Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 177 - The Angry Canary

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THE ANGRY CANARY
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page formatted 2004 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I
? Chapter II
? Chapter III
? Chapter IV
? Chapter V
? Chapter VI
? Chapter VII
? Chapter VIII
? Chapter IX
? Chapter X
? Chapter XI
Originally published in Doc Savage Magazine August 1948
Chapter I
THE cage was there on one of the shelves in the package check-room at four o'clock when the two men
on the night shift came to work.
It did not at that time bear much resemblance to a canary cage, because it was wrapped in coarse brown
paper and tied around with string. Some expertness with knots had gone into the way the string was tied.
That is, the knots were not conventional granny knots.
The two check-room attendants were pleasant fellows. Fred Lill, fiftyish, lived in Brooklyn and had a son
studying at Columbia to become a doctor. Jim Presse, younger, unmarried, had grown up on an Iowa
farm. Actually, though, the only important part Fred and Jim took in the matter was when Fred tore a bit
of the paper loose from the cage. He did this as an act of misguided kindness.
This happened after six. The hours of four to six were peak rush for the check-room, as steel-souled
Manhattan hurriedly emptied itself of office workers, and quite a few of these picked up packages or
week-end or overnight cases. About six, the pressure eased, both men fired up cigarettes, and Fred
walked back along Tier Seven and cocked his head at the paper-wrapped cage. Fred's interest was
bird-like. Owlish, because he was a fat man.
“Hell of a lot of scratching around going on in there,” Fred remarked.
“Canary cage, isn't it?” Jim wasn't too interested.
“Guess so. Looks like it.” Fred frowned, and added, “Poor birds are probably smothering in there.
Some people are sure careless.” And on impulse, he poked a finger against the paper, broke it, and
peeled a piece loose.
Jim asked, “What'd you do that for? Now somebody'll complain about the paper being torn.” He came
over and glanced at the cage, but with no interest. “There was probably holes in the bottom for
ventilation.” He bent down and looked. “Sure. A couple of holes.”
“Black paper under the brown,” Fred said, pointing. He was surprised. “Why wrap it in black paper,
then put brown over that?”
Jim shrugged. “I don't know nothing about canaries. Maybe they're like chickens. Sit still and roost when
they're in the dark. Or is it canaries in there?”
A shrill tittering came from the cage.
“I never heard a canary make a noise like that,” Fred muttered. He leaned down and put an eye to the
hole he'd made. “Yeah, canaries. Two of them—” He stopped on a rather shocked note.
“Sounded like the canary giggled,” Jim remarked. “But like I said, what I don't know about the things is
plenty, and anyway it's none of our business—say, what's the matter with you?”
Fred was distressed. “They're fighting!”
“Yeah?”
Slapping a hand against the cage, Fred said, “Here, here, stop that!” He jiggled the cage around. “They
won't stop!”
“Aw, the cage was probably wrapped that way to keep it dark so they wouldn't scrap,” said Jim
indifferently. “Cover up the hole, and they'll be all right. They'll settle down.”
Fred followed the suggestion quickly. He was upset. “I never saw anything like that—such hate. Such
viciousness.” He stepped back from the cage. “I wish to God I hadn't messed with it.”
Jim laughed. “Why get worked up about a couple of birds pecking each other a time or two?”
But Fred was distressed and puzzled. “We keep three canaries at home,” he muttered. “They never act
like that.” He shook his head, adding, “It isn't a natural way to act.”
“I can say the same thing about some people,” Jim said.
BOTH check-room attendants noticed the man named Plott before he indicated any intention of
approaching the checking concession. He was not anyone they had seen before, and they came to know
him as Plott only because that was the name he presently gave them.
“Hey, Fred,” Jim said.
“Eh?”
“Day in and day out, a lot of funny-looking people pass here,” said Jim softly. “But take a look at that
skeezicks yonder. The one over by the newsstand.”
Fred studied the individual. “I see what you mean.” Then he added, “He seems to be heading this way.”
