Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 168 - The Death Lady

VIP免费
2024-12-23 0 0 327.99KB 62 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
THE DEATH LADY
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
? Chapter XII
? Chapter XIII
? Chapter XIV
Chapter I
The ship did not dock at the North River pier until after eleven o'clock that night. She was a big liner, and
she had to be brought in at high tide. Passengers would soon be coming ashore. . . .
The two men were seated in the parked coupe a short distance away from the entrance to the long pier
shed. It was dark and little traffic moved along the wide street. Across the way wholesale produce
markets and warehouses stood in darkness. It would be hours yet before the early-morning trading
started.
A very tall, large figure moved out of the shadows and appeared suddenly beside the driver's side of the
coupe. The man's features were concealed by the darkness.
He spoke quietly and briefly. “Now, you're sure you have everything straight, Ham?”
The man behind the wheel of the coupe nodded.
The arrival said, “If anyone starts any kind of commotion whatsoever, you are to move in fast. Overlook
nothing. Keep your eyes open.”
“Check!”
“And Monk?” said the man outside the car. It was necessary for him to bend over slightly in order to
look inside the car.
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Even if there is trouble, try not to start a private war of your own. We do not want to draw any undue
attention.”
“Okay, Doc.”
The big man moved off. There was a long, dark-colored sedan parked near the pier entrance, somewhat
apart from a long line of taxicabs that had drawn up, awaiting customers. A single patrolman, assigned to
direct traffic, stood in the oasis of light cast by an arc light just outside the long pier entrance.
The big man slipped behind the wheel of the sedan and waited.
Ham said, “Perhaps we'd better move up a bit.”
“Good idea,” said the stocky man seated beside him.
Glow from a dashboard light revealed the two occupants of the coupe as the driver moved the car
forward.
Ham, the driver, was a well-dressed, dark-featured man with a large mobile mouth and sharply alert
features. He had wide, straight shoulders, yet gave an appearance of slimness.
His name really was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. He was one of the most astute lawyers
Harvard Law School had ever turned out.
The stocky, thickset man seated beside him was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. Intimates
never called him anything else except “Monk.” He was a chemist, quite renowned, yet he looked like a
tank-town fighter who had seen better days.
Monk's face was scarred. His small, bright eyes peered from a homely face. His entire appearance was
somewhat disheveled.
He was saying, “Just what is Long Tom bringing with him from South America that has Doc so
interested?”
“An Indian,” said his partner Ham. “A live one?”
“Doc forgot to mention,” said Ham. “Long Tom just contacted him before the liner reached New York.
There's something secretive about the entire thing . . . at least, Long Tom is mighty cautious about it. All I
know is, we're here and we're to keep our eyes open for Long Tom and the Indian and see that nothing
happens to them.”
Monk grinned. “I'll bet it's a gag. Every time Long Tom returns from a long trip like this, he tries to put
one over on us.”
He sat thoughtfully rubbing his jaw, watching the pier entrance: “I don't know,” he mused. “Doc seemed
quite disturbed by Long Tom's urgent message.”
Cab drivers had been standing around talking. Now they were back behind their wheels. Engines started.
The line of cabs started inching forward. Abruptly the first passengers who had been cleared by the
customs started emerging. The quiet of the night was stirred by activity. Porters followed with luggage.
Hand trucks rumbled. Horns honked. The cop was blowing his whistle.
Monk and Ham scrutinized each passenger as he came through the gates. Both men had stopped talking.
They were alert, following Doc Savage's orders.
Fifteen minutes passed. More cabs arrived. The unloading would consume time.
Then Monk sat forward. “I thought—” he started.
“I see him,” said Ham quickly.
A car had managed to force its way into the steadily moving line of taxicabs. The machine came to a stop
before a figure that stood out sharply in the crowd that was awaiting transportation.
The man was an Indian!
HE wore trousers, some kind of sandals, a black shirt. He was hatless, and his straight, jet-black hair fell
almost to his shoulders. He was a tall, scrawny beanpole of a man. He carried a modern cowhide
suitcase.
“Hey!” exclaimed Monk. “I told you I saw him,” Ham reminded sharply. And both men watched.
Probably none of the passengers noticed it. Each was too intent on his own problem of locating a vacant
cab.
Three men had jumped out of the car that had forced itself into line. They crowded around the tall Indian.
There was a considerable amount of back-slapping, hand-shaking and boy-it's-good-to-see-you
business.
At the same time the Indian was being hurried into the rear seat.
“Hey!” Monk repeated. “That looks funny to me. They're forcing that guy into their car!”
