Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 001 - Man of Bronze

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THE MAN OF BRONZE
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
? Chapter I. THE SINISTER ONE
? Chapter II. A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD
? Chapter III. THE ENEMY
? Chapter IV. THE RED DEATH PROMISE
? Chapter V. THE FLY THAT JUMPED
? Chapter VI. WORKING PLANS
? Chapter VII. DANGER TRAIL
? Chapter VIII. PERSISTANT FOES
? Chapter IX. DOC'S WHISTLE
? Chapter X. TROUBLE TRAIL
? Chapter XI. VALLEY OF THE VANISHED
? Chapter XII. THE LEGACY
? Chapter XIII. DEATH STALKS
? Chapter XIV. DOC PULLS A RESURRECTION
? Chapter XV. THE BLUE BIRD BATTLE
? Chapter XVI. CURSE OF THE GODS
? Chapter XVII. THE BATTLE OF MERCY
? Chapter XVIII. FRIENDSHIP
? Chapter XIX. THE BRONZE MASTER
? Chapter XX. GOLDEN VAULTS
? Chapter XXI. THE GOLDEN DEATH
? Chapter XXII. TREASURE-TROVE
Chapter I. THE SINISTER ONE
THERE was death afoot in the darkness.
It crept furtively along a steel girder. Hundreds of feet below yawned glass-and-brick-walled
cracks—New York streets. Down there, late workers scurried homeward. Most of them carried
umbrellas, and did not glance upward.
Even had they looked, they probably would have noticed nothing. The night was black as a cave bat.
Rain threshed down monotonously. The clammy sky was like an oppressive shroud wrapped around the
tops of the tall buildings.
One skyscraper was under construction. It had been completed to the eightieth floor. Some offices were
in use.
Above the eightieth floor, an ornamental observation tower jutted up a full hundred and fifty feet more.
The metal work of this was in place, but no masonry had been laid. Girders lifted a gigantic steel
skeleton. The naked beams were a sinister forest.
It was in this forest that Death prowled.
Death was a man.
He seemed to have the adroitness of a cat at finding his way in the dark. Upward, he crept. The girders
were slick with rain, treacherous. The man's progress was gruesome in its vile purpose.
From time to time, he spat strange, clucking words. A gibberish of hate!
A master of languages would have been baffled trying to name the tongue the man spoke. A profound
student might have identified the dialect. The knowledge would be hard to believe, for the words were of
a lost race, the language of a civilization long vanished!
"He must die!" the man chanted hoarsely in his strange lingo. "It is decreed by the Son of the Feathered
Serpent! Tonight! Tonight death shall strike!"
Each time he raved his paean of hate, the man hugged an object he carried closer to his chest.
This object was a box, black, leather-covered. It was about four inches deep and four feet long.
"This shall bring death to him!" the man clucked, caressing the black case.
The rain beat him. Steel-fanged space gaped below. One slip would be his death. He climbed upward
yard after yard.
Most of the chimneys which New Yorkers call office buildings had been emptied of their daily toilers.
There were only occasional pale eyes of light gleaming from their sides.
The labyrinth of girders baffled the skulker a moment. He poked a flashlight beam inquisitively. The glow
lasted a bare instant, but it disclosed a remarkable thing about the man's hands.
The finger tips were a brilliant red! They might have been dipped an inch of their length in a scarlet dye.
The red-fingered man scuttled onto a workmen's platform. The planks were thick. The platform was near
the outside of the wilderness of steel.
The man lowered his black case. His inner pocket disgorged compact, powerful binoculars.
ON the lowermost floor of a skyscraper many blocks distant, the crimson-fingered man focused his
glasses. He started counting stories upward.
The building was one of the tallest in New York. A gleaming spike of steel and brick, it rammed upward
nearly a hundred stories.
At the eighty-sixth floor, the sinister man ceased to count. His glasses moved right and left until they
found a lighted window. This was at the west corner of the building.
Only slightly blurred by the rain, the powerful binoculars disclosed what was in the room.