The man was of average height, but there his claim to the average began and ended. He had perfectly
white hair which seemed to grow forward-pointing on his head instead of backward, his skin was the rich
hue of diluted gold, or of knotty pine, and he was thinner than a healthy man had a right to be. His eyes
were large, bulbous and almost transparent. Should these oddities escape note, he wore a green suit of a
shade hitherto unheard of, and a yellow shirt about equally as preposterous.
“Wow! And I thought fire-engines were gaudy,” Jim whispered. He sauntered over to the counter, asking
the man, “What'll it be, pal?”
The man spoke English so precise it couldn't be his mother-tongue.
“I deposited a package for safekeeping earlier in the day,” he said. “Unfortunately, I seem to have mislaid
the small ticket which I am supposed to present to reclaim my property. I should like to obtain the article,
however.”
“Sorry.” Jim shook his head. “You'll have to have your claim-check to do business here, mister.”
The man looked at them. His eyes were like glass bulbs containing slightly soiled water. “Oh, luckily, I
can perfectly describe package and contents. That should serve, shouldn't it?”
“No tickee, no washee,” said Jim.
“I beg pardon?”
“Just an old American catch phrase, like showing your claim-check if you want your package,” Jim told
him curtly.
The man looked at Jim in a way that gave the latter a somewhat creepy sensation. “But I can tell you my
name. It is Plott. Mr. Plott.” He did not smile. As a matter of fact he did not smile at any time, as if he
was physically incapable of doing so. “My item of property consists of a canary cage. I can, if you insist,
describe the birds inside, even to their age and sex.”
Jim felt a strong urge to be rid of the fellow, and he said, “Look, to save a long argument, I can tell you
that you won't get to first base with us. We have rules to follow. If you want your package without a
claim-check, you'll have to see the boss-man about it.”
“Boss-man? You mean someone of higher authority?”
“Yeah. Buck Fineberg. See him. He's in the main check-stand on the upper level, north end. Go see
Buck, and he'll take care of it.”
The odd man had been kneading his thin hands together during the discussion, and now there was a
greenback in his facile fingers. Mysteriously, too; where it had come from would be hard to say.
“Conceivably, there could be an alternative?” he asked.
Jim looked at the bill.
“Inconceivable!” he said curtly.
The odd man bent his head slightly. “Then I shall consult with your Mr. Buck Fineberg.” He turned and
went away.
Fred moved up beside Jim and breathed hoarsely. “Didn't you notice he had a double sawbuck?”
“Jobs these days,” said Jim angrily, “are worth more than twenty bucks.”
Fred grinned and said, “That's right, boy. That's sure right.” He went back and stood looking at the
canary cage and listening.
Jim called, “Them birds still going at it?”
“I'm afraid so,” Fred said. “I can't understand it, either.”
THE second one who didn't have a claim-check was a girl. Not a gloriously lovely girl, and not a homely
one either, although there was some reason to believe she might have taken pains to make herself
non-distinctive. Her dull grey coat was shapeless, but she clearly wasn't, and her seal-brown hair drawn
back from her forehead as straight as strings didn't have the aspect of always being worn that way. No
rouge, no powder, nothing extra at the eyes. And she, too, wanted the canaries.
She smiled a nice enough smile. “I know people who've mislaid their claim-checks must be an awful
nuisance, but I haven't mine. I have a package here, though. Now, how do I go about getting it?”
Jim liked this one, and he said temporizingly, “Well, now, that's a tough break, isn't it?”
Fred happened to have overheard. “No check, no package,” he said bluntly.
Jim wheeled and frowned at him, so Fred shrugged and moved away. Jim grinned at the girl. “Fred's an
old grouch. A nice guy, but an old-timer who's heaved too many satchels around in here.” He leaned
forward confidentially. “I'd sure like to help you, Miss—”
“Meg,” said the girl promptly. “Margaret, I mean. Miss Margaret Prince. And I would certainly like to
pick up my package without causing a lot of bother.”
“I'd like to have your address, too, for our files,” Jim said cunningly. “And your telephone number.”
Margaret Prince hesitated. “Well, all right. It's East Barent Avenue. 1233 East Barent. The telephone is
Barentwood 9-7600.”
