Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 020 - Death in Silver

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DEATH IN SILVER
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. SILVER DEATH'S-HEADS
? Chapter 2. THE ARCHER IN SILVER
? Chapter 3. THE ARCHER QUEST
? Chapter 4. TWO SILVER MURDERS
? Chapter 5. RAPID PACE
? Chapter 6. MYSTERIOUS BLUEPRINTS
? Chapter 7. THE INDIAN'S HEAD
? Chapter 8. THE BIG MYSTERY
? Chapter 9. THE CAPTURE
? Chapter 10. DEATH BLASTS
? Chapter 11. THE RIVER BED MYSTERY
? Chapter 12. THE TRICK
? Chapter 13. THE PHANTOMS
? Chapter 14. THE GREEN TRAIL
? Chapter 15. HELL UNDER WATER
? Chapter 16. UNDERWATER DEFEAT
? Chapter 17. THE SUBSEAS RIDE
? Chapter 18. THE BASE
? Chapter 19. DESTRUCTION
Chapter 1. SILVER DEATH'S-HEADS
THERE was a frozen, stony expression on the tall man's face, and his dark eyes rolled and jerked with
unease. His hands were drawn pale and bard at his sides.
These signs should have told an experienced observer that the man was worried and scared. But there
were no experienced observers among the stenographers and clerks in the office of Seven Seas, so the
glances they gave the tall man were merely the boot-licking smiles of employees who had about as much
spirit as rabbits.
A person with spunk did not work long with Seven Seas, because Paine L. Winthrop, the owner, was a
cold-blooded driver of the old school, an industrial emperor who looked upon those under him as
vassals. Had Paine L. Winthrop lived a hundred years earlier, he would have kept a retinue of slaves -
and beaten them often.
Maybe Clarence Sparks had an inkling that something was awry. Clarence was a billing clerk for Seven
Seas, which operated transatlantic freight boats and had no connection with Winthrop's Shipyards, which
was also controlled by Paine L. Winthrop, and which built freight steamers. Clarence was a rabbit, like
the rest of those who worked for Seven Seas. But Clarence also had sharp wits.
"Good afternoon, Commodore Winthrop," said Clarence.
Winthrop's only claim to the designation of commodore was that he held such an office in an exclusive
yacht club, but he liked the title and the canny Clarence knew it.
Winthrop seemed not to hear. He walked stiffly, mechanically, from the corridor door to his private
office, and his face was rigid, his eyes busy, his hands hard and gray.
"The old wolf!" grunted Clarence. "Some day somebody is going to give Winthrop what he has coming to
him."
Clarence was a prophet, a great deal more of a prophet than he knew.
Paine L. Winthrop entered his office, turned the key in the door, then tried the knob to make sure it was
locked. He stuffed a corner of a silk handkerchief into the keyhole, using a match for the purpose. He
pulled off his topcoat and laid it along the bottom of the door. After these two precautions, he seemed to
feel that no one would eavesdrop.
Striding stiffly to the window, he looked down at the street, forty floors below. Pedestrians there
resembled ants. Paine L. Winthrop ordinarily got a thrill out of the view, because he liked to think of
other people as ants. But now the view made him shiver.
One of New York's frequent fogs was mushroomed over the city, especially thick out over the near-by
East River, but less dense here in the Wall Street sector. Winthrop shivered again and jerked a cord
which closed the slats of the Venetian blind.
Seating himself at his desk, be hugged a telephone close and dialed with a trembling forefinger. He
missed his number the first time, through nervousness, but got it on the second attempt.
Before speaking, he drew out a costly watch and noted that it lacked only a few minutes of being four in
the afternoon. Evidently he recognized the voice which answered at the other end of the wire, for no
names were exchanged.
"Your t-time is almost up," he said shakily.
THE other did not respond immediately, and Paine L. Winthrop seemed on the verge of repeating his
warning. Then a coarse, angry whisper came over the line.
"Winthrop, you are passing up a chance of becoming one of the richest men alive," said the distant
speaker.
"I am passing up a chance of landing in the electric chair," Winthrop snapped.
