Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 167 - Target for Death

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TARGET FOR DEATH
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
Originally published in Doc Savage Magazine January 1947
Chapter I
THE mystery, really, began long before Lieutenant Treat checked into the hotel adjoining Waikiki Beach,
which is in the suburbs of Honolulu. But Lieutenant Treat's arrival, strangely, set off the spark that started
the fuse sizzling, and from then on the entire thing became a deadly buzz-bomb of a thing that was going
to be tossed in somebody's lap.
Lieutenant Treat had just signed the register of the famous beach hotel and was assigned a room.
The clerk said, “Are you expecting any mail, Lieutenant?” The clerk was a good-looking young man and
he put a smile on his clean features which made him even more handsome.
“Yes,” said Lieutenant Treat. Then, in an almost tense, expectant manner, “Yes, I am! I'd appreciate it if
you'd look for me—”
“Of course,” offered the room clerk with more willingness than usual.
He disappeared beyond a rack alongside the marble counter. He returned in a moment. He shook his
head. “Sorry, Lieutenant . . .”
“Phone calls?” asked the arrival hopefully. “There should have been one from a gentleman named Randall
. . . Richard Randall?”
The young clerk again shook his head.
“There are no advance mail or messages of any kind, Lieutenant. Sorry.” He beamed again. “I'll call you,
however, if anything comes in. Right away.”
“Thank you.”
“It's a pleasure, Lieutenant.”
Even before Pearl Harbor, no hotel clerk had ever gone out of his way to be so attentive. But then it
wasn't every day that you met a girl as breathtaking as Lieutenant Treat.
The clerk, standing behind the counter, cupped his chin in his hand and, dreamy-eyed, watched
Lieutenant Treat move toward the elevators. He liked the way she walked. He liked the trim, perfect fit
of her navy nurse's uniform. She was really an extra-special kind of brunette with the most wondrous big
brown eyes he had ever seen!
The Filipino bellhop attending her was loaded down with parcels that indicated the special brunette must
have just completed a glorious shopping spree. That's right, the clerk recalled as he floated back to earth,
she had mentioned it as she registered.
“Gosh, it's wonderful,” Lieutenant Treat had sighed as she stood there, turning to glance out toward a
wide veranda that overlooked Waikiki.
“Isn't it, though?” the young clerk had also sighed, looking at her wide brown eyes.
“Today's the day,” she had added. “I'm out . . . finished . . . discharged.” She had sighed again. “Gosh,
it's wonderful. I'll be able to wear real clothes again!”
Women sure were funny, the clerk decided. What she was wearing right then looked perfectly swell to
him. The uniform molded her small, shapely figure like a glove. The round, white hat made a halo for her
beautiful, darkly shining hair. The white collar visible at her neck framed her charming, smooth throat.
The elevator doors closed.
In the wide, spacious, second-floor room, Lieutenant Treat waited until the native bellboy finished trying
lights, opening the long French windows, adjusting the bamboo shutters. A fresh, pleasant breeze came in
from the Pacific.
She stepped to the open doors. There was a balcony just outside, and in large flower boxes lining the rail
flowers were a riot of bright colors. Beyond, through the palms, she could see Diamond Head. It's all so
wonderful, she thought.
She could hardly wait until the bellhop had disappeared with his tip, the door closed behind him. Then,
with a little cry of joy, Lieutenant Treat flung her cap on the bed, removed her uniform blouse and dived
toward the array of parcels.
The dress, of course! Three years, now, since she had worn a dress. She took the dress from the
box—a gay print—and rushed to the long mirror on the vanity, holding the dress up before her dainty
figure.
She stared at her image in the mirror, cocked her head jauntily and said, “Hi, Sally Treat!” No more
military stuff, no more tiring months of work. That was finally over.
Now there was just home—the Mainland—and there was just Rick!
The smile dropped from her face. She put the dress down and hurried to the telephone.
Funny about Rick Randall. Before she'd left Manila, a few days ago, to fly on here to Honolulu, she'd
had the lengthy cable from Rick. All their plans were made. By the time she arrived here at the hotel, he'd
said in the message, he'd be ready, to leave with her for the States. He, too, was finally getting his
discharge. They'd fly back together.
Rick had known her plans exactly. He'd even said he'd be here at the hotel waiting for her, when she got
in.
And now, the clerk said there was no message.
Oh, well . . . perhaps he'd been tied up at the last minute.
Nevertheless, because she was so anxious to see him again, she called the hotel information clerk. Yes,
she'd just checked the desk to see if there was any mail or a message, but she was calling again to be
certain. Had a Mr. Richard Randall telephoned her?
The information clerk reported no calls or messages. “We'll ring you immediately, don't worry,
Lieutenant,” the girl said.
Sally hung up. Well, she busied herself sorting out all the new things she'd bought. Surely Rick would be
calling any minute.
There was a knock on the room door.
Sally Treat's heart jumped with expectancy. Rick! Who else? She flashed across the room and flung
open the door.
The pleasant-faced room clerk in the white linen suit stood there.
“Oh,” Sally said, her tone tumbling down the scale.
