Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 014 - The Monsters

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THE MONSTERS
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. THE PINHEADS
? Chapter 2. TERROR
? Chapter 3. PLANE ACQUAINTANCE
? Chapter 4. THE KILLER
? Chapter 5. THE CLIPPING
? Chapter 6. MYSTERY MANSE
? Chapter 7. THE ELECTRIFIED NET
? Chapter 8. THE EX-LION-TAMER
? Chapter 9. THE MAN OF FAT
? Chapter 10. THE PRISONER
? Chapter 11. THE ULTRA-VIOLET TRAIL
? Chapter 12. THE TUNNEL
? Chapter 13. THE MICHIGAN CLEW
? Chapter 14. NORTHWARD
? Chapter 15. NIGHT TERROR
? Chapter 16. THE SUICIDE SLAYING
? Chapter 17. RENNY's MYSTERY MISSION
? Chapter 18. THE TERROR THAT SWAM
? Chapter 19. THE MONSTERS RAID
? Chapter 20. THE WINGED PERIL
? Chapter 21. THE SWIMMING GIANTS
? Chapter 22. THE AWFUL ISLE
? Chapter 23. ESCAPE AND CAPTURE
? Chapter 24. MASTER OF THE GIANTS
? Chapter 25. DEATH MAGNIFIED
? Chapter 26. PERE TESTON'S END
Chapter 1. THE PINHEADS
ON THE fifteenth of the month, Bruno Hen did the thing which was actually his first step toward disaster
-- a disaster that was to affect not only himself, but many others as well.
Bruno Hen sold his furs on this date.
Most of the pelts were muskrats, cunningly stolen from the trap lines of Bruno Hen's neighbors, the chief
loser being big, honest, slow-witted Carl MacBride. The thefts were slyly executed, for Bruno Hen was
as foxy a half-breed as the North Michigan woods held.
Ox-like Carl MacBride never suspected.
Not that Carl MacBride liked Bruno Hen. One day big MacBride had come upon Bruno Hen killing a
chicken for dinner. The breed had been choking the chicken to death and taking great glee in prolonging
the fowl's death agonies. After that, Carl MacBride held a suspicion that no more cruel a breed than
Bruno Hen ranged North Michigan.
The fur market was strong the day Bruno Hen sold. His pelts brought more than he had expected. So he
decided to celebrate.
This decision was his second step toward disaster.
The Atlas Congress of Wonders was showing at Trapper Lake that day. The Atlas did not amount to
much as a circus, being financially very much down at the heel. But it was the best Trapper Lake offered.
So, by way of celebrating, Bruno Hen went to the circus.
That was his third step in the direction of disaster. The fourth pace, taken all unknowingly, was when he
stopped in front of the freak side show.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" bawled the side show barker. "We have here a stupendous, marvelous,
awesome, dumbfounding sight! We have here the three most amazing beings ever to come from darkest
Africa! Look them over, good people. Try to make yourselves realize that these monstrosities are
actually human. They are called the pinhead men. They are cannibal savages from darkest Africa!"
The Atlas Congress of Wonders was not above faking an occasional wild man or a cannibal, but it
chanced that these pinheads were the genuine articles. They had been brought from Africa by a more
affluent circus, which had then gone bankrupt.
Bruno Hen moved close to the platform to stare at the three pinheads. He had never seen such hideous
humans.
The pinheads were squat, the tallest reaching barely to Bruno Hen's topmost vest button. They were
nearly as broad as tall, and they were as black as human skin could practically be. They might have been
oversize monkeys, shaven bare of hair, dyed black, and given a high polish.
The contour of their heads was especially haunting. Instead of being rounded in the fashion considered
normal, the skulls sloped upward to a sharp point. The pin-pointed heads were also very small in
proportion to the rest of their gnarled black bodies.
The pinheads had a trait of casting darting, animal-like looks about them. At times they jumped up and
down, after the fashion of chimpanzees. They emitted caterwauling noises -- apparently their way of
conversing with each other.
Trapper Lake citizens, looking on, probably thought this behavior was part of the circus act. They were
mistaken.