"Listen, Winthrop," the other said earnestly. "I have explained to you very - "
"There is no object in arguing," said the shipping magnate. "I may be a hard business man, and I may be a
skinflint and a slave driver, as some people have called me; but I stay within the law. Early in my youth, I
learned that was the best policy."
The distant whispering voice took on a menacing quality.
"You are already too deep in this to back out' Winthrop," it pointed out. "We have used your shipyard."
Winthrop flinched as if he had been seized with an inner chill in the region of his spine, but his forbidding
face remained set and determined.
"I was deceived," he grated. "I thought the thing being built in my shipyard was for a foreign government.
I think I can convince the authorities of that."
"It seems that I made a mistake in taking you into my confidence," said the whisper.
Winthrop snapped, "You certainly did!"
"I should have turned the matter over to the Silver Death's-Heads, as the newspapers so dramatically
term them," retorted the other.
The mention of Silver Death's-Heads had the effect of nearly causing Winthrop to drop the receiver. The
man peered about as if fearing some grisly menace might be in the room with him. Then he got a grip on
himself.
"There is no more to be said," he stated grimly. "I have given you a chance to disband the Silver
Death's-Heads and destroy the - the thing that was built in my shipyard. You refuse. Therefore, I shall
now call the police."
His voice, charged with desperate excitement, had risen to a yell that had considerable volume. The
sound penetrated through the door of the private office, despite the precautions which Winthrop had
taken in stuffing the keyhole and covering the crack at the bottom of the door.
Clarence Sparks, at his desk outside, heard. He hesitated, eying the door, longing to listen. Then,
summoning his nerve, he shuffled over to the water cooler, which was beside the door of the private
office. He could listen from there.
Inside the office, Winthrop screamed, "I am going to call the police and tell them all about the Silver
Death's-Heads! I am going to tell who is apparently their chief, and I am going to tell whose devilish brain
is actually behind all of this!"
The coarse whisper over the telephone said, "I can promise that you will not live long enough to do that,
Winthrop!"
Winthrop was squirming, perspiring. He shouted, "Killing me will not help! I have a blueprint showing
some of your working methods. I have given it to my secretary. And I have told her the whole story."
"You are bluffing, Winthrop," snarled the whispering one.
"I am not!" Winthrop barked. "My secretary will give the whole story to the police if anything happens to
me. Now, will you give this all up, or do I call the police?"
"Call them if you dare," suggested the other.
"I will!" Winthrop banged the receiver up.
Shaky and pallid, Clarence Sparks backed from the door. He had overheard too much for his peace of
mind. He was in the same boat with the young man who was fishing for minnows and caught a shark.
The fact that Clarence Sparks was backing away from the door undoubtedly saved his life.
There was a cataclysmic crash. The door of Winthrop's private office exploded to fragments. The whole
partition wall caved. Part of the ceiling came thundering down.
Forty stories below, on the street, an ear-splitting crack of sound caused people to look up. It was like
the lash of a stupendous thunderbolt. After one glance upward, the pedestrians cried out in terror and
began to run.
A cloud of bricks, mortar and twisted steel was falling down the side of the skyscraper, giving at first the
impression that the whole great building was coming to pieces. A moment later, to those farther up the
street, it was evident that a great cavity had been blown in the side of the fog-piercing edifice.
Debris fell to the sidewalk with a great uproar. Three parked cars, fortunately unoccupied, were crushed,
and a prowling taxicab was partially wrecked. The driver of the hack, slightly cut and bruised, got out
and ran, squawling that there had been an earthquake.
Following the fall of the debris, there was a brittle jangling of dropping glass all over the neighborhood,
for windows had been blown out by the blast. Numerous people were cut; others had narrow escapes.
Then came several moments of almost complete silence. The quiet was so complete that the droning of
an airplane over the near-by river could be heard; then, as the plane swept away, there was the sound of
a motor boat, also on the river.
The presence of the plane and the motor boat on the river at that particular instant came to the attention
of a number of persons, and was later to become a fact of significance.
The tension following the explosion snapped. Women screeched and had hysterics. More stoic souls
peered up in the fog and observed the yawning hole in the side of the skyscraper where the private office
of Paine L. Winthrop had been. Policemen came running, and ambulance sirens wailed. Bedlam reigned.
