fatter, then thinner.

Most hideous of all was the fact that these flying serpentine things seemed unreal. They were ghostly,

nebulous, without any real body or shape.

Hadim, screaming again, had his long knife out of his left sleeve. He retreated. The green things

overhauled him. He began to run backward. They still gained.

Hadim came to the end of the corridor, to a window. He beat it, knocking the glass out, but the metal

crosspieces defied him, thwarting him in his mad desire to jump through.

The green horrors reached him and Hadim struck with his knife, only to shriek out in fresh horror as the

blade passed completely through the green atrocity and nothing happened. He struck again; then the

serpentine things were upon him.

They brushed against his arms, his chest. One rolled like a hideous green tongue, caressing his face,

lingering about his mouth, his nostrils, then rolling up over his eyes. Hadim fought them with his hands,

shrieking again and again; he writhed down to get away from them, and squirmed on the floor.

Then the green things arose and drifted out through the holes which Hadim had beaten in the skyscraper

window with his fists. They went slowly, as if satisfied with the work they had done. They had changed

shape materially by now; one had been knocked to pieces and had resolved itself into half a dozen thin,

green strings, so pale that the eye could easily see through them, distinguishing the frames of the window

behind them.

Chapter II. THE FIRE-FACED MAN

DOWN the corridor a way, and around a corner, there was a plain metal door, the panel of which bore

a name in small letters of a peculiar bronze color:

CLARK SAVAGE, JR.

This door whipped back and a tall, incredibly bony man popped out. The man was thinner than it seemed

any human being could be and still exist. He wore no coat, and a rubber apron was tied about his

midsection. Rubber gloves were on his hands, and one hand held a magnifying glass made in the shape of

a monocle.

He peered about, blinking, searching for the source of the shrieks which had drawn his attention. But

there was a crook in the corridor and he did not see the form of Hadim immediately.

The bony man absently stowed the monocle magnifier in a vest pocket under his rubber laboratory

apron, and advanced. He rounded the corner, jerked up and stared.

Hadim was now motionless on the floor, and his head was angled back in a grotesque posture which no

man could attain normally.

The bony man in the rubber apron suddenly snapped a hand to an armpit and brought it away gripping a

weapon which somewhat resembled an oversize automatic pistol. He flipped this up and tightened on the

trigger; the weapon shuttled, smoked and made a noise like a gigantic bullfiddle. It was a machine pistol

with a tremendous firing speed.

One of the sinister green wraiths was still inside the corridor, rolling against the window as if seeking

blindly to escape. The stream of bullets from the machine pistol passed through it, disturbing it, fattening it

a little, but not destroying it or seeming in any way to affect its unholy life.

The stream of lead broke glass out of the window. The green harpy squirmed through the opening and

floated away into the gloom, losing itself over the nest of skyscraper spires.

The skeleton of a man stood very still for a long minute.

“I'll be superamalgamated!” he muttered finally.

Stooping, he examined the body of Hadim—body, for Hadim was dead. When Hadim's head was

moved, there was a grisly looseness about its attachment to the body, as if it were only connected by a

cord no stiffer than a wrapping twine.

The bony man eyed Hadim's extraordinarily long knife.

“Sixteenth century Tananese,” he decided aloud. Then he employed the monocle magnifier briefly.

“Wrong. Tananese, all right, but of modern construction, using sixteenth century methods of tempering

and moulding. Most peculiar.”

The wall beside Hadim's body was of plaster, painted over, and it was scarred with numerous rather

odd-looking marks. These came to the thin man's attention.

“I'll be superamalgamated!” he gulped again, using what was evidently, for him, a pet ejaculation. He

stared harder at the marks. Down the corridor, an elevator door clanked to a stop. Before the door

opened, voices could be heard. They were very loud voices, angry. It sounded as if a fight was about to

occur in the elevator. The cage door opened and a man came skidding out.

This man was slender, waspish, with a high forehead and a large orator's mouth. His attire was sartorial

perfection from silken topper to the exact hang of his tail coat. He carried a thin, black cane.

He yelled at the open elevator door, “You hairy accident! You awful mistake of nature! You insult to the

human race!”

A most striking-looking individual now came out of the elevator. His height was no greater than that of a

young boy; his width was almost equal to his height. His face was mostly mouth, with a broken nubbin of

a nose, small eyes set in pits of gristle, and scarcely a noticeable quantity of forehead. His long arms

dangled well below his knees and the wrists were matted with hair that looked like rusted steel wool.

Had the corridor been a little less brilliantly lighted the hairy gentleman might have been mistaken for an

amiable gorilla.

The hairy man squinted little eyes at the dapper one and said, “Pipe down, you shyster, or I'll tie a knot in

your neck!”

Then they both saw the tall skeleton of a man down the corridor. They could not help but note his

excitement.

“What's happened, Johnny?” demanded the apish fellow.

They could not see the body of Hadim, which lay around the bend in the corridor.

“JOHNNY,” the bony man—he was actually William Harper Littlejohn, world-renowned expert on

archaeology and geology—gestured over his shoulder with the monocle magnifier.