The broad, polished top of a massive and exquisitely inlaid table stood directly before the window.
Beyond it was the bronze figure!
This looked like the head and shoulders of a man, sculptured in hard bronze. It was a startling sight, that
bronze bust. The lines of the features, the unusually high forehead, the mobile and muscular, but not
too-full mouth, the lean cheeks, denoted a power of character seldom seen.
The bronze of the hair was a little darker than the bronze of the features. The hair was straight, and lay
down tightly as a metal skullcap. A genius at sculpture might have made it.
Most marvelous of all were the eyes. They glittered like pools of flake gold when little lights from the
table lamp played on them. Even from that distance they seemed to exert a hypnotic influence through the
powerful binocular lenses, a quality that would cause the most rash individual to hesitate.
The man with the scarlet-tipped fingers shuddered.
"Death!" he croaked, as if seeking to overcome the unnerving quality of those strange, golden eyes. "The
Son of the Feathered Serpent has commanded. It shall be death!"
He opened the black box. Faint metallic clickings sounded as he fitted together parts of the thing it held.
After that, he ran his fingers lovingly over the object.
"The tool of the Son of the Feathered Serpent!" he chortled. "It shall deliver death!"
Once more, he pressed the binoculars to his eyes and focused them on the amazing bronze statue.
The bronze masterpiece opened its mouth, yawned—for it was no statue, but a living man!
THE bronze man showed wide, very strong-looking teeth, in yawning. Seated there by the immense
desk, he did not seem to be a large man. An onlooker would have doubted his six feet height—and
would have been astounded to learn he weighed every ounce of two hundred pounds.
The big bronze man was so well put together that the impression was not of size, but of power. The bulk
of his great body was forgotten in the smooth symmetry of a build incredibly powerful.
This man was Clark Savage, Jr.
Doc Savage! The man whose name was becoming a byword in the odd corners of the world!
Apparently no sound had entered the room. But the big bronze man left his chair. He went to the door.
The hand he opened the door with was long-fingered, supple. Yet its enormous tendons were like cables
under a thin film of bronze lacquer.
Doc Savage's keenness of hearing was vindicated. Five men were getting out of the elevator cage, which
had come up silently.
These men came toward Doc. There was wild delight in their manner. But for some sober reason, they
did not shout boisterous greetings. It was as though Doc bore a great grief, and they sympathized deeply
with him, but didn't know what to say.
The first of the five men was a giant who towered four inches over six feet. He weighed fully two fifty. His
face was severe, his mouth thin and grim, and compressed tightly, as though he had just finished uttering a
disapproving, "Tsk tsk!" sound. His features had a most puritanical look.
This was "Renny," or Colonel John Renwick. His arms were enormous, his fists bony monstrosities. His
favorite act was to slam his great fists through the solid panel of a heavy door. He was known throughout
the world for his engineering accomplishments, also.
Behind Renny came William Harper Littlejohn. Very tall, very gaunt. Johnny wore glasses with a
peculiarly thick lens over the left eye. He looked like a half-starved, studious scientist. He was probably
one of the greatest living experts on geology and archaeology.
Next was Major Thomas J. Roberts, dubbed "Long Tom". Long Tom was the physical weakling of the
crowd, thin, not very tall, and with a none-too-healthy-appearing skin. He was a wizard with electricity.
"Ham" trailed Long Tom. "Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks," Ham was designated on formal
occasions. Slender, waspy, quick-moving, Ham looked what he was—a quick thinker and possibly the
most astute lawyer Harvard ever turned out. He carried a plain black cane—never went anywhere
without it. This was, among other things, a sword cane.
Last came the most remarkable character of all. Only a few inches over five feet tall, he weighed better
than two hundred and sixty pounds. He had the build of a gorilla, arms six inches longer than his legs, a
chest thicker than it was wide. His eyes were so surrounded by gristle as to resemble pleasant little stars
twinkling in pits. He grinned with a mouth so very big it looked like an accident.
"Monk!" No other name could fit him!
He was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, but he heard the full name so seldom he had about
forgotten what it sounded like.
