Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 008 - The Sargasso Ogre

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THE SARGASSO OGRE
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. THE "SINGAS" SONG
? Chapter II. CAVES OF BONES
? Chapter III. THE "CAMERONIC" PERIL
? Chapter IV. THE WHITE-WHISKERED MAN
? Chapter V. THE SCALP BELT
? Chapter VI. SEA TROUBLE
? Chapter VII. THE DEVIL'S BREW
? Chapter VIII. DERELICT
? Chapter IX. SEA OF THE DEAD
? Chapter X. DEATH'S REALM
? Chapter XI. SARGASSO PRISONERS
? Chapter XII. THE NIGHT DECOY
? Chapter XIII. THE HUNT
? Chapter XIV. RED DAWN
? Chapter XV. SPECTRAL MOTORS
? Chapter XVI. THE SARGASSO OGRE PLANS
? Chapter XVII. THE FLAME TRAP
? Chapter XVIII. FATAL FIST
? Chapter XIX. MONK'S LAST SALLY
Chapter I. THE "SINGAS" SONG
AN American man of letters once said that, if a man built a better mousetrap, the world would beat a
path to his door.
Pasha Bey was like that. His output was not mousetraps, but it was the best of its kind. Being modern,
Pasha Bey had become president of a vast organization which specialized in his product. The fame of
Pasha Bey was great. From all of Egypt, men beat a path to his door, which was likely to be anywhere in
Alexandria. They came to buy his product, of course.
Pasha Bey's product was murder!
Just now, Pasha Bey was about to close a deal. He was easing up a dark street just off the Place
Mehemet Ali, the center of the life of Alexandria
Pasha Bey was a large bag of bones. He wore a flowing burnoose. The burnoose was more flowing than
the usual one, so as to conceal the fact that two long-bladed singas were in sheaths strapped to Pasha
Bey's bony, naked upper arms.
He also carried two modern, silenced American sixshooters, one on either hip. A silk cord, excellent for
strangling purposes, was fastened inside the burnoose with a single thread; so it could be wrenched free
quickly.
Pasha Bey always went well heeled with tools of his trade.
He turned, stepping silently, into an entry. This place was like a dark tunnel. Some thirty feet deep, it
terminated in a heavy wooden door. A small, barred hole pierced the door.
"Ya intal," he called softly through the bars.
"What?" growled a harsh Yankee voice from the other side of the grille.
"Holloa there!" said Pasha Bey, putting his call into English. "By the life of your father, your servant is
here. He awaits your command."
"Are you ready to pull the croak?" asked the unseen man.
"Na'am, aywa!" murmured Pasha Bey.
"Speak English. you bony camel!"
"Yes. I am ready!"
The man backed of the door did not waste time. He shoved a hand through the bars. The hand was
gloved. It held a folded paper.
"Give this note to the guy. It's a bait to make him go with you without suspecting anything. I don't care
where you do the job, or how you do it. But pick a good spot."
"Trust your servant."
"0. K. Now, beat it!"
"Four thousand piastres," Pasha Bey reminded gently.
"You'll get your pay when the job is done!" growled the hidden man.
"Half; now," suggested Pasha Bey, who knew it was sometimes difficult to collect from those who
wanted murder done.
There was silence while the unseen man thought it over. Then the gloved hand again appeared. It held a
hundred dollar bill-the approximate equivalent of two thousand piastres. At current exchange, a piastre
was worth about a nickel.
Pasha Bey stowed the money in his burnoose. "I will come here for the other half-and to tell you the man
is dead."
"Are you sure you've got his name down pat-Major Thomas J. Roberts? Long Tom Roberts."
"I know."
"0. K. You may see a big, bronze-looking guy around. Steer clear of him."
"Very well."
"Vamose!"
With a meekness that belied his profession, Pasha Bey eased out of the gloomy tunnel. He was
pondering if, upon his return, he might not be able to slip his silken strangling cord through those bars and
around the neck of the man who had hired him. The fellow might have more of those big bills. It was
good, this American money.