“Come here, Monk,” he said, then included the dapper man. “You too, Ham.”

“Monk,” the homely gorilla of a man, and “Ham,” the immaculate fashion plate, advanced hurriedly. A

moment before, they had seemed on the point of blows; now their quarrel was suddenly suspended. It

was always thus. No one who knew these two could recall one having addressed a civil word to the

other.

Monk, whose low forehead did not look as if it afforded room for more than a spoonful of brains, was

Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, generally conceded to be one of the most accomplished of

industrial chemists; while Ham, the fashion plate, was Major General Theodore Marley Brooks, a lawyer

who possessed probably the sharpest legal mind ever trained by Harvard.

Monk and Ham, rounding the hallway angle and sighting Hadim's body with its grotesquely twisted head,

jerked to a stop and became slack-jawed.

“Blazes!” Monk sniffed, sampling the air like an animal. “I smell burned gunpowder. Who shot the guy?”

“No one,” said Johnny. “I fired a few shots subsequently.”

Monk ambled over to the body, hands swinging below his knees, and stared intently.

“What's wrong with his neck?” he asked.

“Broken,” Johnny replied.

Monk asked, “Who broke it?”

“No one,” answered the gaunt geologist “As far as I can tell.”

“Yeah,” Monk growled. “Then who'd you shoot at?”

“A peculiar, nebulous green corporeity with the optical aspects of a serpentine specimen suspended

aërospherically,” said Johnny, his expression not changing. “It bore similarity to a phantasmagoria.”

Monk lifted one hand and snapped thumb and forefinger.

“Now do it again with little words,” he requested.

Johnny had once held the chair of natural science research in a famous university where he had been

known as a professor who stunned most of his students with his big words, and he still had the habit. He

never used a small word when he could think of a large one.

“A green thing was floating in the air above the body,” said Johnny. “I shot. The bullet went through it,

breaking the window. Then the thing floated out through the window and away.”

Monk said unsmilingly, “I always did think those big words would drive you crazy.”

Johnny pointed at the odd-looking marks scratched on the wall beside Hadim's body.

“The man obviously inscribed these when he felt demise imminent,” he said. “He used the tip of his knife.”

Monk bent over, looked and said, “They don't mean anything. He just dug the wall with his knife as he

was flopping around.”

“Those marks,” said Johnny, “are words, or word signs, rather, of Tananese, an obscure language with

an Arabic derivative, spoken in certain parts of outer Mongolia.”

“What do they say?” asked Monk.

And Johnny, who probably knew as many ancient languages, written and spoken, as any half dozen of

the ordinary so-called experts on the subject, drew a paper and pencil from his pocket and reproduced

thereon the characters which the wall bore, here and there correcting a stroke which Hadim, in his dying

agony, had made with slight error. Then Johnny wrote the English translation under the word signs. He

passed it to Monk and Ham. They read:

MANY LIVES WILL BE SPARED IF HE OF MOUNTAINS WHO CHARMS EVIL SPIRITS

WILL GO TO FISH THAT SMOKES ON WATER WHERE THE KHAN SHAR AND JOAN—

“It ends there,” said Johnny. “You can see the name 'Joan' is scratched out in the nearest thing an Asiatic

could come to English letters.”

Ham, the dapper lawyer, fumbled absently with his slim black cane, and in doing so, separated the handle

slightly from the rest of the cane, revealing that there was a long, slender blade of razor-sharp steel

housed in the cane body.

“That sounds silly,” he said. “What does it mean?”

Monk suddenly banged a fist on a knee, something he could do without stooping.

“Remember that radio we got a few days ago?” he demanded. “The message was signed, 'Joan

Lyndell.'“

THE gaunt Johnny said sharply, “I have been carrying it around with me,” and withdrawing a radiogram

blank from a pocket, he passed it to the others, open for perusal. They had all seen it before, but they

went over it again:

DOC SAVAGE,

NEW YORK.

YOUR ASSISTANCE IMPERATIVE ON MATTER INVOLVING THOUSANDS OF LIVES

AND POSSIBLY STABILITY OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION. PLEASE RADIO ME

APPOINTMENT TIME AND PLACE. MY LINER WILL REACH NEW YORK THREE DAYS.

JOAN LYNDELL,

ABOARD S.S. ATLANTIC QUEEN.

Below the message, written in pencil, was another missive, one evidently penned as an answer to the

radiogram. It read:

JOAN LYNDELL,

CARE TRANSATLANTIC LINER

ATLANTIC QUEEN.

SORRY BUT DOC SAVAGE NOT IN CITY AND NOT AVAILABLE TO COMMUNICATION.

CANNOT SAY WHEN HE WILL RETURN.

WILLIAM HARPER LITTLEJOHN.

Monk rubbed his jaw and asked, “Connection?”

“Between this message and the dead man?” Johnny shrugged. “He inscribed the name 'Joan' on the wall.”

Ham pointed at the wall markings with his sword cane. “But what does the rest of that mean?”