The poor pinheads were beings almost devoid of mentality.
BRUNO HEN looked at the pinheads and grinned from ear to ear. The idea of human beings so
handicapped by nature tickled him. He laughed out loud.
That laugh was his fifth step toward disaster.
The pinheads stared at Bruno Hen, their attention drawn by the laugh. Bruno Hen's smile was derisive,
but the pinheads did not have the intelligence to realize that. They thought the grin friendly. They smiled
back, jumped up and down, and beat their chests with nubbins of fists. Back in the African bush, that
was the way one showed heart-to-heart friendship.
Bruno Hen thundered another laugh. It was the same kind of a laugh Carl MacBride had heard when he
had come upon the breed slowly throttling a chicken to satisfy a lust for cruelty.
The utter cruelty of that loud laugh caused the barker to end his spiel abruptly and stare at Bruno Hen.
The barker ran his eyes up and down the breed's person.
In Bruno Hen he saw a bulky lout constructed on the lines of a brown bologna. Bruno Hen's clothing was
frayed, greasy. It never had fitted properly. He wore high deerskin moccasins, obviously made by
himself. He wore a dazzling green hat and a blinding-yellow necktie, both new.
The barker was a pleasant-natured soul. He did not like Bruno Hen's laugh; it sent wintry chills along his
spine. He decided to bullyrag Bruno Hen to persuade him to move on.
The barker sprang to one of the three pinheads, and made an elaborate pretense of listening to the
unintelligible cackle the fellow was making.
"Crowd right up, folks!" he yelled. "An amazing thing has happened! These pinhead cannibals from
darkest Africa claim they have just recognized a member of their tribe who was lost years ago!"
The barker leveled an arm at Bruno Hen. "The pinheads claim this man as their brother tribesman."
The crowd roared its laughter.
The pinheads hopped about, clucked and gobbled. They were just happy. But it looked as if they were
agreeing with the barker. Actually, they couldn't understand a word he said.
Bruno Hen glowered. His fists made big knobs at his side.
A grinning pinhead leveled an arm at the breed and spouted gibberish.
The barker yelled, "The gentleman from Africa declares that any one can tell this man is his brother by
looking at that green hat and yellow necktie."
At this point, to the barker's relief, Bruno Hen stamped off. He yanked his green hat over his eyes and
loosened his yellow necktie, as if it were too tight
Bruno Hen's swarthy neck was purple and he was muttering under his breath. It was a tribute to his
stupidity that he thought the pinheads had said what the barker declared they had. Accordingly, he was
very angry with the pinheads.
Farther down the midway was the strong-man show. A fellow with remarkable muscles stood on the
platform.
"We have one of the strongest men in the world!" the barker was claiming raucously. "Only ten cents, a
dime, a tenth part of a dollar, to see him perform. I might even say this man is the strongest in the world.
The only other man who might be his equal is Doc Savage. But, unfortunately, this Herculean gentleman
and Doc Savage have never matched strength. We do not know who is actually the stronger."
Bruno Hen scowled blackly.
"You may never see Doc Savage, folks!" yelled the barker, "So step in and see one of the strongest men
in the world!"
Bruno Hen tried to remember who Doc Savage was. He seemed to have heard the name before.
Soon the breed came to a show featuring a mental marvel, a fellow who claimed to be able to answer
any question asked of him without consulting a reference book. The mental marvel was supposed to
know all things -- or so the barker was saying.
"The only living man who may possibly be a greater mental marvel than this individual, is Doc Savage!"
extolled the barker.
Bruno Hen scratched his head, trying to remember.
"Doc Savage you may never meet, my good people," the barker howled. "So pay a dime and see the
mental marvel who is almost his equal!"
Abruptly, Bruno Hen remembered who Doc Savage was. He was an almost legendary figure, a man of
mystery, who was reputed to be a superman in strength and mental ability. Doc Savage resided in New
York. He traveled to the ends of the earth, punishing wrongdoers and helping others out of trouble.
In Trapper Lake stores, Bruno Hen had heard traveling salesmen tell of Doc Savage's fabulous feats.