NOT very many minutes later, Pasha Bey appeared in the lobby of the Hotel Londoner. This hostelry
was one of the swankiest in Alexandria, and it catered largely to English speaking foreigners.
The lobby held the usual quota of guests and loafers. Some of the latter were Pasha Bey's associates,
members of the particular murderer's guild of which he was dictator.
In the United States, Pasha Bey would have been called the big shot of a mob; in Egypt, he was the head
of a guild.
He sauntered over and joined one of his men.
"You have a word for me?" he questioned.
"The man -- Long Tom Roberts -- is in his room," advised the other. "But he has company. From the
hallway, I listened and heard voices."
"How many voices?"
"Long Tom Roberts's and one other."
"A visitor, by Allah!" Pasha Bey folded his arms while he thought. His bony face was benevolent. He
looked like a harmless old man in need of a square meal.
"I will go up and pray that my ears may tell me the visitor has gone," he said at last, and shuffled for the
stairs.
At the foot of the staircase, Pasha Bey had a strange experience. He encountered a bronze giant of an
American. He took a single look at this herculean figure-and shivered.
That was unusual. Pasha Bey had not, in a goodly number of years, seen anything fearsome enough to
give him qualms. He was a hardened rogue, afraid of nothing. That is, he feared nothing until he saw the
bronze man. One look at the big, metallic American scared Pasha Bey. There was something terrible
about the giant Yankee.
Pasha Bey turned to watch the bronze man across the lobby. He was not alone in his staring; almost
every one else was doing the same thing. Alexandria was a city of strange men, but never had it seen
such a personage as this.
The American was huge, yet so perfectly proportioned that his great size was apparent only when he was
near other men to whose stature he might be compared. They seemed to shrink to pygmies alongside
him. Tendons like big metal bands enwrapped the bronze man's hands and neck, giving a hint of the
tremendous strength which must be harbored in his mighty body.
But it was the eyes that got Pasha Bey. They were weird orbs, like glittering pools of flake gold. In one
casual glance, they seemed to turn Pasha Bey's unholy soul inside out, see all its evil, and promise full
punishment. The effect was most unnerving.
Pasha Bey had heard of this man of metal-had heard much of him. So had all of Alexandria, for that
matter.
The man was Doc Savage. He had appeared in Egypt under circumstances that were cyclonic. Cables
had carried news of the event across the Atlantic; airplanes. had rushed pictures of his arrival to
newspapers in London, Paris, Berlin, and elsewhere.
For Doc Savage had come, with five strange men who were his aids, flying the Zeppelin-type airship,
Aeromunde, which had vanished mysteriously many years ago. It was all very fantastic, this arrival of
Doc Savage and his helpers.
Rumor had it that evil men had stolen the dirigible and used it for years to carry slaves to a lost oasis in
the trackless deserts, where there was a great diamond mine, and that Doc Savage had rescued the
slaves and punished their masters.
PASHA BEY had probed into those rumors, especially after be heard something about several packing
cases filled with diamonds. But he had learned precious little. No one was telling the location of the
fabulous lost oasis of the diamonds. The Aeromunde had been restored to the government which
formerly owned the ship.
Doc Savage -- talk in the drinking places said -- had given to each of the rescued slaves a round fortune,
and was keeping the diamonds. But the gems themselves were only rumors, for all the headway Pasha
Bey had made at locating them.
The names of Doc Savage's aids had even evaded Pasha Bey's adroit angling for information.
He would have been very shocked to learn that "Long Tom" Roberts was one of those five. Had he
known this, he would have thought long and soberly before undertaking to murder the man for four
thousand piastres. Doc Savage and his comrades were a bad crowd to monkey with.
They were reported to be a terror to evildoers. It was said they made a life work out of helping those
who needed help, and punishing those who deserved it. Doc Savage and the five aids traveled to the
ends of the earth to hunt trouble.
Unluckily for him, Pasha Bey did not know the connection between Long Tom and Doc Savage. So he
shuffled upstairs in search of Long Tom's room.
He found the door in a brightly decorated hall. Composing a look of bland meekness on his bony
features, he rippled knuckles on the panel, after making sure he heard no voices inside.