THE men entered the sumptuously furnished reception room of the office suite. After the first greeting,
they were silent, uncomfortable. They didn't know what to say.
Doc Savage's father had died from a weird cause since they last saw Doc.
The elder Savage had been known throughout the world for his dominant bearing and his good work.
Early in life, he had amassed a tremendous fortune—for one purpose.
That purpose was to go here and there, from one end of the world to the other, looking for excitement
and adventure, striving to help those who needed help, punishing those who deserved it.
To that creed he had devoted his life.
His fortune had dwindled to practically nothing. But as it shrank, his influence had increased. It was
unbelievably wide, a heritage befitting the man.
Greater even, though, was the heritage he had given his son. Not in wealth, but in training to take up his
career of adventure and righting of wrongs where it left off.
Clark Savage, Jr., had been reared from the cradle to become the supreme adventurer.
Hardly had Doc learned to walk, when his father started him taking the routine of exercises to which he
still adhered. Two hours each day, Doc exercised intensively all his muscles, senses, and his brain.
As a result of these exercises, Doc possessed a strength superhuman. There was no magic about it,
though. Doc had simply built up muscle intensively all his life.
Doc's mental training had started with medicine and surgery. It had branched out to include all arts and
sciences. Just as Doc could easily overpower the gorillalike Monk in spite of his great strength, so did
Doc know more about chemistry. And that applied to Renny, the engineer; Long Tom, the electrical
wizard; Johnny, the geologist and archaeologist; and Ham, the lawyer.
Doc had been well trained for his work.
Grief lay heavily upon Doc's five friends. The elder Savage had been close to their hearts.
"Your father's death—was three weeks ago," Renny said at last.
Doc nodded slowly. "So I learned from the newspapers—when I got back today."
Renny groped for words, said finally: "We tried to get you in every way. But you were gone—as if you
had been off the face of the earth."
Doc looked at the window. There was grief in his gold eyes.
Chapter II. A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD
FALLING rain strewed the outer side of the windowpane with water. Far below, very pallid in the
soaking murk, were street lights. Over on the Hudson River, a steamer was tooting a foghorn. The
frightened, mooing horn was hardly audible inside the room.
Some blocks away, the skyscraper under construction loomed a darksome pile, crowned with a spidery
labyrinth of steel girders. Only the vaguest outlines of it were discernible.
Impossible, of course, to glimpse the strange, crimson-fingered servant of death in that wilderness of
metal!
Doc Savage said slowly: "I was far away when my father died."
He did not explain where he had been, did not mention his "Fortress of Solitude," his rendezvous built on
a rocky island deep in the arctic regions. He had been there.
It was to this spot that Doc retired periodically to brush up on the newest developments in science,
psychology, medicine, engineering. This was the secret of his universal knowledge, for his periods of
concentration there were long and intense.
The Fortress of Solitude had been his father's recommendation. And no one on earth knew the location
of the retreat. Once there, nothing could interrupt Doc's studies and experiments.
Without taking his golden eyes from the wet window, Doc asked: "Was there anything strange about my
father's death?"
"We're not certain," Renny muttered, and set his thin lips in an expression of ominousness.
"I, for one, am certain!" snapped Littlejohn. He settled more firmly on his nose the glasses which had the
extremely thick left lens.
"What do you mean, Johnny?" Doc Savage asked.
"I am positive your father was murdered!" Johnny's gauntness, his studious scientist look, gave him a
profoundly serious expression.
Doc Savage swung slowly from the window. His bronze face had not changed expression. But under his
brown business coat, tensing muscles had made his arms inches farther around.
"Why do you say that, Johnny?"
Johnny hesitated. His right eye narrowed, the left remaining wide and a little blank behind the thick
spectacle lens. He shrugged.
"Only a hunch," he admitted, then added, almost shouting: "I'm right about it! I know I am!"
That was Johnny's way. He had absolute faith in what he called his hunches. And nearly always he was
right. On occasions when he was wrong, though, he was very wrong indeed.