Chapter 2. THE ARCHER IN SILVER
THE building housing Paine L. Winthrop's shipping company, the Seven Seas, was not the most imposing
in the Wall Street sector, but it narrowly missed that designation. Penthouses ornamented the tops of
most of the skyscrapers in the district, and this one was no exception.
The penthouse on this building was a pretentious affair with numerous glass walls which afforded the
occupant full sunlight. Most of the glass had been shattered by the blast below. In fact, it was a miracle
that the whole structure had not gone down, with a resultant vast loss of life.
One of the penthouse rooms contained many work benches, and these supported racks holding
innumerable test tubes, retorts, microscopes, mixing trays, pestles and bottled chemicals. That the
benches had supported this array would be more correct, for most of the stuff was now on the floor.
Several small chemical fires had started.
A remarkable-looking man was picking himself up from the mess of glass and liquids. He jumped up and
down and emitted a roar, for he had been slightly burned by a vial of acid.
The roar and the way the fellow bounced about gave the impression of a great, angry ape. The man's
appearance did little to detract from the impression. He had practically no forehead; his thick,
muscle-gnarled arms were longer than his legs, and his skin was leathery and covered with bristles which
resembled rusty nails. His mouth was so unnaturally large that it looked as if there had been an accident in
the assembling of his pleasantly ugly face.
"Habeas!" the apish man bellowed.
A pig came galloping into view, squealing excitedly - an almost incredibly grotesque specimen of the
porker family, as homely in his way as was the man who had called him. The shote had long, doglike
legs, a scrawny body, an inquisitive snout, and ears almost large enough to serve as wings.
"Dang it, Habeas," the homely chemist grinned, "I was afraid that dude lawyer had thrown a grenade at
you."
Some one seemed to be trying to open a near-by door. Loud kicks sounded, wood crunched, and the
door fell inward.
The man who came through was slender, waspish, and attired to the height of sartorial perfection. He had
a high forehead, the mobile mouth of an orator. In one hand he gripped a thin black cane which was
slightly separated at a joint near the handle, thus disclosing the object to be a sword cane with a
razor-sharp blade.
The well-dressed man glared at the homely chemist, his expression that of a gentleman who had just
found a toad on his breakfast table.
"Monk, I always did know you would blow us up with some of your idiotical chemical experiments," he
snapped.
This was nothing if not libel. The apish man, "Monk," was Lieut. Col. Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, and
conceded by those who knew to be one of the greatest of living chemists. His head, which did not look
as if it had room for a thimbleful of brains, harbored a fabulous amount of chemical and electro-chemical
lore.
Monk glared at the dapper newcomer.
"The shyster lawyer heard from," he growled.
That was another libel. The dressy gentleman was Brig. Gen. Theodore Marley Brooks, better known as
"Ham," one of the most astute lawyers ever to get his sheepskin from Harvard.
A strange pair, these two. They were always together, yet no one could remember either one having
spoken a civil word to the other. Those who knew, however, could cite a number of instances when each
had risked his life to save the other.
Men far-famed in their professions, both of them. Yet they were known to the comers of the earth for
another reason - known as two members of a group of five who were assistants to a man who was
probably the most famed adventurer of all time.
Monk and Ham were aides of Doc Savage, the man of bronze, the man of mystery, the being of fabulous
accomplishments, who was almost a legend to the general public, but who was the synonym for terror
and justice to those who preyed upon their fellow men.
HAM flourished his sword cane. "What was that - that quake?"
"Search me," said Monk, whose voice, in repose, was remarkably small and querulously childlike.
Seizing a fire extinguisher, Monk went to work on the chemical blazes. He resented this damage to his
laboratory, for it was one of the most complete in existence, exceeded only by those maintained by the
man of bronze, Doc Savage, who was himself a greater chemist than Monk.
Habeas Corpus, Monk's pet pig, backed away from the flames, saw he was getting near Ham, and
hastily shied off. Habeas and Ham did not get along together. Ham had repeatedly threatened to make
breakfast bacon out of Habeas.
The fires doused, Monk cast aside the extinguisher.
"Let's find out what happened," he said.
"A good idea coming from a strange source," Ham stated unkindly, and they went out. The pig, Habeas,
they left behind.