Little dreaming that Doc Savage -- to whom amazing feats were commonplace events -- was to play an
important part in the future of Trapper Lake, Bruno Hen walked on. He did not give a hoot about the
future of Trapper Lake, anyway.
WANDERING OVER the circus grounds, Bruno Hen soon found himself back among the tents and
wagons which the performers used for living quarters.
He came to a stop; his porcine eyes glittered. He put a wide, fatuous grin on his face.
Coming toward him was a young woman with the most striking hair Bruno Hen could recall having seen
-- hair the exact shade of steel. The young woman had it drawn like a tight steel skullcap, with steellike
knobs over her ears.
She wore boots, laced breeches, and a brilliant red jacket. The garments set off a shapely figure to great
advantage. A shiny metal revolver was belted about her waist,
Bruno Hen was nothing if not bold. He prepared to accost the young woman.
The girl evidently knew the ways of such louts. She veered off and avoided him.
Not daunted, Bruno Hen followed her. He stopped, however, when he saw the young woman pick up a
chair and calmly climb into a cage with several ferocious-looking maned beasts. These greeted her with
ugly roars.
The steel-haired girl was a lion tamer.
Standing back, marveling that the lions did not devour her instantly, Bruno Hen watched the cage as it
was hauled into the Big Top.
Inside the Big Top, the ringmaster was bellowing, "And now we are going to present that extravagant,
unparalleled exhibition of human nerve!" He paused to get the proper drama. "Jean Morris, and her troop
of blood-thirsty, untamed lions!"
Bruno Hen loitered about in hopes of getting another glimpse of the young woman with the amazing steel
hair. But she did not appear. He concluded she must have left by another exit.
He got to thinking of the pinheads again, and his rage arose. He stalked off the circus grounds, bought
some groceries in Trapper Lake and betook himself home.
Bruno Hen had no idea that he had laid almost the full foundation for future disaster.
BRUNO HEN'S cabin was located not far from the shore of lake Superior. The structure was a
patchwork of logs, cheap slab lumber and tar paper. It had one room. An open fireplace served for both
warmth and cooking. There was a window, and plenty of cracks for ventilation.
Except for big, slow-witted Carl MacBride, who lived half a mile down the lake shore, there were no
near neighbors, There was no telephone, and Bruno Hen took no newspaper.
Hence, when the Atlas Congress of Wonders went bankrupt in Trapper Lake after counting the
proceeds of its last performance, Bruno Hen did not learn of the fact immediately.
The day following his experience at the circus, he expertly robbed a gill net set by Carl MacBride. He
took only such fish as he wished to eat; but instead of leaving the others in the net, he removed them and
tossed them aside. He was not doing the fish a kindness, for he knocked each finny specimen in the head
before discarding it. There was a peculiar twist to Bruno Hen's brain which made him delight in cruelty.
The pretty circus lion tamer haunted his thoughts somewhat. Memory of her steel-hued hair especially
stuck with him.
The next few days Bruno spent in overhauling his canoe, replacing a staved rib or two, and applying a
coat of varnish. The fishing season was near. With the coming of summer, he usually traveled south to a
district more inhabited, where he offered his services as a guide.
It was a week to the day after his visit to the circus when Bruno Hen took his next step toward disaster.
He was getting a late supper when he heard a noise. He was frying fish. Over the sputter of grease, he
thought he heard a low moan.
With a quick gesture, he put out the light. Being of an evil nature himself, Bruno always expected the
worst from others. His eyes became accustomed to the murk. Although there was no moon, the sky was
cloudless and the stars furnished fitful luminance.
The breed eyed the window. The pane needed washing, but he could discern an object outside. His hair
all but stood on end.
One frenzied leap took Bruno Hen across the cabin to his rifle. He snatched it down, then dashed
outside.
The thing at the window had been a hideous apparition, yet vaguely familiar. A cold dew stood on the
breed's skin as he squinted into the night.
"Hell!" he swore.
The odious specter at the window had been one of the pinhead cannibals.