"Who is it?"
"A messenger for Major Thomas J. Roberts, the electrical engineer."
"Be right with you!"
The man who soon opened the door was rather undersized, pale of hair and eyes, and somewhat pale of
complexion. In fact, he did not look at all robust. He did, however, have a very alert manner.
This fellow, Pasha Bey reflected, would surely be an easy one to murder. The thought did not show on
his face, however. He extended the note his employer had handed through the barred door.
Long Tom read it.
MY DEAR ROBERTS: I have heard a great deal about your ability as an electrical expert, and of your
accomplishments in the field of atomic research.
You may not have heard of me, my name not being widely known. But I believe I have perfected a
device for killing harmful insects with atomic streams. My understanding is that you have experimented
along the same lines.
I certainly wish that you would visit me and inspect my apparatus. If you would be kind enough to do so,
the bearer of this note will guide you to my laboratory.
LELAND SMITH.
Long Tom showed pronounced interest. It was true that he had never heard of Leland Smith. But he had
himself perfected a device for killing insects. The thing would be a boon to farmers, and Long Tom
expected to make a fortune out of it. If some other inventor was likely to cut in on the profits, Long Tom
wanted to know about it.
"I'll go with you," he told Pasha Bey.
HURRIEDLY, Long Tom turned for his hat. A half-packed suitcase stood on a chair. It bore a fresh
label, addressed to a stateroom on the steamer Cameronic. This was ample evidence that Long Tom
expected to sail on the Camerionic, which was scheduled to depart shortly after midnight.
Long Tom placed the note on the table. At the foot of it, he wrote:
Doc -- I've gone to look into this.
"So my friends will know what became of me," he told Pasha Bey. "Let's go."
Pasha Bey would much rather that the note not be left behind. It was a clew for the Alexandria police,
who were unpleasantly efficient. But he dared not object, and arouse suspicion.
They went down to the lobby. Spying one of his men, Pasha Bey thought he saw a way of removing the
note from the scene.
"Ten thousand pardons, master," he apologized profusely to Long Tom. "I see an old friend. I would like
very much to talk to him for a moment."
"Sure! Go ahead."
Pasha Bey sidled over to his hireling, a man called Homar.
"Listen closely, oh stupid one!" he muttered. "This fool of a white man left a note on the table in his room.
The ways of the police are beyond understanding, and it might be unfortunate for us if they found the
note. Go get it."
"Yes, oh wise one," agreed Homar.
"When you have the missive, come to the spot in the catacombs where we are to kill this white man. He
is small and pale, and should be easy killing. But it is just as well to have plenty of help on hand. He who
said too many cooks spoil a broth told a lie."
"Yes, oh great one," replied Homar.
Pasha Bey now returned to Long Tom and salaamed politely.
"My friend was very glad to see me," he lied. "And by the life of your father, I am grateful to you for
letting me talk with him."
"That's all right," said Long Tom impatiently. "Let's hurry along. Our gang is sailing on the Camerionic, a
little after midnight."
They stepped to the street. A neat, moderately expensive closed automobile stood at the curb.
"Our conveyance, my master," murmured Pasha Bey, neglecting to add that the car was stolen, and that
the driver was one of the most accomplished murderers in Alexandria, probably second only to Pasha
Bey himself.
They entered. The car rolled along the narrow streets, the booq hooting loudly to clear the hodgepodge
of humanity out of the way.
Long Tom settled back luxuriously on the cushions, entirely unaware that he was riding to a death trap.
Chapter II. CAVES OF BONES
IN the Hotel Londoner, Homar hurried to get the note from Long Tom's room. as he had been hidden to
do. In Egyptian, Homar's name meant "donkey." The fact that he seemed always half asleep had earned
him the cognomen. He was neither slow-moving nor stupid, however. He was a sharp fiend, or he would
not have been in Pasha Bey's crew.
He had very little difficulty picking the lock of Long Tom's room. Entering, he seized the note. He drew a
kabrit from a pocket, with the idea of burning the paper. Then, on second thought, he put the match
away and stuffed the missive inside his burnoose. Pasha Bey might find use for it, for there was such a
thing as blackmail in Egypt.