In the manner of a scholar giving a lecture, Johnny said, “The man could not write Doc Savage's name,

so he came as near to describing it as he could. The mountain men in the Tananese region are savages, so

'He of Mountains' probably is meant for Savage. And a Tananese doctor is called one who chases evil

spirits.”

Monk squinted admiringly. “Maybe there is something besides big words in that head. What about the

'fish that smokes on water'?”

“A boat,” said Johnny. “A boat in some manner connected with a fish, and probably an oil or a coal

burner.”

Ham said briskly, “I'll see about this.”

He strode down the corridor, opened the door on which was the name “Clark Savage, Jr.,” in small

bronze letters, and entered a reception room which held an enormous safe, a costly inlaid table, and

various other items of quiet but expensive furniture. Ham picked up a telephone.

With the casual ease of a man who had done the thing before, Ham got a land-line radio connection to

the liner Atlantic Queen. He spoke for some minutes, then hung up.

He did not leave the telephone immediately, but consulted the directory, then made a second call. Then

he went out and joined the others.

“His Majesty, Khan Nadir Shar of Tanan, and a young woman named Joan Lyndell were taken off the

Atlantic Queen by the tug Whale of Gotham about three hours ago,” he repeated. “I called the owners

of the Whale of Gotham. The tug is tied up at a wharf in the Hudson, off Twenty-sixth Street.”

“Whale of Gotham,” Monk grunted. “That would be the 'fish that smokes on the water'.”

Ham eyed Johnny, then indicated the body of Hadim. “Just what did kill this fellow?”

The thin geologist shook his head slowly. “That is a profound mystery, as great a mystery as the nature of

the green body I saw.”

Monk frowned at Johnny, at the rubber apron the tall geologist wore. “Busy, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Johnny admitted. “I am trying to assemble the vertebrae of a small dinosaur of the early

Mesozoic—”

“Stick here,” Monk advised. “Me and the tailor's dream here will go down to this tugboat.”

“Very well,” Johnny agreed, after hesitating.

"If Doc Savage shows up, tip him off,” Monk finished.

MONK and Ham, departing, rode down to the basement in a private high-speed elevator which had

undoubtedly cost a young fortune to install, and came out in a subterranean garage which held several

motor vehicles, ranging from an open roadster of expensive manufacture and quiet color scheme to a

large delivery van which, although it did not look the part, was literally an armored tank.

The elevator, the garage, the assortment of cars, as well the establishment on the eighty-sixth floor—there

was an enormous scientific laboratory and a highly complete scientific library up there in addition to the

reception room—were all a part of the New York headquarters maintained by Doc Savage.

A strange individual, this Doc Savage. Probably one of the most remarkable of living men. A genius, a

mental marvel and a giant of fabulous physical strength.

He was literally a product of science himself, was this Savage, for he had been trained from birth for one

single purpose in life—the fantastic career which he now followed. Every trick of science had been

utilized in his training. In no sense had he led a life that might be regarded as normal

Two hours of each day since childhood had been devoted to a routine of intense exercises calculated to

develop not only muscles, but physical senses and mental sharpness. All of his early life had been

devoted to study under masters of trades, sciences, professions, until he possessed a knowledge that

was, to the ordinary man, uncanny.

The result of this studied upbringing was an individual who was a remarkable combination of scientific

genius and physical capacity.

Stranger even than the man himself was the career to which his life was dedicated—the business of

helping others out of trouble, of aiding the oppressed, of dealing with those evildoers who seemed

beyond the touch of the law. For all of which Doc Savage made it an unbending rule to accept no

payment in money, under any circumstances.

Long ago, Doc Savage had assembled five men as his assistants, five men who were world-famed

specialists in their respective lines, five men who associated themselves with him because they loved

adventure, excitement, and because they were drawn by admiration for the giant of bronze who was Doc

Savage.

Monk, the chemist, and Ham, the lawyer, were two of the five aides. Johnny, the archaeologist, was

another. Two others—Colonel John “Renny” Renwick, engineer, and Major Thomas J. “long Tom”

Roberts, electrical wizard—were, at the moment, elsewhere in the city, engaged in the private business

which they carried on when not actively assisting Doc Savage.

The present whereabouts of Doc Savage himself was something that no one knew. The bronze man had

vanished. He had told no one where he was going. No one, not even his five aides, knew how to reach

him. But they were not worried, these five, for they were confident that the bronze man had gone away to

some mysterious rendezvous, where he could he alone for intensive study.

And, although Doc's five aides were not sure, they believed this place to which the bronze man retired,

this remote trysting place with reflection which he called his Fortress of Solitude, was located on an island

in the remote Arctic. It was certain, though, that no one would hear of Doc Savage until he should return,

mysteriously as he had gone.

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THEMYSTICMULLAHADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2003BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THEBROKENNECK?ChapterII.THEFIRE-FACEDMAN?ChapterIII.THEMYSTICMULLAHTALKS?ChapterIV.THEBRONZESHADOW?ChapterV.AFTERMONKYELLED?ChapterVI.THERESCUEDMAN?ChapterVII.THEWHITE-BROWNMEN?C...

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Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 023 - The Mystic Mullah

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