The tall young clerk held a long white envelope in his hand. The smile started to leave his fact, but swiftly
returned again as Sally caught herself and hid her disappointment at not finding Rick standing there.
“For you,” the clerk said, handing her the envelope.
She saw her name and the hotel address written on the envelope, but it had not come via mail. It was not
Rick's handwriting, either.
“But—” she started.
“I'm terribly sorry,” the clerk offered.
“Sorry?”
“Yes, this letter was here for you all the time, but I didn't know about it. You see, it was in the safe.”
Surprise widened Sally's big brown eyes.
“The safe?”
“The manager told me,” said the young man. “He saw your name just now on the register, and then he
got the letter and asked me to bring it up here personally.”
“But . . . but why the safe?”
“It must be pretty important, I guess.”
She was puzzled.
“Well—” She looked at the large envelope, then at the clerk. She gave him a sweet smile. “Well, thank
you very much.”
The clerk went back along the hall as if he were walking down an aisle to the tune of the Wedding
March.
IN the privacy of her room, Sally ripped the envelope open. The handwriting on the envelope still puzzled
her. Inside, she found a second, smaller sealed envelope around which was folded a large sheet of writing
paper. The loose sheet contained writing in a man's firm, large hand.
The letter started, “My dearest niece . . .”
Sally quickly glanced down to the signature at the bottom of the page.
“Jonathan Treat” was the name she found there.
Her uncle! She hadn't heard from him in years. Why in the world wealthy Jonathan Treat would be
writing to a poor relation like her. . . .
She started to read the letter. The last she'd heard of Uncle Jonathan, during the war years, he'd been
living quietly in retirement in the old Treat mansion in the Ohio River town so many, many miles from
here. But now the words on the brief note puzzled her. It sounded as if Uncle Jonathan weren't there in
Ohio at all. And just where he was seemed to be a question. As a matter of fact, the whole letter was
puzzling. It read:
I've learned you are leaving by clipper for Honolulu tonight. It is impossible for me to see you.
Also, it would be too dangerous to try to deliver this letter to you here. It will arrive via special
messenger in Honolulu.
I understand you are on your way home to the states. You're a very sensible girl, Sally, and the
only person I dare trust. Deliver the enclosed envelope to Cousin James just as fast as possible.
Tell no one you have heard from me. Do not mention this letter to a soul. Remember, this is
important.
Be careful . . . be very careful, my child.
Affectionately,
JONATHAN TREAT
Reading the letter for the third time, it became clear to her that Jonathan Treat must have been right there
in Manila before she left. What was he doing there, and why had he been unable to see her?
The whole message made her uneasy. “Be careful,” he warned. She couldn't understand it.
Sally looked at the second, smaller envelope, the name written on the front. “James Treat.” She
remembered the relative, a bachelor, much younger than wealthy Jonathan, a strange sort of person who
had never mingled very much with the family. She hardly knew him.
She turned the envelope over, stared at it, placed it on the dresser and stood staring at it. And it was like
staring at a gift marked “Do Not Open Until Xmas.” You wanted to know what was inside. Curiosity
took hold of her. She fingered the envelope again. No, she decided. No, that wouldn't be right. She
shouldn't open the second envelope.
Sally left it there and continued changing from her smart uniform to civvies. She turned her thoughts back
to Rick Randall. She could hardly wait to see him. . . .
Still he had not called when she had finished dressing. She even delayed before the vanity, fussing with
her makeup, killing time. She'd called the information desk twice again. They would begin to think she
was desperate for a boy friend.
Disappointment was a nasty worm crawling around inside her. She'd felt so gay and carefree and
wonderful in the new dress, new shoes, new everything. She wanted Rick to see her.
She was restless. She couldn't just wait here like this. She had to do something. At least, she could go
downstairs and wait in the lobby. Picking up her new white purse she started for the door.
Heavens, the letter! She'd almost overlooked it. She started to lock it up in her traveling bag, then
paused. “Be careful . . . be very careful!” Jonathan Treat had warned. Disturbed, she stood there
biting her lip.
Finally she folded the small envelope carefully and slipped it down the neck of her dress. She'd carry it
right with her, then she'd be sure.
Off the hallway outside her room, she found a wide flight of stairs that led to the lobby. She went down,
bought an evening paper and sat there. She found that she couldn't read, however. She was too excited.
Her gaze kept going from the desk to the main street entrance to the lobby.
Finally, feeling conspicuous sitting there as though she were all alone on an oasis, she got up and walked
into the cocktail bar. She spent almost half an hour idling over a single cocktail. Then she went back to
the desk.
The young, good-looking clerk had gone off duty. The shifts had changed, she quickly noted. Perhaps
they'd overlooked informing her of any message. She gave her name and asked again.
No, she was told, there was nothing . . . nothing at all.
She felt miserable as she returned to her room. Unlocking the door, she moved inside, pushed the door
slowly closed and stood staring into space. She simply couldn't understand about Rick. His plans, in the
cable, had been so precise and definite . . .
Then she gasped.
Her room, literally, had been torn apart!
HER regulation service bag and new suitcase lay open on the bed. Clothes were strewn all over the
place. Her new things, the packages, had all been torn open hastily. Bureau drawers stood open. Even
the closet doors.