He turned to depart.
The door had opened and closed while Homar was getting the paper, but he had not been aware of this.
The thing had happened with great silence.
Nor did Homar, upon leaving the room, notice that the window at the end of the corridor was open. He
scuttled down the stairs, anxious to join Pasha Bey in the killing.
A moment after Homar vanished, the giant bronze form of Doc Savage appeared in the open window.
He had been outside, hanging to the ledge by his fingers. Furthermore, it was he who had opened and
shut the door of Lang Tom's room so silently. Doc had come upstairs in time to witness the undeniably
suspicious act of Homar in picking the door lock.
He followed Homar. Doc knew all the signs. Trouble was once more seeking out him and his men, as it
had a habit of doing. He was intent on finding out what it could be this time.
Homar engaged a ramshackle cab near the hotel. Doc got into another, commanding his driver to trail the
first machine.
They progressed to the region of the city where stood Pompey's Pillar, in the highest part of Alexandria.
The red granite shaft of Pompey's Pillar, exquisitely polished, glistened faintly in the moonlight. From
there, the course led southwest.
Homar dismissed his hack.
The pilot of Doc Savage's vehicle drove on at a soft order from the rear. Several score qasabs he
traveled, then suddenly discovered a gold fifty-piastres coin on the cushions beside him. He looked
around. Much to his astonishment, his fare was gone.
Doc Savage had quitted the cab some distance back, silent as a phantom for all his great size. He lurked
in the shadow of a heap of ancient masonry, watching Homar's alert progress.
Doc had a fair knowledge of this section of Alexandria, just as he had, stored in his retentive memory,
what amounted to a map of every large city on the globe. This was part of an amazing course of training
which Doc had administered to himself -- a training to fit himself for this strange life work of helping those
in need of help, and punishing those who deserved it.
This part of Alexandria held the ancient catacombs -- vast underground caverns, possibly dating back to
the day of Cleopatra -- which held the bones of Egyptians long dead. Parts of the catacombs had been
seen by no living man, Doc knew.
Homar moved to a ramshackle stone hut. Doc haunted him like a bronze ghost
A gritty rasp came from within the stone hut. Doc glanced in. Using a flashlight, Homar was tilting a slab
of rock from the floor. He dropped into the cavity, closing the stone plate after him.
A FLASHLIGHT came out of Doc Savage's clothing. It cast a beam like a glowing white-hot wire, the
thin luminance switching back and forth over the hut floor.
A drop or two of wet crimson glistened in the ray. Near the trapdoor edge was a group of slightly larger
smears. Five! Red finger prints!
Bending low, Doc explained them.
Into the sour murk of the hut there abruptly came a strange, exotic sound. It was a low, trilling, mellow
note, which might have been the sound of some weird bird of the jungle, or a wind filtering through the
piled stone of the ancient ruins around about. Although melodious, it had no tune. It had an uncanny
quality, for it seemed to come from no particular spot.
It was part of Doc Savage, this sound -- a small, unconscious thing which he did in moments of stress.
The bloody finger prints were from Long Tom's right hand! Doc had seen the prints of his five men
countless times, and could recognize them instantly.
He grasped the stone lid. It had rasped under Homar's clutch, but it lifted noiselessly under Doc's hand --
so silently, that it almost seemed the bronze man had a supernatural power to command quiet.
Cold, damp steps led down; then came a black, low tunnel. Dust of ages lay on the floor. The sound of
Homar's footsteps thumped like the beat of a water-filled drum.
Doc whipped forward without noise, showing no light, sensitive hands feeling out the way. The walls
were rough. In spots, there were hard, crusted deposits formed by water seepage through the centuries.
They came to a spot where the ancient corridor branched three ways. Homar took the one to the right.
He seemed to know where he was going.
The character of the walls abruptly changed, becoming solid instead of jointed masonry. The passages
were hewn out of natural rock.
Doc drew a small case from a pocket. This held a peculiar powder. At frequent intervals, he dropped a
pinch on the tunnel floor.