“Fine, fine. Now could you describe your package?” Jim asked. And his eyes bugged slightly as he
listened to the girl say, “Yes, of course. It's a canary cage wrapped in brown paper and tied around with
string. There are two canaries inside. They are named Jim and Joe.”
Jim grinned foolishly. “Well, my name's Jim, too,” he said. After a moment of confusion, he asserted, “I'll
go back and have a look for it.” He sauntered to the rear, found Fred, and told him, “This one's after the
canaries too.”
Fred scowled. “Going to give them to her?”
“I'd rather she had them than old queer-eyes,” said Jim dryly. “But the answer is, hell no.”
THE girl listened to Jim with a little frown of disappointment when he came back. She said, “You say I'm
to see a Mr. Buck Fineberg? Very well. But I did hope it wouldn't be necessary to bother a lot of
people, just because I lost my claim-check.”
Jim looked at her steadily, and told her a lie. “I think Buck was on duty here this morning when you
probably left the package,” he said.
“Oh, good! Maybe he'll remember me, and that will save a lot of explaining,” she said happily.
Jim was nonplussed, a little ashamed of himself, and he passed the buck to Fred, saying, “I'd let you have
it, only old sour-puss”—he jerked his head toward the rear, where Fred was—“doesn't like the idea.
You know how it is. I gotta get along with the guy.”
“I understand,” said Miss Margaret Prince, and she walked away.
“Between the two,” Jim told Fred, “I think the babe was straight goods. She looked all right to me.”
“They mostly all do—to you,” said Fred.
“Hell, I lied and said Buck was in here when she left the package, just to see what her reaction would be.
And she seemed pleased, and hoped he'd remember her. Does that sound like she's a sharper?”
“It sounds,” said the more experienced Fred, “about like a woman would sound when she was making a
foot out of a guy with a bushy tail like yours.”
“Yah. Nuts.” Jim jerked his head. “How the canaries getting along?”
“They're still fighting.”
“In the dark.”
“Yes, in the dark. They haven't let up an instant. It's incredible.”
“What's so incredible about a fight? I mean, almost everybody and everything is equipped to do a little
fighting. That's why moose have horns.”
“I don't think canaries ever fight in the dark,” Fred said. “Mine never have, anyway. And I've never seen
anything like this hate, unadulterated hate, which these birds manifest.”
“The way you're talking, I'm beginning to feel funny about this,” Jim said.
“I feel that way when I look at those hate-crazed birds.”
Jim went into the back, picked up the telephone and got himself connected with the larger check-room
on the upper level of Grand Central, where supervisor Buck Fineberg presided. Jim spoke with Buck for
a few minutes, then hung up. “Hey, Fred, old scare-face never showed up to ask Buck for the package.
What do you think of that?”
“I'm not surprised.”
“Nor the girl either.”
“I'm still not surprised.”
Grabbing up the telephone again, Jim dialed the number which Margaret Prince had given him as her
own. Upon receiving an answer, he asked boldly for Miss Prince, and the reply he received made an
interesting study on his face for Fred to watch.
“Well?” asked Fred.
“It was the precinct Police Station,” said Jim sheepishly. “They don't know any Miss Prince.”
Twenty minutes later, Fred called thickly, “Jim, come here.”
Jim hurried to Fred's side. “What's the matter now?” He saw that Fred was staring at the canary cage
sickly.
“One bird is dead,” Fred said.
“Huh?”
“Dead. The other bird killed it.”
Jim shrugged. “Yeah? Well, that ought to quiet things down on the old homestead.”
Grimacing, Fred said, “Oh, don't be so cold-blooded. If you had seen the poor little things showing such
malevolent hate, you wouldn't be so smart about it.”
But the other man was getting tired of the whole subject of canaries. He spoke his mind on the matter.
“Oh hell, get it off your mind. Two birds get to fighting in a cage, and there's a winner. So what? So if
you don't blatt out that you opened up the paper in the first place so they could get a look at each other
and start operations, there's nothing to it. Forget the whole thing.”
Fred was peering into the cage. “Hate,” he murmured. “I never saw such anger and hate in a bird. I didn't
know a canary could show such a thing.”
“Oh, shut up,” said Jim. “You and your angry canary!”