ALL THREE of the grotesque little black fellows huddled near the window. They trembled after the
manner of frightened animals.
Bruno Hen, seeing that they were very scared of him, felt more bold.
"What d'you want?" he demanded.
The answer was a hooting, clucking conglomeration of sounds. Bruno Hen could understand no word of
it. He could not tell that the unfortunate pinheads, stranded when the circus went broke, were slowly
starving. Unable to speak English, and lacking the intelligence to convey their needs by making signs, the
pinheads were in a predicament.
Bruno Hen scowled at them, thinking of the mortification they had caused him at the circus.
"Get outa here!" he snarled.
The pinheads only waved their arms more vehemently and cackled louder. They were desperate for
food. One kneeled, seeking to grasp Bruno Hen's knees in supplication.
Bruno Hen kicked the pinhead, sending the unfortunate fellow sprawling away.
Apparently pleased by the sound of his foot on human flesh, the breed launched another kick. He struck
with his rifle barrel, with his fists.
The pinheads, weakened by lack of food, could evade only a few of the blows. Mauled and bleeding,
they finally managed to drag themselves away.
"I'll do worse next time you show up!" Bruno Hen bawled after them.
The pinheads disappeared in the timber to the southward. The breed stood in the starlight until he could
no longer hear sounds of their footsteps. Then, chuckling, he entered his cabin.
It was possibly ten minutes later that he heard faint but terrible human screams.
These came from the direction the pinheads had taken. They lasted only a moment, and ended with
unpleasant abruptness.
"Probably two of 'em eatin' the third one," Bruno Hen snorted.
The breed did not know, but he had just taken his final step toward disaster.
Chapter 2. TERROR
MONTHS PASSED.
Bruno Hen went southward during the fishing season. Pickings as a guide, much to his disgust, proved
slender. Only two short engagements did he obtain in some ten weeks. Finally, there was a third job. This
one promised to pay well.
Bruno Hen, however, made the mistake of trying to lift a fat wallet which his temporary employer carried
in a hip pocket. Upon being discovered, he narrowly missed getting shot. To evade jail, he was forced to
flee back to the timber fastnesses out of which he had come.
If stolid Carl MacBride was surprised at Bruno Hen's premature return, he said nothing about it.
MacBride's fish traps had yielded a more abundant catch during the past weeks, but he had failed to
attach the true significance to this.
If Carl MacBride was not surprised at Bruno Hen's early return, he was surprised when the breed paid
him a visit a few nights later.
Something was wrong. MacBride could see that as be admitted the breed to his cabin. Bruno Hen's eyes
rolled. He perspired freely, although the night was cool.
There was a noticeable bulge in one of his coat pockets.
"Did you hear anything a few minutes ago?" the breed asked bluntly.
Carl MacBride shook his head. He never used a word where a gesture would do. He had heard only the
usual night sounds -- insects and nocturnal birds.
Bruno Hen's next question was more surprising. "What happens when a man goes crazy?"
MacBride did not laugh. "Search me. He has funny ideas, I guess."
"He sees things, huh?"
"I reckon."
The visitor wiped his forehead with his palm, then swabbed the palm on his corduroy pants. Abruptly, he
thrust a hand in his bulging coat pocket.
He brought out an enormous roll of greenbacks.
"You're the only honest man I know, MacBride," he said. "Want you to do me a favor."
Carl MacBride was a great mountain of a man, reddened by many winds, and with eyes as blue as Lake
Superior itself. He eyed the money placidly.
"Sure, I'll do you a favor," he rumbled. "But I ain't takin' pay for it."
Bruno Hen placed the money on a table.
"Take it," he directed. "If anything happens to me, use this kale to hire the best detective in the world."
Carl MacBride batted his lake-blue eyes.
"I want the detective to investigate whatever happens to me," Bruno Hen went on. "I want the best damn
detective there is anywhere! Plenty of money here to pay his bill."
MacBride eyed the currency. There were many thousands of dollars in the bank roil. He knew it must be
Bruno Hen's life savings.
"What's got into you?" MacBride rumbled. "This whole talk don't make sense."
