Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 017 - Thousand-Headed Man

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2024-12-19 0 0 279.41KB 121 页 5.9玖币
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THE THOUSAND-HEADED MAN
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter 1. CELEBRITY
? Chapter 2. THE BLACK STICK
? Chapter 3. THE SECOND BLACK STICK
? Chapter 4. SWEET WINE
? Chapter 5. A WOMAN'S VOICE
? Chapter 6. THE BOBBY TRICK
? Chapter 7. CORDON
? Chapter 8. THE CLOCK
? Chapter 9. THE FAKE MONK
? Chapter 11. THE TALKER
? Chapter 11. MENACE DOMAIN
? Chapter 12. TEMPLE SINISTER
? Chapter 13. BONES
? Chapter 14. MAGIC FIRE
? Chapter 15. MYSTIC JUNGLE
? Chapter 16. THE WALL OF THE FEET
? Chapter 17. THE NIGHT CRY
? Chapter 18. THE HEADS
? Chapter 19. WEIRD METROPOLIS
? Chapter 20. POWER UNSEEN
? Chapter 21. SEN GAT'S OFFER
? Chapter 22. PRISONER
? Chapter 23. THE TERROR IN BASKETS
? Chapter 24. THE JEWELED PAGODA
? Chapter 25. BLACK SHIRT
Chapter 1. CELEBRITY
THERE WERE several reasons why the first of the two shots did not attract attention. One explanation
was due to the number of newspaper photographers on hand taking flash light pictures of the crowd.
These London journalists were using the old-style flash light powder which made white smoke and noise,
as well as flash.
Over in a hangar, a balky motor ran irregularly, backfiring often another reason why the shot was not
heard.
"I say, a jolly mean bug!" remarked one scribe, peering upward. Without knowing it, this man had heard
the whiz of the glancing bullet.
It was dark, and only the landing lights marking the edge of Croydon Flying Field cut through the usual
fog. Later, when the plane every one awaited was heard, flood lamps would be switched on.
Somewhat of a throng was on hand to greet the plane.
The man who had been shot at lay flat on the ground near the field edge, and pawed at his face. The
bullet had knocked dirt into his eyes. It had been fired from some distance.
"Sen Gat!" the man groaned.
There was no one else near. Gloom, the wet swirl of fog, enwrapped the vicinity.
"Sen Gat!" the man repeated, snarling this time.
The man was thin of body, long of arms and legs. He made a grotesque shape lying on the ground, a
black raincoat flung over himself. He had hoped the dark raincoat, coupled with the darkness, would
conceal him. It had failed.
Getting the bullet driven dirt out of his eyes, he scuttled to one side, dragging the raincoat, then got to his
feet and ran.
"Damn Sen Gat!" he gritted.
He came close to a border light and it shone on a jaw that was pointed, a nose hooked and somehow
remindful of a parrot beak. His skin looked like muslin which had been much in the weather, and there
was almost no flesh between the skin and the bones it covered. One of his bony hands was darkly purple
in hue. He veered away from the light, and when a hangar loomed ahead he hesitated, then ran to it and
crept inside. Thrusting his head out again, he listened for a long time for signs of pursuit, but none came to
his ears. Next, he tried to catch some sound of a plane overhead. There was none.
Nervously, he prowled the hangar. In the rear, he found a pair of greasy coveralls draped over a
workbench. Fingering these, he began to chuckle. The coveralls fitted fairly well when he tried them on,
and he did not remove them.
The man pulled up his sleeve. Held tightly to his upper arm by rubber bands was a small packet. The
packet was half an inch thick, possibly four inches long, and wrapped in oiled paper. The rubbers, cutting
off circulation, had made his hand purple.
He stripped the bands off and kneaded his arm slowly to restore blood flow.
"Deuced nasty feeling," he muttered. As an afterthought, he added, "Blast Sen Gat!"
He ended up by putting the slender packet in a coverall pocket, instead of fastening it back to his arm
with the rubbers.
Then he left the hangar and mingled with the crowd, passing unnoticed among a score or so of mechanics
garbed like himself. Anyway, all eyes were watching the southern sky expectantly.
THE BONY man drifted about and finally stopped beside a journalist.
"I say, why all the bloomin' watchful waitin'?" he queried.
The scribe looked shocked. "Jove! Don't you read the sheets?"
"The newspapers? Naw."
The scribbler eyed the other as if observing a freak. The reporter failed to realize that he was being
cleverly pumped for information.
"Did you ever hear of the Yankee they call the Man of Mystery?"
"Nope."