"Exactly what did the doctors say caused death?" Doc asked. Doc's voice was low, pleasant, but a voice
capable of great volume and changing tone.
Renny answered that. Renny's voice was like thunder gobbling out of a cave. "The doctors didn't know.
It was a new one on them. Your father broke out with queer circular red patches on his neck. And he
lasted only a couple of days."
"I ran all kinds of chemical tests, trying to find if it was poison or germs or what it was caused the red
spots," Monk interposed, slowly opening and closing his huge, red-furred fists. "I never found out a
thing!"
Monk's looks were deceiving. His low forehead apparently didn't contain room for a spoonful of brains.
Actually, Monk was in a way of being the most widely known chemist in America. He was a Houdini of
the test tubes.
"We have no facts upon which to base suspicion!" clipped Ham, the waspish Harvard lawyer whose
quick thinking had earned him a brigadier generalship in the World War. "But we're suspicious anyway."
Doc Savage moved abruptly across the room to a steel safe. The safe was huge, reaching above his
shoulders. He swung it open.
It was instantly evident explosive had torn the lock out of the safe door.
A long, surprised gasp swished around the room.
"I found it broken into when I came back," Doc explained. "Maybe that has a connection with my father's
death. Maybe not."
DOC'S movements were rhythmic as he swung over and perched on a corner of the big, inlaid table
before the window. His eyes roved slowly over the beautifully furnished office. There was another office
adjoining, larger, which contained a library of technical books that was priceless because of its
completeness.
Adjoining that was the vast laboratory room, replete with apparatus for chemical and electrical
experiments.
This was about all the worldly goods the elder Savage had left behind.
"What's eating you, Doc?" asked the giant Renny. "We all got the word from you to show up here
tonight. Why?"
Doc Savage's strange golden eyes roved over the assembled men; from Renny, whose knowledge of
engineering in all its branches was profound, to Long Tom, who was an electrical wizard, to Johnny,
whose fund of information on the structure of the earth and ancient races which had inhabited it was
extremely vast, to Ham, the clever Harvard lawyer and quick thinker, and finally to Monk, who, in spite
of his resemblance to a gorilla, was a great chemist.
In these five men, Doc knew he had five of the greatest brains ever to assemble in one group. Each was
surpassed in his field by only one human being—Doc Savage himself.
"I think you can guess why you are here," Doc said.
Monk rubbed his hairy hands together. Of the six men present, Monk's skin alone bore scars. The skin
of the others held no marks of their adventurous past, thanks to Doc's uncanny skill in causing wounds to
heal without leaving scars.
But not Monk. His tough, rusty iron hide was so marked with gray scars that it looked as if a flock of
chickens with gray-chalk feet had paraded on him. This was because Monk refused to let Doc treat him.
Monk gloried in his tough looks.
"Our big job is about to start, huh?" said Monk, vast satisfaction in his mild voice.
Doc nodded. "The work to which we shall devote the rest of our lives."
At that statement, great satisfaction appeared upon the face of every man present. They showed
eagerness for what was to come.
Doc dangled a leg from the corner of the table. Unwittingly—for he knew nothing of the red-fingered
killer lurking in the distant skyscraper that was under construction—Doc had placed his back out of line
with the window. In fact, since the men had entered, he had not once been aligned with the window.
"We first got together back in the War," he told the five slowly. "We all liked the big scrap. It got into our
blood. When we came back, the humdrum life of an ordinary man was not suited to our natures. So we
sought something else."
Doc held their absolute attention, as if he had them hypnotized. Undeniably this golden-eyed man was the
leader of the group, as well as leader of anything he undertook. His very being denoted a calm
knowledge of all things, and an ability to handle himself under any conditions.
"Moved by mutual admiration for my father," Doc continued, "we decided to take up his work of good
wherever he was forced to leave off. We at once began training ourselves for that purpose. It is the cause
for which I had been reared from the cradle, but you fellows, because of a love of excitement and
adventure, wish to join me."