Ham said, “I wonder where Doc disappeared to?”
Monk was opening the door. “We haven't time to find Doc. He told us to keep our eyes open, didn't he?
Well, there's an Indian, and something fishy is going on. Come on!”
“Wait!” said Ham.
Monk had one foot on the running board. He saw the rear door of the limousine slam shut. The car cut
abruptly out of line, scraping a car fender. It started going away from there fast.
Monk was thrown back into the seat as Ham sent the coupe forward.
“I think,” the lawyer was saying, “trouble is rearing its nasty head.”
The car ahead made a U-turn in the wide waterfront street, left the main north- south thoroughfare and
shot into a side street.
Ham managed to trail it to Hudson Street, where it swung uptown. There was no traffic at this hour of the
night. Those in the limousine ignored traffic lights and drove at high speed.
Ham did likewise.
Nevertheless, Monk complained. “You'd think this was a hearse,” he grumbled.
“We're doing seventy,” said Ham. “And they're pulling away from us!” Monk was right. The limousine
was two blocks ahead of them.
Then, suddenly, the big car's tail-lamps glowed more brightly as brakes were applied and the machine
swung into another cross street.
“Now!” Monk urged.
And he had to admit to himself that his partner's driving was good. They slid into the side street with the
expertness of a race driver taking the turn on a half-mile dirt track.
A wild series of zigzagging turnoffs into other narrow streets followed. Ham clung to the other car like a
hound dog trailing a coon. The chase continued to lead uptown, but kept off the main thoroughfares.
There was one particularly long, dimly lighted street. Halfway down its long length, the limousine
headlights went out. For a moment Monk could scarcely see the car ahead.
Then he yelled, “Watch out. They're stopping. Trick!”
He spun around and fumbled on the seat shelf behind him. A heavy wrench appeared in his hairy fist.
“Cut in ahead of them,” he ordered. His little eyes danced. Monk liked nothing better than a fight.
Ham, on the other hand, believed in the adroit move, cleverness, subtlety. His scrappy partner's
unhesitancy at meeting violence oftentimes worried him.
The other car had slowed. It came to a stop with a squeal of rubber. Ham was on top of it before he
could help himself. He barely managed to avoid a crash. He found himself stopped parallel to the other
car, and he didn't like the situation one bit.
For neither of them carried a gun. Doc Savage always maintained that a man was apt to shoot another
man without due cause if he made it a habit to carry a weapon.
As Ham brought the coupe to a jarring stop, Monk flung open the door nearest the limousine.
“Thought they'd fool us!” he exploded, and he looked as if he were going to start cracking skulls with the
heavy wrench.
The limousine was suddenly backing up, the driver cutting the wheels. He was trying a fast turn-around in
the street. He had already backed wildly to the opposite curb.
Monk's powerful arm was upraised. He was taking aim. . . .
Just then a rear door of the sedan whipped open. The tall, beanpole figure of the Indian came out. Fast.
Monk had never seen anyone move so fast. And in the Indian's hand was a six-shooter that looked like a
long-barrelled target pistol.
The Indian went down on one knee and started to aim the deadly-looking weapon. Rear door still
hanging open, the limousine leaped down the dark street like a frightened jack rabbit.
The gun roared.
Ham was busy turning the coupe around.
“Yow!” Monk yelled with pleasure as the gun blasted again.
Ham had now parked and was running to join them. Monk was continuing to watch the Indian shoot at
the car. He was waiting, obviously with a great deal of anticipation, to hear a rear tire explode on the
disappearing car. He was excited.
But in the darkness, running without lights, weaving, the car was a vague target. Even as Monk watched,
the dark blur of the car disappeared around the corner some distance away.
Monk motioned to the Indian. “Let's go!” he suggested. “We'll catch them—
The tall, thin, lean fellow turned. He slid the longbarrelled gun inside his belt. He said quietly and calmly:
“You'll never overtake them now. Another thing. Let's get away from here before the entire
neighborhood is down on our necks. Let's don't get Doc's name involved in this.”
Monk stared, blinking.
Ham said in astonishment: “Long Tom!”
Long Tom said, “Doc certainly figures things in advance. He suggested the duplication.” He was urging
them toward the coupe as he spoke.
“You mean,” said Monk, “the real Indian is—
“He is probably safe with Doc,” said Long Tom.
IN the library of Doc Savage's eighty- sixth floor skyscraper headquarters, Long Tom finished telling
them about it. The huge room was lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases containing huge volumes on
every branch of science. It was here that people were interviewed when they came to Doc Savage with
many unusual and desperate requests for help.