Bruno Hen swallowed uneasily, squirming. A flush darkened his swarthy skin. He seemed on the point of
answering.
"Maybe it don't amount to nothin', after all," he mumbled. "But if somethin' happens to me -- hire the
detective."
"I'll do that," MacBride agreed.
Bruno Hen took his departure, ignoring the slow questions which Carl MacBride asked. The breed
carried a flashlight, and kept this blazing steadily as he made his way through the timber. He washed the
beam about continuously, seeming to be in deathly fear of some habitant of the darkness.
From the door of his cabin, big Carl MacBride watched the retreating breed. He shook his ponderous
head slowly.
"Somethin' is sure wrong with that guy," he grunted. He fingered the roll of money thoughtfully. "Bruno
Hen kinda acts like he'd seen the devil."
With that last statement, Carl MacBride came far nearer the truth than he dreamed.
HAVING REACHED his shack, Bruno Hen locked himself in. He tore up parts of the floor and spiked
the rough plank across the windows. Loading his rifle, he placed it on the table alongside a fresh box of
cartridges. He charged both barrels of his shotgun, and arranged a little mound of shells. Loading his
revolver, he belted it on.
He did not sleep at all that night; he scarcely sat down. Around and around the hut he paced nervously,
stopping frequently to peer outside through the cracks.
There was a brilliant moon. In the surrounding timber there were no stirrlngs except for the undulating of
tree boughs before a gentle breeze. Out of the far distance came sometimes the squawling uproar of
fighting lynxes; a lonely wolf howled mournfully. The odor of pine came with the breeze.
This peace of the woodland night seemed to soothe Bruno Hen not at all.
Strangely, the breed did not leave his cabin at all the following day. Literally hundreds of times, he peered
outside as if in deadly expectation. It was apparent that he had seen something -- probably on the night
before he visited Carl MacBride -- which had frightened him. The more he thought of what he had seen,
the more terrified he seemed to become.
Toward noon, he slept a little. He did not sleep that night. The following day, Carl MacBride came over.
"Wondered how you was comin'," MacBride said. Bruno Hen peered out at his neighbor through his
barred window. He did not invite MacBride in. In fact, he said nothing.
MacBride, big and slow moving, ambled around the shack. He noted that the place had been turned into
a fortress.
"Afraid of somebody?" he asked.
The breed scowled. "You git! Tend to your own business."
Not taken back, MacBride grinned pleasantly. "I've got your money, if you want it back."
"Keep that money. If somethin' happens to me, you hire the best detective in the world, like I told you."
"I been readin' in a magazine about a feller that makes a business of helpin' other people out of trouble,"
MacBride offered. "Maybe he'd do."
"What's his name?"
"Doc Savage."
Bruno Hen recalled the flattering references which he had heard the circus side show barkers make to
Doc Savage. A muscular Hercules and a mental marvel, they had termed Doc Savage.
"He'll do," growled the breed.
"0. K.," said MacBride. "But listen, Bruno, what's ailin' you?"
"Nothin'," snarled the breed. "You go 'way."
"You must be nuts," opined Carl MacBride, and took his departure.
By way of paying the good-natured giant back for that last crack, Bruno Hen left his cabin during the
afternoon and raided one of MacBride's fish traps. He selected several choice walleyes, and turned the
rest of the catch loose. The breed was thoughtful as he slunk back toward his cabin.
"I ought to have told MacBride about what I seen prowlin' around here the other night," he said slowly.
"Hell! He would think I was crazy."
Reaching his shack, he fastened himself in securely. Exercise seemed to have lulled his fears somewhat.
He lay down and slept.
The night was well along when Bruno Hen opened his eyes. He lay in a sort of drawn rigidity, listening to
what had aroused him.
It was a strange wind, which seemed to be blowing outside. This came in puffs, regularly spaced.
The breed shivered from head to foot. The gusty sounds were too peculiar to be made by a natural
wind.
Using extreme care to make no noise, Bruno got up. He gripped his rifle in one hand, his shotgun in the
other. He crept to one of the timbered windows and crammed an eye to the crack.