Chapter II
THE possession of a reputation had long ago saddled Doc Savage with a few handicaps. Out of
somewhere near a hundred and forty million U. S. inhabitants, not each one had heard of Doc Savage,
but the percentage who had was respectable. Impressive, too, considering the care which Doc had taken
to avoid publicity, or at least notoriety. Since the scientific genius of the man, his startling physical ability,
and his unusual Galahad-like occupation of righting wrongs and punishing evildoers, was not unknown in
quite a few odd corners of the world, perhaps the total terrestrial population of around two billion two
hundred million should be considered in the percentage table. The point was, that out of a number like
that, there were sure to be screwballs to make life irritating.
Doc Savage's work, the righting of wrongs and punishing of evildoers whom the normal fingers of law
enforcement did not seem to be able to grasp and crush, was itself enough out-of-place in a currently
war-cynical and distrustful civilization to make it a subject of disbelief, and on the tongues of the ignorant
or disillusioned, of ridicule. That sort of thing perhaps had been believable in the days of Galahad, but it
had become as unfashionable as tin pants, rescuing damsels in distress, and knighthood in general.
In plain words, the gag had been worked to death. Charlatans had used it. Too many politicians had
instigated wars to save humanity, until it was becoming pretty clear that what the world needed was
saving from the leaders who were continually getting control of the masses. The world was getting wiser,
or at least more cynical, about the whole saving business with its iron curtains and goose-stepping.
Do-gooding was out of style these days. A guy was supposed to have an angle. And if the angle wasn't
at once apparent, the thing to do was be disbelieving and hold an air of ridicule.
Doc Savage's “angle” wasn't apparent, and for a pretty good reason. He didn't have one. He did good,
righted wrongs, punished evildoers, did scientific work so completely for the benefit of humanity as a
whole that money-minded corporations, or publicity-minded “foundations" wouldn't finance it, and the
only return he received was inner satisfaction. It was well that he expected no other return, too.
Satisfaction was frequently all he got.
Doc Savage was a man of fantastic feats and good deeds and taking return only in satisfaction had not
made him a meek nor an impoverished man. He was a spectacular person. Physically, a giant bronze man
with hair a little darker bronze and strange flake-gold eyes that could be sympathetic, firm, or scare the
hell out of a wrongdoer, he could do things with sinew that were not quite believable. Mentally, he was a
phenomenon that a biographer would find hard to make convincing. A man simply didn't accomplish such
scientific or psychological feats. It was a difficult fact to sell.
But the point was that there was enough percentage of zanies on the planet, two billion two hundred odd
million to make some isolation desirable. So, while Doc Savage's headquarters occupied as conspicuous
a place as there was in New York City, the eighty-sixth floor of one of the city's tallest buildings, and
there were forty or fifty elevators operating in the vertical arteries inside, getting to see Doc Savage
personally was a matter that took doing. More specifically, it took a crime. A fantastic one, of one that
the law didn't seem to be able to touch. Even then, there was a certain screening routine.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL ANDREW BLODGETT “MONK” MAYFAIR, who looked like a
reasonably pleasant ape, was one of the screens. Monk had approximately seven-eighths-inch of
forehead, and was one of the world's great chemists, when anybody could get him to work at it.
From the private detective agency downstairs, which sifted the inflow for cranks and chaff, Monk
received a parcel-room claim-check.
“It came in the mail,” he was told.
Not much impressed, Monk asked, “No note with it, or anything?”
“Just this.” He was handed a bit of colored paper with one torn edge.
“Blazes!”
“It impressed me, too,” said the private detective whose office force did nothing but screen and
investigate the people who wished to see Doc Savage.
Monk took off his hat, which looked as if it had been used to dust off his shoes, and scratched around in
some bristling rusty, shingle-nails that served him as hair. “Doc won't care for this much. He doesn't like
something to start out smelling of money, particularly big money, as payment for his services.”
“Then you're not interested?”
“In one-half of a thousand-dollar bill? Hell yes, I am,” said Monk. “But the question is, will Doc be?
What else was there with this?”
“Just that. The claim-check. The half a thousand-buck bill.”