Long Tom, who was one of the Doc Savage associates, was rubbing the final traces of dark skin stain
from his face. He had changed to more customary dress. He was the electrical expert of Doc's
organization.
He was a tall, scrawny man who looked almost unhealthy when his features were truly revealed. His skin
was the color of yesterday's leftover oatmeal. Yet he had never known a sick day in his life. He was hard
as a rail fence post.
He told them, “I met Beaverbrook in South America.”
“Beaverbrook!” asked Monk. “He's the Indian. That's about what his name sounds like when he rattles it
off. So I call him that. He belongs to a little-known tribe of Indians from deep in the interior of Brazil.
He's had a little education. He can speak some English and Spanish.”
Ham asked, “What did you do . . . adopt him?”
Skinny Long Tom shook his head. “He knows about Gloria Halliday.” Long Tom made the statement
and then waited, as if he expected something to happen.
“So?” Ham prompted. “Don't tell me you've forgotten?” Both Ham and Monk frowned.
“Look,” said Long Tom. He was inclined to be a little impatient at times. “John Halliday's daughter.
Remember, they went on that expedition six years ago. He was the millionaire who used to go on those
jaunts all over the world. Gloria was fifteen at the time—
“Gloria Halliday!” cried Monk, and understanding lit up his homely features.
“Yes—her,” said Long Tom. “Sure, I remember it now,” said the chemist. “Gloria Halliday's pictures
were in the newspapers for months. She and her wealthy father disappeared somewhere in the interior of
Brazil, and they've never been heard from since!”
Long Tom nodded.
Ham added: “Every once in a while the newspapers dig it up again. The public is always interested in a
mystery like that one. It's the same as Amelia Earhart's strange disappearance from the face of the earth.”
“Exactly,” said Long Tom.
Then, watching their faces, he announced, “Well, I think I've found Gloria Halliday.”
THE effect was as though Long Tom had stated that he knew the entire secret of the atomic bomb.
“You mean,” asked Ham, “Gloria Halliday is alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere deep in the interior of Brazil. I should put it this way . . . I know where she is.
Beaverbrook, the Indian, told me. But the journey into that unexplored area will take weeks. That's why
I need Doc's help. Yours, too. Besides, there's my old friend Happy Halliday.”
Hams head moved up and down slowly as understanding came to him. “I remember,” he said. “You've
often spoken of him. Old Happy Halliday was quite an adventurer himself in the past. You knew him,
didn't you?”
Long Tom said, “We met in various parts of the world. That restlessness for adventure ran through the
Halliday family. The old fellow and I were close friends. He's retired now. He lives on the old Halliday
estate up in Westchester, outside New York City.”
“Have you let him know?” Monk asked. “We're to see him immediately,” explained Long Tom. “I cabled
him. I could only give him a little of it, because I'm still not absolutely positive.”
“Everyone thinks the girl and her father are dead,” put in Ham.
“That's what I mean. And yet, ever since I started the trip back to the states with the Indian, I've had the
feeling that someone was watching us. That's why Doc told me to impersonate the Indian when we
docked here in New York. I had talked with Doc on a ship-to-shore telephone call. I had an idea
something might happen.”
“But why?” demanded Ham.
Long Tom shrugged. “You see what took place tonight? Can you explain it?”
Ham shook his head. “That's what I mean.”
Monk looked worried about something. “I wonder what's keeping Doc?” he said abruptly.
“I think,” said Long Tom, “we've led the trail away from Doc. That's the way I planned it.”
“But where's the Indian?” Monk was curious.
“The arrangement was for Doc to go directly aboard ship and to my stateroom.
That's where I left Beaverbrook. Doc is probably with him now.”
The telephone rang.
Ham answered it. Apparently it was the bronze man, and the lawyer listened attentively to some
instructions that Doc was giving.
Finally Ham said, “We'll leave right away, Doc . . . Yes, Long Tom's here.”
He hung up.
Ham turned and explained, “Doc's with him. He's got the guy. We're to start for the Halliday estate right
away. Doc's going directly there.”
Long Tom looked pleased. “Good!” he said. “That keeps any trouble away from headquarters, here. I
suggested that to Doc.”
Ham asked, “You think there's going to be more trouble?”
Long Tom shook his head slowly. “I don't know. I haven't any idea what's behind this business tonight.
Perhaps we'll learn the answer when we see old Happy Halliday himself.”
Ham added, “We're to meet Doc at the entrance to the estate. He gave me directions.”
They left. Outside, they found that it had started to rain. The night had been humid and sultry, but now
there was a threat of a storm blowing up.