"No? He is a giant of a chap, a tremendous fellow. They say no living man has greater muscular
strength."
"Never heard of 'im."
"They call him the Man of Bronze! That help your memory?"
"Nope."
The journalist took a full breath and began to spread enlightenment.
"Listen, old chap, this bronze man is known as one of the greatest surgeons. As a chemist, he has made
discoveries that your children will some day read about. The bronze man is rated a wizard in the field of
electricity. Furthermore, he - "
The thin man in the coveralls put a bony finger against the scribe's chest. "How many blokes are you
tellin' me about?"
"One."
"You know what?"
"What?"
"I think you're joshin'."
Disgustedly, the scribe stuffed hands in the pockets of his Landon wrap.
"A few weeks ago," be said, "there was a revolution in the Balkan kingdom of Calbia. This Yankee put a
stop to it. He's now on his way back to America. We expect his plane any minute."
The pseudo mechanic's eyes roved over the surrounding crowd. The fellow was a good actor. No twitch
of his features betrayed that he had been shot at a few moments before, or that he was now in fear of
another bullet.
"What's this bronze man's business?" he asked.
The journalist shrugged. "He's a remarkable character. Goes about the world aiding chaps who need
help."
"Charges plenty for that, eh?"
"On the contrary, he does not accept fees. The bronze chap is deuced wealthy, according to reports."
The fake mechanic grew suddenly earnest. "I say-if I was in a jam, and went to the bronze man-he'd help
me? That it?"
"Righto. Doc Savage would do just that."
"That's the bronze man's name - Savage?"
"Doc Savage, righto."
DOWN THE field a man yelled. "The Savage plane! She's comin'!"
Excitement swept the throng. Photographers who had been snapping the assemblage hastily charged
cameras with new plates and sprinkled flash light powder in gun troughs. The field flood lamps were
switched on, and "bobbies" cleared the landing runways of spectators.
Croydon was agog.
The foggy night sky spawned a plane. Engines barely kicking over, air awhistle around struts and wing
surfaces, the ship skidded from side to side as the pilot fishtailed away surplus speed. It was an all-metal,
tri-motored amphibian, and it settled on the field with the delicacy of a bird.
"Deuced good hand on those controls," a pilot spectator remarked.
The plane's engines blooped, kicking the ship around. Obviously the occupants were seeking to avoid the
crowd.
The throng surged forward, however, and in a moment had surrounded the plane. Motors were switched
off, so that the propellers would not damage overenthusiastic individuals.
The thin man who had been shot at went with the rest. He kept a sharp lookout as he ran, hence was not
among the first to reach the amphibian. Growling, he tugged and elbowed to get through. Others were
doing the same thing, He did not make much headway.
"Doc Savage!" the crowd yelled.
The photographers demanded pictures, the reporters interviews. Autograph hounds waved little books.
Bobbies jostled and shouted to bring order. They were ignored. Quieting the uproar seemed beyond
human power.
But the crowd suddenly became silent.
The bronze man had appeared, standing in the cabin door.
It was remarkable. So striking was the man that quiet fell. He was a giant - the comparative proportions
of the cabin door showed that. Under the bronze skin of his neck and his hands, great tendons reposed.
The thews were like bundles of piano wires. They indicated fabulous strength.
Probably the thing which did most to arrest the crowd's attention was the bronze man's eyes. They were
weirdly impressive eyes. Their hue was of flake-gold. They caught and reflected tiny lights from the field
floodlamps.
"Doc Savage!" some one breathed. "By Jove! He's the first celebrity I ever saw who looked as big as his
reputation,"
A photographer boomed a flash light gun. That broke the tension.
Something of a riot ensued. The journalists wanted their pictures and stories. The autograph fans desired
Doc Savage's signature. Others wanted merely to look. Doc Savage seemed to wish only to get away
from the crowd.
"No interviews," the bronze man told the newspaper representatives. "Our outfit doesn't go in for
publicity."
His words did not have the sound of a shout, yet the crowd heard them over the noise; there was power,
timbre, in the bronze man's remarkable voice.
Doc Savage stepped out of the plane.
Five men alighted after him. The five made a striking group, although the throng did not get much chance
to observe them.
One of the five could almost have passed as a hairy gorilla. This individual had a pig, evidently a pet,
tucked under one arm. The shoat had enormous ears and long legs, and was as homely an example of the
porker species as his master was of the human race.
Another was a big fellow with fists of unearthly hugeness, while a third was extremely tall and gaunt. Of
the re maining pair, one was pale, unhealthy-looking; and the other a nattily clad man carrying a black
cane.