Homar's footbeats led on iinterminably. Shuffle and thud! Shuffle and thud! The noises had a dull,
deathlike quality. The air was dusty. It was like breathing within a trunk which had been long closed.
Again and again, the passages branched. And every few yards, Doc left a bit of his powder on the floor.
His actions might have seemed a bit puzzling. The stuff gave off no odor, no phosphorescent glow.
The tunnel widened, forming a series of long rooms. Doc's hands, along the walls, encountered what felt
vaguely like rounded stones. These were arched entirely to the ceiling. He knew what they were.
Human skulls! The walls were lined with them.
Farther on, there were many casket-shaped niches cut in the rock, and in these were stacked arm and
leg bones, spinal columns, ribs. It was a macabre, hideous place. Compared to these catacombs, a walk
through a graveyard at midnight was no more awesome than a stroll through a town park.
Doc Savage went forward without flinching or shivering. If he experienced any of the feelings which
would have gripped another man, he did not show it. Doc had remarkable powers of concentration. He
avoided the ghostly, spine-chilling effects of his surroundings simply by putting his attention on following
the man ahead, and keeping it there.
Homar was carrying his flashlight at his side.
Deeper and deeper into the maze, they penetrated. They descended steps. The catacombs seemed to be
cut several stories deep. Countless thousands were the dead who had been buried here, for the city had
been founded in the third century.
In some passages the stone had caved in, closing them, probably forever. Three times, Homar opened
stone doors. Doc, a silent specter at his heels, kept leaving small deposits of his powder.
They came finally to their destination.
SEVERAL brightly glowing flashlights marked the spot. Men were squatting cross-legged, or standing
about a sprawled form. The latter was Long Tom.
The right side of Long Tom's face was a sticky red smear from a cut on his scalp, evidently the result of a
blow which had knocked him senseless. His dazed manner showed that he had just revived.
A large heap of bones shrouded in a white burnoose, Pasha Bey was hunkered in front of Long Tom. In
the professional murderer's gaunt claw was a book of ordinary travelers' checks. These comprised Long
Tom's traveling funds, and they totaled more than a thousand dollars.
"By the left eye of Allah, himself, I swear it!" Pasha Bey was murmuring. "If you will sign these travelers'
checks, I will let you go free and guide you out of this devil's den of bones!"
It was apparent Long Tom was still alive only because of Pasha Bey's greed. Long Tom had signed each
of the checks when buying them, as was customary. They could be cashed only when he signed them a
second time in the space which was provided. Pasha Bey no doubt had a way of getting the money for
them, once they were complete with both signatures.
Long Tom scowled. "No! You can't kid me!"
"By both eyes of Allah, I swear that I -- "
"I know a liar when I see one! You can swear by all of Allah, and I wouldn't believe a word!"
Pasha Bey slipped one of his razor-sharp singes from an arm sheath. In the fitful glare of the flashlights, he
presented a sinister figure. He might have been an assembly of hones taken from the surrounding
catacomb walls, stained brown, animated with life, and covered with a white burnoose.
"Wallah!" he snarled. "You will have but one more chance to sign these paper slips!"
Long Tom slowly propped himself to a sitting position. His wrists and ankles were tightly bound. His pale
face was even whiter than usual, and grimly composed. He was wise enough to know he was very near
death, whether he signed the travelers' checks or not.
His roped feet suddenly drove out. He had decided to take a desperate chance. The awkward kick sent
Pasha Bey spinning head over heels. The singa flew up, clinked on the ceiling, and all but speared Long
Tom as it dropped at his back near his bound hands.
Sliding his bound wrists over the blade, cutting the ropes with one slice, Long Tom grasped the big knife.
He chopped desperately at the bonds on his feet.
Howling, Pasha Bey's men rushed forward. Nearly every brown paw clutched a foot or more of glinting
steel. They crouched low to the floor. They were like evil, tobacco colored mice in white sheets.
The next instant, they were even more like mice. Mice with a gigantic bronze cat in their midst!