The elevators were not operating, probably due to the damage wrought by the blast, and they had to
walk down. It did not take them long to reach the scene of the detonation.
They were efficient, these two men accustomed to scenes of violence through their long association with
Doc Savage. Doc seemed to exist always in the shadow of peril and destruction.
Without delay, they went to work to ascertain the cause of the explosion. And there, they ran up against
a profound puzzle, as well as a gruesome scene.
Paine L. Winthrop was dead. No doubt of that, as it was necessary for the ambulance surgeons to
assemble the scattered parts of his body on a stretcher before it could be carried away.
Several of the Seven Seas office employees had been injured. A broken arm, received by a stenographer
as she was knocked over her desk, was the most serious. Others were only lacerated and bruised.
Monk and Ham put quick inquiries about the cause of the blast. No one could give a reply of value
except Paine L. Winthrop's head clerk, who was quite sure there had been no bomb, since she had left
the private office only shortly before the arrival of her boss.
Before Monk and Ham could locate fragments of whatever had caused the detonation, a swarm of
policemen and newspaper reporters arrived. The officers herded every one to an office one floor below,
it having been decided that the skyscraper was in no danger of falling.
The office in which those who had been on the explosion scene were concentrated, was the headquarters
of a firm dealing in imported antiques and art works. Adjoining the office were numerous stock rooms
holding pictures, armor, pieces of ancient furniture, weapons, costumes and like articles. These were all
antiques.
The newspaper reporters descended upon Monk and Ham. Both were high-pressure copy, for it was
known that they were members of Doc Savage's group of aides, and Doc was front-page news all seven
days of the week.
"Is Doc working on this?" a journalist connected with a tabloid demanded.
"No," said Monk, irked because the locust swarm of scribes were keeping Ham and himself from
investigating. "Keep Doc out of it."
The tabloid reporter ran to a telephone and informed his city editor, "Two of the famous Doc Savage's
men are on the spot and working on the mystery explosion. They deny that Doc himself is interested, but
we don't need to mention that. Doc's name in this will make it all the bigger."
"Our pals," Monk growled.
Modern newspapers function with breath-taking speed, and while the reporters were still harassing
Monk and Ham, extra editions of their sheets arrived.
Monk snatched one of these and retired with Ham to a stock room, the walls of which were hung with
the work of old masters, to see how much Doc had been brought into the affair.
THEY expected to see the blast story occupying a whole page of the tabloid, but to their surprise, it
divided honors with another yarn.
"I say," said Ham, who affected a pronounced Harvard accent whenever he thought of it. "Those Silver
Death's-Head beggars have been acting again."
They read the big black headlines and the news story below them. The thing was almost childishly
dramatic, as written.
SILVER DEATH'S-HEADS STRIKE; MYSTERY MEN ROB ARMORED CAR
Get a Quarter Million In Loot Vanish As Usual
The terror in silver is with New York again. At three o'clock this afternoon, these frightful men of mystery
shot down the drivers and guard of an armored truck in the streets of Manhattan and took $250,000.00
in cash.
Accounts of the number of robbers vary. Some spectators say there were twenty; others claim only five
or six. The robbers escaped in a fast car and evaded police pursuit in the water-front section of the East
River.
The thieves wore silver-colored suits and weird silver hoods which made their beads resemble skulls.
This description tallies with the gang which has committed other robberies and murders and which is
known to the police as the Silver Death's-Heads.
The last crime committed by the Silver Death's-Heads was the cold-blooded sinking of the liner
Avallancia, pride of the Transatlantic Company, in New York harbor.
Bedford Burgess Gardner, president of the Transatlantic Company, has not been able to explain what
motive could have been behind the sinking of the Avallancia.
"Wild stuff," commented Monk.
"Typical newspaper sensationalism." Ham clipped, agreeing with Monk because he still resented being
questioned by the reporters. "Silver Death's-Heads! Imagine that! What rot!"
"Too melodramatic to have much foundation in truth," Monk added. "I doubt if there are really any men
called the Silver Death's-Heads. This particular tabloid colors its news to beat the band."
The two men had been making no effort to pitch their voices low, and a number of the Seven Seas office
employees huddled in the room of the antique dealer overheard what was being said. Among those who
could not help but catch the words was Clarence Sparks.