"Doc Savage's five aides," somebody offered.
"I say - thought he worked alone!" exclaimed another.
"No. Those five men help 'im. Each of them is a bloomin' famous scientist."
Doc Savage and his five men formed a compact wedge; then they drove through the crowd.
The bony man who had been shot at struggled to reach Doc Savage, but the bronze man's party chanced
to take the opposite direction. The thin man cast about frantically; his gaze lighted upon a tractor which
was used to move planes in and out of hangars. He hesitated, as if fearful of exposing himself above the
crowd, then sprang atop the tractor.
"Doc Savage!" he yelled. But scores of other voices were also shouting, and the bronze man paid no
attention.
Diving a fist into his coveralls, the bony man extracted the packet wrapped in oiled paper, then calculated
carefully and threw the packet. The flung object hit Doc Savage.
COLLIDING WITH the bronze man's shoulder, the packet bounced. But the bronze man drove a hand
up and caught it before it was out of reach - a catch that was executed with such blinding speed that
those who saw it blinked unbelievingly, and quite a few failed to even glimpse it.
Doc Savage half wheeled and his strange golden eyes located the thin man. The fellow who had thrown
the packet made violent gestures, indicating that Doc should pocket the object.
"Keep it!" he screamed. "Please! I'll come to your hotel and explain!"
It was to be doubted that Doc Savage distinguished the words. Lip movement told him what was said,
however, the bronze man being a proficient lip reader. He pocketed the packet, and his flying wedge of
men went on, himself in their midst.
The bony man looked after the bronze giant. He seemed happy, since a broad grin was on his wasted
face.
The grin suddenly convulsed to a blank, hideous grimace. A shrill squeak; a sound like a hand slap and
the cadaverous man, throwing his arms in the air, fell backward off the tractor. His collision with the
ground was violent.
Some one helped him to his feet. Both hands clamped tightly to his left shoulder, the man stumbled
away.
Red liquid began crawling out through his fingers and trickling down his wrist into his sleeve. He had
taken a bullet through the shoulder. Like that other shot some minutes ago, this one had gone unnoticed in
the uproar.
The wounded man reached the edge of Croydon Field.
"Damn Sen Gat!" he grated.
The fog and the darkness gobbled him up.
Chapter 2. THE BLACK STICK
SOME TIME later a taxicab stopped in a shabby, gloom-stuffed side street in the Shoreditch section of
London. The bony man alighted and paid the fare. The cab rolled on and disappeared.
The man had stripped off the greasy coveralls and had donned his black raincoat. A bulge at the shoulder
indicated a bandage over the bullet wound.
The injury evidently was not serious, for the fellow's step was springy, alert, as he moved forward along
the grimy street. The shadows harbored him most of the time - care on his part saw to that.
This sector of London was the abode of many foreigners. Orientals had segregated themselves in the
immediate locality. Shuffling figures with hands tucked in oversize blouse sleeves, and the occasional tang
of incense, made the place seem as remote to London as a street in Hong Kong.
The gaunt man scuttled into an alley which was paved with round cobbles. Crouching, he felt with his
hands until he found a loose stone, then worked it free. The rock was as large as his two fists.
The blackness of a rear doorway sheltered him a moment later. He knocked, and after the briefest of
pauses there was a stir, and a slant-eyed celestial opened the door.
"Sen Gat," said the thin man.
The oriental was blandly expressionless.
"Velly solly," he singsonged. "No catchee such man this place."
The visitor scowled. "You tell Sen Gat I'm here or you all same catchee hell."
The yellow man grasped the door as if to shut it. "You all same come alongside big mistake. No Sen Gat
- "
The bony man struck with his rock. The stone hit the oriental squarely on top of the head, dropping him
senseless.
A brief examination brought conviction that the slant-eyed one would be out of commission for some
time. The attacker advanced quietly.
Luxurious rugs came under foot; perfumes and incense saturated the air. In one of the rooms lights were
on. Tapestries blanketed the walls, rich things replete with flame spouting dragons and grotesque oriental
characters, decorations which would appeal only to an oriental's eye.
Cushions were on the floors, images perched atop pedestals, and a tabouret supported a tray which held
a tea set and containers of sweetmeats and melon seeds. On either side of the door of this particular
room stood a suit of Chinese armor, complete with daggers and short swords.
The man prowled the room, cat-footed. He pulled tapestries aside and looked behind them until he
located what he sought.
Behind one of the tapestries was the door of a wall safe. The fellow spun the dial of this several times but
had no click.
Going back to the armor he secured a short sword, then stood beside the door and waited.