A half hour later, as New York fell behind them and they followed the winding Saw Mill River Parkway
through the Westchester hills, they were positive that no one had trailed them.
Chapter II
TOWNS dropped behind them as they followed the Saw Mill River Parkway through more wooded
country. The rain kept coming down. By the time they reached Hawthorne Circle, far north of New
York, the storm had cut loose with ferocity. Rain swept across the highway in curving sheets.
The “Circle” was a junction of several routes that branched out to various areas of Westchester. Ham
peered through the wind- shield as Monk drove slowly around the traffic hub. The chemist directed a
spotlight that could be operated from inside the car. The three men were crowded into the front seat of
the coupe.
“There!” said Ham, nodding. “Take that Peekskill turnoff.”
Monk had seen the signpost. He sent the coupe along the branch highway.
He said, “Anybody follows us in this storm, they'd have to be a porpoise.”
Ham watched closely for signs. Finally he told Monk, “Doc said it's the next traffic light ahead. Take the
road that goes up the hill.”
Shortly afterward they were climbing. The road was paved and led through deeper woods. It abruptly
dropped downhill again. Rain slammed against the sides of the car like splattering buckshot. Monk was
forced to drive with the window open on his side, in order to see a little better.
All of them heard the roaring sound. It grew louder as the road dropped into a hollow.
“What's that?” asked Long Tom. Monk was directing the spotlight beam ahead. He said, “It sounds like
water.” Then he saw the bridge. “There's a creek down here. Probably flooded by the rain.”
“Take it easy,” warned Ham, trying to peer through the windshield. “That bridge doesn't look so good.”
Monk drew up and climbed out, ignoring the driving rain. He went forward and saw that the bridge was
a wooden affair, old, but of solid planking. The creek beneath it came down out of the hills. Water boiled
and foamed beneath the structure, but it was several feet below the planking.
He returned to the car and climbed beneath the wheel.
“It's okay,” he said.
They reached the other side of the sturdy little bridge.
Ham said, “Doc told me the entrance to the Halliday place was just beyond here.”
The main road curved left. They saw the other, narrower road that swerved off to the right, leading uphill
again. There were square brick posts, and attached to one was a white sign, “Halliday Manor.”
“That's it,” Ham said.
Monk turned right and followed the winding, uphill road. Almost immediately he came upon the car
parked directly ahead, its tail-lamps two warning, crimson spots in the night. His own headlights revealed
the license plate.
“Doc!” he announced.
He stopped again. They saw Doc's bronze features peer from the driver's window of the car ahead. Then
Doc waved his arm in a motion that indicated they were to follow. The big sedan started up.
The house, a huge, square block-stone affair, perched on a wide lawn atop the hill. Both cars drew up
beneath the porte-cochere entranceway. A light came on overhead and they saw a colored man standing
in the doorway.
The houseman's eyes went directly to Doc Savage's big figure as it emerged from the first car. The whites
of the colored man's eyes showed with some astonishment as he saw the size of the bronze man, the
unusual features that appeared to have been burnt bronze by the sun. His hair was of similar color.
“You're Doc Savage, aren't you?” the houseman called.
Doc nodded. “Mistuh Halliday is waiting for you,
suh.”
The others joined Doc. With them standing near him, his size became even more apparent. His entire
build was one of physical perfection. The eyes were the most amazing things about him. Of an unusual
flake-gold coloring, restless lights seemed to stir continually in their depths.
It was skinny Long Tom who hurried up to Doc and asked worriedly, “He's all right?”
Doc nodded. “Scared to death at first. I had a time driving him through the city. The skyscrapers . . .
traffic . . . everything frightened him.” Doc motioned toward the front seat. “Perhaps you'd better take
over.”
Long Tom opened the door, leaned inside and talked quietly for a moment.
The Indian climbed out. The house- man, standing on the steps nearby, stared out of round, blinking
white eyes.
THE Indian was tall. He was taller than skinny Long Tom. His straight black hair, hanging to his
shoulders, made him seem even taller. And he was thin. His eyes, nervous and moving from one person
to another, appeared to be coal black.
“It's all right, fella,” said Long Tom re- assuringly. “The journey's over. This is her home. This is where
her uncle lives. You can tell him the story.”
“No being trouble?” asked the Indian.
“No being trouble,” Long Tom said. He motioned to the others. “These are friends. We all work
together. They will return with us to South America.”
“Being all right,” said the Indian, and he looked relieved.
They followed the curious houseman into the mansion. The Negro kept his eyes on the tall Indian, and he
looked doubtful.