Mention of the Silver Death's-Heads caused Clarence to stiffen visibly, then look undecided. He
hesitated, mustering up his nerve. As yet, he had not told any one of what he had overheard outside the
door of Paine L. Winthrop's private office, but hearing Monk state his belief that there were no such
individuals as Silver Death's-Heads apparently moved Clarence to speak. He sidled over to Monk and
Ham.
"You - you gentlemen are mistaken," he said hesitantly.
MONK squinted at the receding chin and the none-too-robust physique of Sparks.
"You know something?" he asked.
Clarence Sparks moistened his lips nervously. "I - I hope this won't get me into trouble," he muttered.
Monk and Ham were both intensely interested.
"Spill it," Monk directed.
The Seven Seas billing clerk swelled his thin chest with a full breath of resolution.
"I was eavesdropping outside Paine L. Winthrop's door," he said in a voice which excitement made loud.
"I heard him make the telephone call which was directly responsible for his death."
"Blazes!" Monk exploded. "Then it was a murder, huh?"
Clarence Sparks clenched his fists and said, "It certainly was!"
"Who was Winthrop talkin' to?" Monk demanded.
"To the secret mastermind of the Silver Death's-Heads," Clarence gulped.
"For the love of mud!" said Monk. "What was his name?"
Clarence Sparks almost yelled, "I heard Winthrop say over the telephone that it was - "
That was the last word Clarence Sparks spoke, although not the last sound he made, for his mouth
suddenly flew open to its widest and let a terrific scream rip out. It was as if the scream had burst out,
destroying his vocal cords; the yell rasped and was unnatural.
Clarence Sparks put his arms stiffly above his head in the manner of an aboriginal saluting the sun. Then
he turned slowly, trembling and on tiptoe. When he had his back to Monk and Ham, they could see the
feathered shaft of the arrow which protruded from his back.
Because Clarence Sparks was thin and poorly, his body made a clattering sound as it fell to the floor.
After he fell the stiffness seemed to go out of his thin frame, his head rolled over slackly until his cheek
pressed the floor, and with a bubbling rush, scarlet came from Iris mouth and nostrils.
But Monk and Ham were not watching the phenomena incidental to death. They were staring at the
archer who had discharged the arrow, an archer in silver, a being so grotesque of appearance that they
were held stunned.
Chapter 3. THE ARCHER QUEST
THE archer was not a large man - if he was a man. He was shorter than Ham, who was not tall, and he
was also scrawny, with thin arms and gnarled legs.
His garb was the strange, the gripping thing. It was silver. The cloth was of the metallic stuff such as is
used to make the stage costumes of show girls, and it was cut in one garment - a coverall.
There was a hood over the head, also of silver, elastic and tight fitting. Because eye and mouth openings
were dark against the shiny metallic hood, the affair had the aspect of a death's-head, a silver skull. A
costly wrist watch adorned one of his pipestem arms.
The silver archer stood in the door of an adjacent office, holding a heavy medieval bow, evidently one of
the antiques which filled the rooms. He dropped the how, it thumping loudly as it fell; then he leaped
backward.
The movement snapped Monk and Ham out of their trance. They dived headlong in pursuit But the killer
slammed the door; a key clinked among the tumblers. Doc Savage's two aides, flinging against the panel,
found it solidly resistant.
"So there isn't any such thing as the Silver Death's-Heads!" Ham snapped.
Monk knotted an enormous, bristle-covered fist and grated, "You were the first one to get that idea, you
nitwit shyster."
Then Monk grimaced and hit the door panel with his fist. The wood splintered, gave a trifle; it splintered
more extensively under a second blow, then collapsed, making a bole large enough to pass the apish
chemist's hairy hand. Standing well clear of the door, Monk groped for the key, found it in place, and
unlocked the panel. He shoved it open.
Ham started through, sword cane in hand.
"Wait, stupid," Monk growled, and shoved the dapper lawyer back.
From a holster, so cleverly padded under an armpit that it was unnoticeable, Monk drew a weapon
bearing close resemblance to an overgrown automatic pistol. But it was no automatic.