Doc Savage paused. He looked over his companions. One by one, in the soft light of the well-furnished
office, one of the few remaining evidences of the wealth that once belonged to his father.
"Tonight," he went on soberly, "we begin carrying out the ideals of my father—to go here and there, from
one end of the world to the other, looking for excitement and adventure, striving to help those who need
help, and punishing those who deserve it."
THERE was a somber silence after that immense pronunciation.
It was Monk, matter-of-fact person that he was, who shattered the quiet.
"What flubdubs me is who broke into that safe, and why?" he grumbled. "Doc, could it have any
connection with your father's death?"
"It could, of course," Doc explained. "The contents of the safe had been rifled. I do not know whether
my father had anything of importance in it. But I suspect there was."
Doc drew a folded paper from inside his coat. The lower half of the paper had been burned away, it was
evident from the charred edges. Doc continued speaking.
"Finding this in a corner of the safe leads me to that belief. The explosion which opened the safe
obviously destroyed the lower part of the paper. And the robber probably overlooked the rest. Here,
read it!"
He passed it to the five men. The paper was covered with the fine, almost engraving-perfect writing of
Doc's father. They all recognized the penmanship instantly. They read:
CLARK: I have many things to tell you. In your whole lifetime, there never was an occasion when I
desired you here so much as I do now. I need you, son, because many things have happened which
indicate to me that my last journey is at hand. You will find that I have nothing much to leave you in the
way of tangible wealth.
I have, however, the satisfaction of knowing that in you I shall live.
I have developed you from boyhood into the sort of man you have become, and I have spared no time or
expense to make you just what I think you should be.
Everything I have done for you has been with the purpose that you should find yourself capable of
carrying on the work which hopefully started, and which, in these last few years, has been almost
impossible to carry on.
If I do not see you again before this letter is in your hands, I want to assure you that I appreciate the fact
that you have lacked nothing in the way of filial devotion. That you have been absent so much of the time
has been a secret source of gratification to me, for your absence has, I know, made you self-reliant and
able. It was all that I hoped for you.
Now, as to the heritage which I am about to leave you:
What I am passing along to you may be a doubtful heritage. It may be a heritage of woe. It may even be
a heritage of destruction to you if you attempt to capitalize on it. On the other hand, it may enable you to
do many things for those who are not so fortunate as you yourself, and will, in that way, be a boon for
you in carrying on your work of doing good to all.
Here is the general information concerning it:
Some twenty years ago, in company with Hubert Robertson, I went on an expedition to Hidalgo, in
Central America, to investigate the report of a prehistoric—
There the missive ended. Flames had consumed the rest.
"The thing to do is get hold of Hubert Robertson!" clipped the quick-thinking Ham. Waspish,
rapid-moving, he swung over to the telephone, scooped it up. "I know Hubert Robertson's phone
number. He is connected with the Museum of Natural History."
"You won't get him!" Doc said dryly.
"Why not?"
Doc got off the table and stood beside the giant Renny. It was only then that one realized what a big man
Doc was. Alongside Renny, Doc was like dynamite alongside gunpowder.
"Hubert Robertson is dead," Doc explained. "He died from the same thing that killed my father—a weird
malady that started with a breaking out of red spots. And he died at about the same time as my father."
RENNY'S thin mouth pinched even tighter at that. Gloom seemed to settle on his long face. He looked
like a man disgusted enough with the evils of the world to cry.
Strangely enough, that somber look denoted that Renny was beginning to take interest. The tougher the
going got, the better Renny functioned and—the more puritanical he looked.
"That flooeys our chances of finding out more about this heritage your father left you!" he rumbled.
"Not entirely," Doc corrected. "Wait here a moment!"
He stepped through another door, crossed the room banked with the volumes of his father's great
technical library. Through a second door, and he was in the laboratory.
Cases laden with chemicals stood thick as forest trees on the floor. There were electrical coils, vacuum
tubes, ray apparatus, microscopes, retorts, electric furnaces, everything that could go into such a
laboratory.