Two blows popped. Each broke bones, crushed flesh. The two men who had been hit fell without
knowing what had happened-knocked out.
The form of Long Tom was wrenched bodily from under the descending knives.
The thing happened with such blinding speed that even Long Tom did not get a glimpse of his rescuer
before he was out of danger. But he knew who it was, the moment he felt the clutch which jerked him to
safety. Only one man possessed such strength and agility -- Doc Savage!
ONE of Pasha Bey's men goggled as Doc appeared before him-a mighty genie of bronze. He yelled,
struck with his singa! His yell became an agonized squawl as his wrist was trapped in midair. Came a
jerk such as the would-be killer had never felt before. He sailed to one side like a tossed bundle, struck
the wall, and bounced back to lie so dazed he could not move.
Knifemen charged the bronze giant, only to have him seemingly vanish before their eyes, so quickly did
he whip out of the flashlight luminance.
Two fellows in the rear dropped, knocked stiff as toppling logs, before they knew Doc had attacked
again from that point.
This was too much. It bordered on the supernatural. It was hard to believe flesh and blood could move
so swiftly.
"Wallah!" wailed a man. "He is a ruh! A spirit!"
Maybe the others thought that, too. Or maybe it was that they had no stomach for a real fight.
Ten-to-one odds in a dark alley was their style.
They fled. plunging headlong through the catacomb passages, their flash beams darting like terrified
things. One man, less agile, bringing up the rear, screeched as fingers like steel bands trapped his neck. A
tap on the temple reduced the fellow to senselessness.
The rest could not run much faster, but that did not keep them from trying to do so.
Far ahead was a bounding flashlight glow. This was Pasha Bey, the master murderer. And master of
discretion, too! He knew when flight was wise. He had taken a big head start on the others.
He knew, now. that Long Tom was one of Doc Savage's group of five aids. At least, he had guessed it.
And between jumps. he was cursing the man who had hired him to murder Long Tom.
That man would pay for not mentioning the fact that Long Tom was one of Doc Savage's crew. He
would pay dearly! And that, as soon as Pasha Bey could hurry to the darkened street off the Place
Mehemet Ali for a meeting.
The fleeing murder gang passed through one of the stone doors. The hindermost fellow wrenched the
heavy rock slab shut. It was swung on great iron hinges, and there was a massive iron bar. He slid the
bar.
"Wallah!" he howled. "By the life of my father, we are safe! The bronze man and the one we sought to kill
will never escape! There is no other way out of that place!"
The whole gang kept on at full speed, however.
Chapter III. THE "CAMERONIC" PERIL
DOC SAVAGE reached the huge block of stone that was the door. He exerted a tentative shove. The
rock only groaned. It was as solid as the entrance of a bank vault. Turning, he strode back to join his
friend.
Long Tom had cut himself loose, and was stumbling about, gathering up knives which had been dropped
in the retreat. He picked up his travelers' checks, patted them lovingly, and pocketed them.
"Those things," he said dryly, "are all that kept me alive until you could get here."
"Was it robbery?" Doc asked him.
Long Tom ran fingers through his thin blond hair. "I don't think so, Doc. Of course, they delayed slipping
a knife into me in hopes I would sign those travelers' checks. But I don't think robbery was at the bottom
of the trouble. I had only a few dollars in change. The checks were worthless unless countersigned."
"This is rather mystifying."
"You said it! I can't imagine why they picked on me."
"Unless they were hired!"
"Yes. I thought of that. But who would hire them? And why? We have no enemies in Alexandria. Or I
haven't, at least."
Speaking rapidly, Doc explained how he had gotten on the trail by observing the man removing the note
from Long Tom's hotel room.
"That note was a bait, of course," Long Tom grunted.
摘要：

THESARGASSOOGREADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.THE"SINGAS"SONG?ChapterII.CAVESOFBONES?ChapterIII.THE"CAMERONIC"PERIL?ChapterIV.THEWHITE-WHISKEREDMAN?ChapterV.THESCALPBELT?ChapterVI.SEATROUBLE?ChapterVII.THEDEVIL'SBREW?Chapter...

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