Deep silence held the aromatic interior of the house, but not for long.
The front door lock clicked as some one came in, then clicked again in shutting. Footsteps shuffled one
man. The fellow approached slowly, and eventually came into the room.
The thin man stepped forward, put the tip of his sword against the newcomer's stomach, and invited,
"Stand still, Sen Gat!"
SEN GAT was a rangy black crow of a man, with the features of an Asiatic and a skin that was Nubian
in its swarthiness. His hands were fantastic, jeweled rings ornamenting nearly every finger. The great
thing, though, was his finger nails; possibly six inches long, they were carefully curled inside gold
protectors which slipped, thimble-fashion, upon the ends of the fingers.
Sen Gat lifted his grotesque hands as the sword point bit at his midriff.
"Sezaniat datang," he said wryly.
"Speak English!" gritted the thin man.
"Welcome," said Sen Gat ironically.
"Sure!" The sword point, jabbing suggestively, went through coat cloth and sank a quarter of an inch
deep into flesh. "Stand still!"
Sen Gat stood, and the other searched him. A pocket yielded flat automatic; a sheath gave up a
serpentine laded reese; and a length of silk cord, excellent for strangling purposes, was disgorged by a
secret compartment in the coat lining.
Sen Gat said nothing throughout the inspection. The gold finger nail protectors lent his hands a weird
touch, an aspect of inhumanity.
"Open the wall safe," his captor ordered.
Sen Gat stared at his visitor, and the expression he saw on the bony features evidently was not
reassuring. There was violent determination - and hate.
After scowling very blackly for a brief time, Sen Gat shrugged slightly. "Very well."
He went over to the safe, the man with the sword following him.
"You know what I want. Don't waste time opening the safe if it's not there." The blade jabbed carelessly.
Sen Gat said nothing but squirmed away from the sharp steel.
"In fact," said the other, "if you open the safe and it is not there, I shall probably kill you,"
"It is there."
The dark oriental swept the drapery aside from the wall safe, moving slowly so as not to excite the
other.
As Sen Gat began opening the safe, it was manifest that he did not use his fingers a great deal. In fact, the
long nails made the fingers clumsy to the point of uselessness. Maneuvering the dial, be employed the
sides of his hand.
The safe came open. Holding his hands so the swordsman could see them, Sen Gat reached into the safe
and secured a packet
The object was perhaps half an inch thick, four inches long, and was wrapped in oil paper. It was an
almost exact duplicate of the package which the bony man had thrown to Doc Savage.
Sen Gat extended the article.
"Here you are, Maples," he gritted.
THE PALE, exotic lighting in the room made Maples's hand seem more skeleton-like than ever as he
took the packet. His bony fingers were agile despite their lack of flesh. Using only one hand, he unrolled
the oiled paper and got at the contents.
The paper had been wrapped around a black stick.
The black stick was round, but roughly so, as if it had been molded by rolling between palms. The
indentations of finger tips were even discernible in the sepia substance. The compound itself was vaguely
like hard rubber, yet obviously not rubber. There was a greasy shine to it.
"This is one of them," Maples said softly, and replaced the oiled covering.
"One of the keys," Sen Gat said, stepping back slightly. "Three black keys to the secret of the Man With
a Thousand Heads."
Maples glared. "Indigo told you that, eh?Á'
Sen Gat moved another pace. The rug under foot bore a grotesque oriental figure the likeness of some
deity or ogre.
"Indigo told me everything," Sen Gat said. "Indigo is quite faithful."
Maples snarled. He wrenched open his shirt at the chest. The skin had a stretched, taut look over his ribs
and breastbone. There were long welts, red and inflamed, crisscrossing each other, marks freshly made.
They were marks such as might have been left by the touch of a red-hot iron.
"Indigo is all devil," Maples grated. "He tortured me after he heard me talk in my sleep."
Sen Gat laughed. "I'll wager that Indigo learned all you knew."
Moving again, Sen Gat stepped on one ear of the ogre design woven into the carpet.
"Indigo got it all," Maples growled. "Calvin Copeland, his wife, the others - what happened to them - I
had to tell it all."
"A pitiful story." Sen Gat sneered as he spoke, and casually stepped on the other ear of the ogre.
"Damn you!" Maples grated. "You don't care what happens to Copeland, his wife, and the others. You
want to get to The Thousand-headed Man - with these three keys."
He juggled the packet which held the black stick.
Sen Gat smirked. "You misjudge me."
He said no more, for Maples lunged suddenly and struck him in the face. Sen Gat toppled backward.