From a cabinet Doc lifted a metal box closely resembling an old-fashioned magic lantern. The lens,
instead of being ordinary optical glass, was a very dark purple, almost black. There was a cord for
plugging into an electric-light socket.
Doc carried this into the room where his five men waited, placed it on a stand, aiming the lens at the
window. He plugged the cord into an electric outlet.
Before putting the thing in operation, he lifted the metal lid and beckoned to Long Tom, the electrical
wizard.
"Know what this is?"
"Of course." Long Tom pulled absently at an ear that was too big, too thin and too pale. "That is a lamp
for making ultra-violet rays, or what is commonly called black light. The rays are invisible to the human
eye, since they are shorter than ordinary light, but many substances when placed in the black light will
glow, or fluoresce after the fashion of luminous paint on a watch dial. Examples of such substances are
ordinary vaseline, quinine—"
"That's plenty," interposed Doc. "Will you look at the window I've pointed this at. See anything unusual
about it?"
Johnny, the gaunt archaeologist and geologist, advanced to the window, removing his glasses as he went.
He held the thick-lensed left glass before his right eye, inspecting the window.
In reality, the left side of Johnny's glasses was an extremely powerful magnifying lens. His work often
required a magnifier, so he wore one over his left eye, which was virtually useless because of an injury
received in the World War.
"I can find nothing!" Johnny declared. "There's nothing unusual about the window!"
"I hope you're wrong," Doc said, sobriety in his wondrously modulated voice. "But you could not see the
writing on that window, should there be any. The substance my father perfected for leaving secret
messages was absolutely invisible. But it glows under ultra-violet light."
"You mean—" hairy Monk rumbled.
"That my father and I often left each other notes written on that window," Doc explained. "Watch!"
Doc crossed the room, a big, dynamic man, light on his feet as a kitten for all his size, and turned out the
lights. He came back to the black-light box. His hand, supple despite its enormous tendons, clicked the
switch that shot current into the apparatus.
Instantly, written words sprang out on the darkened windowpane. Glowing with a dazzling, electric blue,
the effect of their sudden appearance was uncanny.
A split second later came a terrific report! A bullet knocked the glass into hundreds of fragments, wiping
out the sparkling blue message before they could read it. The bullet passed entirely through the steel-plate
inner door of the safe! It embedded in the safe back.
THE room reeked silence. One second, two! Nobody had moved.
And then a new sound was heard. It was a low, mellow, trilling sound, like the song of some strange bird
of the jungle, or the sound of the wind filtering through a jungled forest. It was melodious, though it had
no tune; and it was inspiring, though it was not awesome.
The amazing sound had the peculiar quality of seeming to come from everywhere within the room rather
than from a definite spot, as though permeated with an eerie essence of ventriloquism.
A purposeful calm settled over Doc Savage's five men as they heard that sound. Their breathing became
less rapid, their brains more alert.
For this weird sound was part of Doc—a small, unconscious thing which he did in moments of utter
concentration. To his friends it was both the cry of battle and the song of triumph. It would come upon
his lips when a plan of action was being arranged, precoursing a master stroke which made all things
certain.
It would come again in the midst of some struggle, when the odds were all against his men, when
everything seemed lost. And with the sound, new strength would come to all, and the tide would always
turn.
And again, it might come when some beleaguered member of the group, alone and attacked, had almost
given up all hope of survival. Then that sound would filter through, some way, and the victim knew that
help was at hand.
The whistling sound was a sign of Doc, and of safety, of victory.
"Who got it?" asked Johnny, and he could be heard settling his glasses more firmly on his bony nose.
"No one," said Doc. "Let us crawl, brothers, crawl. That was no ordinary rifle bullet, from the sound of
it!"
摘要：

THEMANOFBRONZEADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.comScannedandProofedbyTomStephens?ChapterI.THESINISTERONE?ChapterII.AMESSAGEFROMTHEDEAD?ChapterIII.THEENEMY?ChapterIV.THEREDDEATHPROMISE?ChapterV.THEFLYTHATJUMPED?ChapterVI.WORKINGPLANS?Chapte...

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