“Hmmmm. Well, I'll take it upstairs and see what the master says.”
MONK took the private elevator to the eighty-sixth floor, and in the reception room, a large place with
comfortable chairs and a ghastly old-fashioned steel safe of tremendous size, and an inlaid table that was
a priceless Oriental piece, he found Attorney Theodore Marley Brooks. He paused to speak
unpleasantly to Ham Brooks. “Hello, shyster,” Monk said. “I've warned you before, and I'm going to do
it again. But this is the last time, savvy?”
Ham Brooks, a very dapperly dressed man, sneered.
“Well, well, it breathes, it walks on its hind legs, it looks like the missing link,” he remarked. “What can it
be? Not a certain lout of a chemist who has been molesting my girl-friend?”
“Yours? Your girl-friend! Hell's bells!” Monk turned purple, waved both arms and screamed,
“Molesting! Where do you get that stuff, you miserable flea on the reputation of Blackstone? Audrey
was, and is, my girl-friend.”
Ham smirked. “Is, you say?”
“Yeah, even if you did have her out last night,” Monk bellowed. “And I'm telling you, you tort, if you
mess around with Audrey once more, you'll be asking, 'Where's my arms and legs?' I don't mean
maybe.”
Ham leaped to his feet, seized the slender black cane which he habitually carried, and screeched, “Don't
you threaten me, you physical freak!”
“Threaten you?” Monk howled. “I won't say a word. I'll just—”
A buzzer somewhere in the room made several irritated beeping sounds. It ended the dispute
temporarily, because it was a signal from Doc Savage.
Monk found Doc Savage in the laboratory, which was the largest room, composing over two-thirds of
the skyscraper's eighty-sixth floor, that lay behind a library containing Doc's amazing collection of
scientific tomes. Monk asked uneasily, “Our little fuss bothering you?”
“It was shaking the whole neighborhood,” Doc Savage said briefly. “Female trouble again?”
“Yeah,” Monk admitted sheepishly.
“Which one?”
“Audrey,” Monk muttered.
Doc Savage's metallic bronze features remained expressionless, and he said thoughtfully, “Do you fellows
know what is going to happen to you sometime? You're going to get so interested in one of these
competitions that some blond fluff with dark blue eyes is going to ring one of your fingers.”
“How'd you know she had dark blue eyes? You never met Audrey,” Monk demanded.
“They go with peroxide, don't they?”
“I think I should resent that,” Monk said. “What makes you think we might get hooked?”
“Because you'll be so busy watching each other, you'll forget to watch the girl.”
“You mean shot with a marriage license when we're not looking, eh?” Monk snorted. “Fat chance. Ham
and I are wary old wolves. We love 'em and leave 'em. There's nothing to it.” Monk fished around in his
pocket and brought out the claim-check and the half of a thousand-dollar bill. He presented these to Doc
Savage. “Interesting trivia from the afternoon mail,” he remarked.
Doc looked at the items, but did not take them until he had pulled on rubber gloves. “You'd better be
more careful with odd stuff through the mail,” he said. “Science has been doing some hair-raising things
with killing germs lately.”
“You must be getting jumpy.”
Doc Savage said nothing, but carried the check and the greenback fragment over to a microscope and
took a look at them. He was a giant of a man, and it was impossible for a casual air and normal
mannerisms to conceal the fact of his fabulous physique. Monk, watching him, was impressed, and Monk
had known Doc for quite a few years, and he was not easily impressed. Doc was more than a physical
giant. He was a trained symphony in sinew and coordination, the product of a childhood devoted entirely
to rigorous training at the hands of experts who had been hired by the man's father and given one
instruction: If interminable training will develop a superman, produce one. There are probably limitations
to what consistent practice and self-development over a period of years can accomplish, but sometimes
Monk wondered.
“No germs, eh?” Monk remarked.
“Apparently not.” Doc took the two articles to another contrivance, a device of his own development for
measuring radiant emission which was considerably more sensitive than the Geiger counter and its
successor, the one which utilized certain properties of diamonds.
Monk was amused at the giant bronze man's precautions. “If they should be radioactive, so what? They
wouldn't likely be charged enough to harm a man.”