It was a supermachine pistol, product of Doc Savage's mechanical genius, a weapon which fired at an
incredible speed, discharging, instead of regulation lead slugs, thin-walled composition bullets which
carried an anaesthetic compound producing quick, harmless unconsciousness.
Machine pistol in hand, Monk jumped through the door. Considering that a murderer had just entered the
room, his act might have seemed reckless. But Monk wore a bulletproof vest which protected his entire
body, and he knew gunmen of the modern type do not often shoot at a man's head.
Ham trailed the homely chemist. He, too, wore one of the bulletproof vests which were so light and thin
as to be unnoticeable under their clothing, and was not at all uncomfortable. These vests were also a
product of Doc Savage's mechanical skill.
Both men jerked up inside the room. Their jaws sagged; their eyes, roving, widened in amazement.
"Well, I'm a camel's uncle!" Monk breathed. "Where'd he go?"
Ham shook his head slowly and turned his sword cane in his hands, for their quarry was nowhere in the
room. Both the outer windows were down, and the lawyer knew that this skyscraper had a wall sheer
and smooth, impossible for even a so-called "human fly" to scale by ordinary methods.
MONK, charging around the room, jerked a rectangle of expensive tapestry from the wall, scowled
when he saw there was no aperture back of it, and flipped the carpet up. Nowhere was there a
trapdoor.
"The windows are unlocked," Ham pointed out.
"But that bird in silver couldn't have - " Monk swallowed the rest, ran to a window and wrenched it up.
He looked out, seemed stunned, but said nothing.
Ham leaped to his side. Together they peered down.
"We must be getting very dumb," Ham said disgustedly.
"Speak for yourself," Monk growled, then placed a hand on the 'window sill and vaulted through the
opening, out into space.
Without hesitating, Ham followed, instinctively using care not to disrupt the neat hang of his garments. It
was a rare occasion when Ham forgot his clothing.
Perhaps six feet below the window was a wide ledge. For the moment, the two men had forgotten that
the skyscraper was set back, pyramid fashion, at intervals, and that one of these setbacks was at the
level of the Seven Seas offices. The killer must have fled by this route, after closing the window behind
him to confuse his pursuers.
Monk pointed, "He went this way!"
City grime was smeared on the roof of the set-back, soot and dust which retained footprints plainly. The
two men followed the tracks around the skyscraper. They disappeared into a window on the opposite
side.
Monk and Ham clambered through the window and found themselves among mops, buckets and
window-washing paraphernalia; the room was obviously one used by janitors. There was no trace of the
weirdly garbed slayer.
A corridor was beyond the store room, this being deserted for the moment. Not until Monk emitted an
angry roar did any one appear, then two policemen popped out of the offices of Seven Seas.
"What's going on here?" snapped an officer.
"Where'd that killer go?" Monk demanded.
The cop gulped. "Killer! Say, what're you talking about?"
And that was the first inkling the police had of the slaying of unfortunate Clarence Sparks, for the
meek-spirited billing clerk was dead, the arrow having punctured his heart. They found that out when
they examined him.
Where the killer had gone remained a mystery through the course of the next fifteen minutes. Then an
excited call came up from the basement regions. A fireman had been found knocked senseless in the
basement.
Monk and Ham hurried down.
The fireman had thick blond hair, and that had possibly preserved his life, for the blow he had received
over the head, judging by the bruise, had been terrific. A policeman was waiting for a doctor to revive the
fellow.
"Let me do it," said Ham. "I have an infallible system."
Ham unsheathed his sword cane, and the onlookers say that the tip was coated for a few inches with a
brownish substance which was slightly sticky. This was a drug mixture which produced senselessness
when a victim was pricked.
With a finger tip Ham removed a bit of the drug from the sword and applied it to the tongue of the
unconscious fireman. The stuff, in small quantities, was a stimulant, but if administered in quantity,
produced senselessness.
The fireman revived almost at once.
摘要：

DEATHINSILVERADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.SILVERDEATH'S-HEADS?Chapter2.THEARCHERINSILVER?Chapter3.THEARCHERQUEST?Chapter4.TWOSILVERMURDERS?Chapter5.RAPIDPACE?Chapter6.MYSTERIOUSBLUEPRINTS?Chapter7.THEINDIAN'SHEAD?Chapter8....

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