“This way, suh,” he said, addressing Doc Savage.
The hall was wide. Curios from various parts of the world were on the walls and tables. There was a
broad staircase at the rear, but the houseman paused before he reached this. He motioned toward a door
on the right. “Mistuh Halliday said I was to bring you all right in . . .”
Before he had finished, a small, wiry, bushy gray-haired man bounced from the doorway the houseman
was indicating. He came out to greet them with all the vitality of a teenager. His age was probably close
to seventy.
“Hell's afire!” he cried enthusiastically, and hurried to grab Long Tom's bony hand. He pumped it up and
down, slapped Long Tom on the back, exclaimed, “I'm sure glad to see you!”
“You old coot,” said Long Tom, and he said it in such a way that you knew he thought a great deal of the
elderly man.
“This,” Long Tom said, turning to the others, “is my good friend Happy Halliday.” He introduced his
associates.
Happy Halliday's name well suited him. He never stopped talking. He was alert and friendly and active.
He pushed them all toward the big study beyond the hallway. And only when they were seated did his
manner become serious.
He was looking at the Indian, seated there as if he were going to bounce up and start running any
moment.
“So this,” said Happy Halliday, “is the fellow who has located Gloria, my niece?”
Long Tom nodded. He removed two old newspaper clippings from his pocket, unfolded them.
Photographs of a young girl were revealed. She was tall, athletic-looking, though somewhat on the
scrawny side.
“I dug up these old photographs of Gloria, your niece,” explained Long Tom. “Beaverbrook, here, says it
is the same girl.”
“Wait . . .” said Happy Halliday. He yanked open the drawer of the huge carved desk, behind which he
sat, and his hand reappeared with several photographs. He selected one.
“Here's a picture of her that was tinted. It will give you a better idea.” He passed it to the Indian. “What
do you say?”
Beaverbrook, the Indian, looked at the photograph. The tinting showed that Gloria, at fifteen, was blond,
not unattractive, blue- eyed.
Slowly the Indian's head started to move up and down. He looked at the gray- haired small man.
“Is being the same,” he said. “You've seen her . . . alive?” demanded Happy Halliday.
Again the Indian nodded. “At the hidden temple.”
Happy Halliday looked quickly at Long Tom. “What temple? What is he talking about?”
Long Tom said, “From what I can gather, your brother John was never found. We can assume that he is
dead. But Gloria was picked up by a tribe of Indians who live deep in the interior of Brazil. They've
raised her. They've set her up as a sort of goddess in a temple that is their religious headquarters.
Beaverbrook, here—as I've named him—is the only member of that tribe who ever ventured into the
world outside the home of his lost tribe. He was with a circus in Brazil for awhile. He learned some
English.”
Happy Halliday was standing up behind the desk. His hands trembled.
He said with emotion, “I've waited six years for word that Gloria or her father were alive. I've left no
stone unturned. I've spent thousands of dollars directing searches for them.” He came around the desk
and seized Long Tom's arms. “I hope this is true!” He moved across the study and peered down at the
dark-skinned Indian.
“You really saw her? You really did?”
“Girl being alive,” repeated the Indian. The wiry, gray-haired man swung toward the hall doorway and
bellowed: “Sam!”
The houseman appeared. He cast one furtive glance toward the Indian, then looked at his employer.
“Yassuh?”
Both Ham and Monk glanced at Doc and Long Tom. But they, too, seemed puzzled. Happy Halliday
saw their expressions and explained.
“Few people know about this,” he said quickly. “Two years ago I employed one of Doc's gaze went to
the tall woman. “I take it you are pretty well acquainted with this case?”
Mary English nodded. “I've spent two years working with Mr. Halliday. I feel that I know Gloria as I
would my own child. I know everything about her. Our investigation led us close to that area of Brazil
once, then the trail faded.” She turned to Long Tom. “I'd even figured that it was some little-known tribe
of natives that were holding her. But there was no trace of them.” Her gray eyes quickened with interest.
“Mr. Halliday told me everything that was in your message to him. What else have I missed?”
Long Tom explained what information had been given to Happy Halliday since their arrival here at the
mansion.
He shrugged, added, “That's about all. Of course, I have directions from our Indian friend here. I have
摘要：

THEDEATHLADYADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispageformatted2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXII?ChapterXIII?ChapterXIVChapterITheshipdidnotdockattheNorthRiverpierunt...

展开>> 收起<<
Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 168 - The Death Lady.pdf

共62页,预览13页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：62 页 大小：327.99KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-23

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

高考理综 人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 62
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注