What he saw caused him to shriek out in awful horror.
Jumping back, he lifted his rifle. It was high-powered, intended for bagging moose. He fired. The slug
slapped through the planks as if they had been paper. Again the breed fired. He pumped jacketed lead
through the wall until the magazine was empty.
Plugging in fresh cartridges, he continued his wild firing.
"It's worse'n it was before," he moaned, referring to the horror outside.
Over the whacking of the rifle and the breed's moaning there sounded a tremendous rending and tearing.
The breed stared upward in ghastly terror.
Parts of the roof of his shack were being torn off. Stout boards split apart or snapped off. Rafters
buckled under some cataclysmic force.
Still firing madly, Bruno retreated to the other side of the cabin.
With a final squawling of withdrawn nails, and a cracking of wood, a section of the roof came off.
Something extended through the aperture.
The breed emitted one squawling shriek after another. He dashed from end to end of the cabin. He was
like a trapped rabbit.
The breed's neighbor, Carl MacBride, unlike many big men, was a light sleeper. He heard the yelling and
shooting coming from Bruno Hen's cabin. Leaping up, he yanked on his pacs, grasped a rifle and ran for
the uproar.
Long before he reached the breed's cabin, MacBride heard Bruno Hen's shrieking die. Its termination
was a piercing, bleating sound, remindful of a mouse which had been stepped upon.
Arriving at the shack, MacBride found an amazing sight. The structure itself was little more than a great
shapeless wad of timber and planks.
Striking matches for light, he circled the spot. His gaze lighted upon a timber as thick as his leg, and he
whistled softly in amazement; for something snapped off that timber as if it were a match stick.
MacBride stood still, straining his ears. There was an occasional creak from the settling ruin of the cabin.
From out on the lake he thought he heard faint splashing. This was very distant.
No other sound came. The bedlam at the cabin had been so awesome that the night birds, animals, and
insects had been frightened into complete silence.
MacBride now dug into the cabin wreckage. He found a gory wad of a thing. He had to examine it for
some seconds before he would believe it was the earthly remains of Bruno Hen.
Bruno Hen had been crushed to death in ghastly fashion! Carl MacBride made a slow circle of the cabin
and the vicinity, searching. Then he headed for his own cabin, running.
"This is a job for that Doc Savage!" he muttered,
Chapter 3. PLANE ACQUAINTANCE
MODERN PASSENGER planes are remarkably efficient creations. Not only are they capable of great
speed, but the cabins are soundproofed until it is possible to conduct a conversation in ordinary tones.
Pretty hostesses serve coffee and sandwiches.
Big Carl MacBride occupied a seat in one of these passenger ships, as it rushed toward New York. He
tried to look nonchalant. He balanced a cup of coffee clumsily on one calloused palm and held a tiny
sandwich between thumb and forefinger of his other hand. Between nibbles and sips, he eyed the
surrounding clouds.
This was his first time in the air. From impressions gained in a life spent on the ground, he had supposed
clouds were fairly solid things; but he was discovering they were really of a very wispy nature, with hardly
more body than widely diffused cigarette smoke.
A fellow traveler interrupted the bulky woodsman's thoughts.
"I see you like to read back issues of magazines," the fellow remarked.
Cart MacBride turned his head. He saw a tall man with a freckled nose, reddish hair and a reddish
mustache. The latter was an artistically waxed creation. The man was attired in a quiet business suit, and
looked prosperous.
The fellow had been perusing a newspaper. This was folded carelessly, and an advertisement was
uppermost. It was a strange sort of an ad. It consisted simply of large black type in the center of a white
space:
BEWARE! THE MONSTERS ARE COMING!
摘要：

THEMONSTERSADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.THEPINHEADS?Chapter2.TERROR?Chapter3.PLANEACQUAINTANCE?Chapter4.THEKILLER?Chapter5.THECLIPPING?Chapter6.MYSTERYMANSE?Chapter7.THEELECTRIFIEDNET?Chapter8.THEEX-LION-TAMER?Chapter9.THE...

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