“The claim-check is for a package at the stand on the lower level at Grand Central Station,” Doc Savage
said. “The package could be a bomb, triggered for detonation by the presence of a radiant nearby.”
Monk nodded. “But that would take imagination and some scientific skill.”
“Decency has no corner on imagination, unfortunately,” Doc said. He seemed satisfied with his
examination. “They seem to be clean. What do you make of it?”
“I don't know what to figure.” Monk shook his head. “The two things just came in the mail. Postmarked
a little after noon. “ He hesitated, then added, “The half of a thousand-dollar bill gives it some bite. The
bill's genuine, I think.”
“Yes, seems to be.”
“You going to pick up the package and see what gives?”
Doc looked at Monk thoughtfully. “You might wish you'd done that yourself, in case acquiring the
package should lead to a contact with the owner later.”
“Yeah? How you figure?”
“A female.”
“Eh?”
“The package seems to have been checked by a brown-haired, brown-eyed girl who is rather exotic,
probably about twenty-four years old, smokes long gold-tipped cigarettes, and is quite a traveler. Sound
interesting?”
Monk blinked a couple of times. “Sounds more like you're running a whizzer on me.”
“The brand of cigarettes she likes is named Trieens, and her most recent trip was to India.”
“How you figure that?” Monk asked. “And don't tell me it's simple, dear Watson. . . . Or is it?”
“I'm afraid it is.” Doc indicated the microscope. “Put the things under the glass and see for yourself.”
Monk grunted, and followed instructions, but the examination did not fully convince him. He said, “I see
the flecks of face powder, and tobacco, but danged if it means that much to me.”
Doc said pleasantly, “If you had been doing research recently into allergies as related to cosmetics and
tobacco, as I have, it would be clear enough. First, the powder: Face powder, a shade used by
medium-complexioned girls but shunned by blondes and deep brunettes. Second, the tobacco, from an
exotic cigarette, Trieens, made in India and not shipped abroad at all because of government monopoly
regulations. They're long and gold-tipped, and since they're sold nowhere but in India, perhaps she
bought them there. And there's a trace of perfume about the claim-check, a rather rash scent affected by
younger women.”
Monk grinned. “I missed the perfume, but she sounds interesting. Shall I take this up and see what it
draws?”
“If you wish.”
“Okay.”
MONK collected Ham Brooks, and they caught a cab uptown. Monk did not tell Ham about Doc
Savage's theory that a girl was involved; as a matter of fact, Monk invited Ham along only because the
girl, if any, might pay the headquarters a visit during their absence and if Ham was there, and if the girl
was promising, that would give Ham the inside track. Ham probably suspected chicanery, because he
thought Monk had brought him along merely for the pleasure of renewing their quarrel about the blonde,
Audrey, whereas it developed Monk was unusually quiet. Monk, for his part, was absorbed by
amazement at Doc's deductive performance with the claim-check and thinking about it admiringly. But
Ham was alarmed.
“What snide deal are you pulling on me?” Ham demanded.
“What? Oh calm down, you're not in the company of another lawyer, so nobody is going to steal your
shirt. . . . Somebody checked something at Grand Central and sent Doc Savage the check, along with
half a thousand-dollar bill, and we're going after it.”
Ham was interested. “We're going after the other half of the bill, I hope you mean.”
“The package.”
“That's an impractical approach. The thousand-dollar bill is the thing,” Ham said.
It was dark, a little after nine o'clock, and the midtown traffic was catching its breath after the theater
rush, so that their cab was able to enter the drop-off at Grand Central without delay. They strolled inside,
descended the steps, made the proper turns, went down the ramps to the lower level and located the
check-room.
Fred Lill looked down at the check when Monk dropped it on the scuffed and shiny sheet metal
counter-top, and Fred stiffened instantly. He had recognized the number on the claim-check as matching
the stub on the canary cage.
“Are you the party who checked this?” Fred asked suspiciously.
摘要：

THEANGRYCANARYADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispageformatted2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXIOriginallypublishedinDocSavageMagazineAugust1948ChapterITHEcagewasthereononeoft...

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