Fear of snapping off his amazing finger nails seemed to keep him from using his hands to break his
descent. He fell heavily.
Maples wrenched up the rug. Under the two ears of the ogre were tiny push buttons; with his feet, Sen
Gat could have operated them.
"Called help, eh," Maples rapped.
He leaped upon Sen Gat, grabbed the swarthy oriental by the throat, and they fought. Sen Gat was the
stronger by I far, but he did not use his hands and that handicapped him.
Maples, suddenly realizing his foe was possessed with an awful fear of breaking his long finger nails,
grabbed the gold nail protectors and twisted.
Sen Gat shrieked, and to prevent breakage of the nails allowed himself to be led toward the door.
Suddenly, men came through the door.
THE FOREMOST of the newcomers was broad and powerful. His features were handsome in a hard
way, but two things combined to make them repulsive: the man's skin was unnaturally pale, and his beard
coarse, blue-black.
"Indigo! Help!" screeched Sen Gat.
The blue-bearded Indigo lunged forward. From his right hind dangled a unique weapon - a heavy steel
machine tap tied to the end of a leather thong almost a yard in length. He swung the tap on the thong,
underhanded, and let it go.
Indigo was deft in the use of his unique missile. Traveling with uncanny accuracy, it caught Maples on the
temple and dropped him quivering, stunned.
More men crowded into the room. These were all orientals. None of them had a face pleasant to look
upon.
Sen Gat minced backward, peering fearfully at his protected finger nails. His face mirrored an immense
relief when he found none of them broken. They were a love he valued next to his life, those nails.
Maples had dropped the black stick. Indigo picked it up and handed it to Sen Gat The latter, taking it,
gave his blue-whiskered henchman a scowl.
"You had orders to follow Maples and seize him."
"All same savvy that," muttered Indigo. He indicated Maples. "When we tackle him, we come alongside
smooth fella. Him b'long too damn much gray stuff in head. Two times at fly field we take the shot at him.
Too much slick. Bullets plentee miss."
Despite his white skin and his Caucasian lineaments, the man spoke the dialect common to natives of the
southern orient and the South Seas.
"Search him!" directed Sen Gat. "He should have the other black stick. That will give us two of the keys.
The other one the girl has."
"Yes. Stick three, him b'long Missy Lucille Copeland. Not so good."
He bent over the half conscious Maples and searched. Pockets were turned inside out. Maples's shirt
was torn off, disclosing the torture scar and the fresh bullet wound in the fellow's shoulder.
"Fly field bullet come 'longside this fella after all," Indigo chuckled.
But no other black stick came to light although they searched again. The discovery - or lack of discovery
- caused consternation. The orientals cackled in their native dialects; the Malayan tongue was
predominant. Evidently all had been with Indigo at the airport.
Sen Gat, listening to their talk, seized upon a morsel of information.
"You say Maples stood on a tractor and threw something," he demanded.
"Me come along that idea, mebbe so," Indigo admitted.
"Make him talk." Sen Gat gestured at Maples. "Find what he did with that other black key."
INDIGO, LEERING, departed to another room and returned carrying a deep brass brazier in which
charcoal burned. He added more charcoal and fanned the flame, and when he had sufficient heat,
inserted the point of the sword which Maples had used.
Maples revived and watched the preparations. Four men pinioned his arms and legs. Maples's eyes grew
unnaturally wide. He writhed as if the brand marks on his chest had become suddenly painful. Numerous
times he ran a tongue over his thin lips.
"It ain't gonna do you no good," he snarled desperately.
Indigo withdrew the sword from the brazier, observed that its tip barely glowed red, and returned it for
more heating.
"Mebbe so you fella tongue come loose," he suggested. Maples clenched his lower lip between his teeth,
held it a while, and when he released it the lip bore a row of semicircular tooth marks from which scarlet
drops crept.
"I can't stand burning again," he groaned. "listen; you fellows are out of luck. Torture won't help."
Sen Gat stroked his finger nails tenderly. "Yes?"
"Doc Savage has the black stick I was carrying."
Maples's words did not bring joy. The orientals chattered; Indigo rubbed his dark jaw; and Sen Gat
摘要：

THETHOUSAND-HEADEDMANADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?Chapter1.CELEBRITY?Chapter2.THEBLACKSTICK?Chapter3.THESECONDBLACKSTICK?Chapter4.SWEETWINE?Chapter5.AWOMAN'SVOICE?Chapter6.THEBOBBYTRICK?Chapter7.CORDON?Chapter8.THECLOCK?Chapter9.TH...

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