One thing startled her as her wide-eyed gaze paused on the dresser. Jonathan Treat's personal note to
herself—the note giving instructions about the sealed letter—was gone! Someone had found it!
Her first impulse was to call the manager and report the entrance to her room. She understood how
easily the thieves had gained admittance. The open French doors leading to the balcony, of course. There
was a stairway out there that led to the wide veranda below. She'd noted it.
She had even started to pick up the phone when she paused. The warning came to her mind. Jonathan
Treat's warning: “Tell no one you have heard from me.”
The sealed letter, naturally! They'd been after that. Luckily she had carried it with her, and all they had
found was the note written to herself.
She stiffened.
Whoever had been here in her room now knew that she had the letter on her person. The thought
frightened her. Perhaps they'd return, or follow her. Anything could happen!
Rick Randall!
Rick was the one person she could tell. He'd know what to do. Sally decided to wait no longer for word
from him. She picked up the phone and put through a call to Schofield Barracks. She stated that she
wanted to speak to Captain Randall. It was very, very important!
She waited.
Finally, she was told: “We're trying to locate Captain Randall. Can we have him call you?”
She thought. She couldn't wait here. She was too nervous and upset. Quickly, she stated her name. “If
you do find him, tell him I'm on my way out there. Have him wait!”
She hung up.
Looking uneasily at the open French windows, she went hurriedly across the room, closed the long
narrow doors to the balcony and locked them. Then she went out and locked the room door securely
behind her.
TRAFFIC was fairly heavy outside the hotel. Honolulu, even since the war, was packed with people
from all over the world. Taxicabs were at a premium. There wasn't a one in sight.
As she waited at the curb, searching up and down, a car pulled away from the opposite side of the street.
It made a U-turn and stopped near her at the curb. The driver leaned across the front seat and spoke to
her.
“Cab, lady?”
She hesitated. “Is this a taxicab?” She saw no name on the side of the cab.
The man said: “Private company, lady. There aren't enough regular taxis for Honolulu. Where'd you want
to go? I charge a flat rate.”
“Schofield.”
“Okay. That's where I'm going.” He no doubt referred to the two men already in the rear seat. They
were Filipinos. “You can sit in the front. We have to double up nowadays.”
He opened the door.
Well, she thought, there was nothing else to do. She might wait ages for an unoccupied cab. It was near
dinner-time. They'd all be rushed right now.
She got in.
They drove down the street. She was thinking of the letter, and of Rick, and she was terribly upset. Sally
still carried the evening newspaper in her hand. She had twisted it up into a round, tight roll.
Honolulu still had the funny boxlike traffic platforms at the busy intersections. A fat native policeman sat
on each platform beneath a wide umbrella, directing cars.
Suddenly Sally gave a start. She'd been so busy thinking that she hadn't noticed. She looked sharply at
the driver.
“This isn't the way to Schofield!” she said.
“Can't make a U-turn here, lady.”
“You made one at the hotel!”
“Did I?”
A WARNING bell sounded in her mind. She swung to glance sharply at the two men in the rear seat.
They looked at her woodenly.
Anger flashed in Sally Treat's eyes. “Stop this car!” she ordered.
One of the two men in the back seat spoke. “Take the turn up to the Pass,” he said quietly.
Sally whipped around again. The man who had spoken was watching her closely, leaning forward a little
as he did so. He said, “You don't try anything, girlie. You don't act up and you don't get hurt.”
He let his dark, quick eyes shift momentarily to his knees, and she followed the movement of his eyes, as
he intended her to do.
The gun was in his right hand, held down between his knees so that it would be unnoticeable at a casual
glance.
Her heart leaped.
“You see?” the man with the gun said.
She was terrified.
The car neared the next intersection. The driver started the turn left. There was one of the fat native
policemen on his funny little platform . . .
The girl moved unexpectedly. She grabbed the steering wheel and gave it a mighty yank. At the same
time, her left foot stomped down on the driver's right instep. She drove a sharp heel down upon the
man's foot and forced it down on the brake pedal.
The car swerved, grazing the traffic stand, and stalled as the brakes locked.
A hissing sound came from the back seat. One of the men had jerked forward to grasp the girl. He
seized her arm, struggling with her.
Sally Treat twisted around, using both hands to take hold of the man's arm and force it away from her.
The man's arm, at the wrist, was sweaty. The touch of him sent a shudder through her body. She dug her
nails into the wrist, and the man, muttering, yanked his arm back.
The fat traffic policeman was climbing down off his perch. The three men in the car looked abruptly
worried. Sally opened the car door and leaped out.
The cop was moving toward the far side of the car, saying something to the driver.
Sally didn't wait. All she wanted to do was get away from there, away from those men. To stay would
mean questioning and identification, and Jonathan Treat had requested that she talk to no one.
That was all she could think of as she ran across the sidewalk and darted into a department store
doorway. The store was a busy shopping center open night and day to accommodate its business.
She burrowed through the shoppers, zigzagged through various aisles until she reached an exit on a side
street. From there she hurried back to the main street, a half block away from the intersection where the
car was still being detained by the policeman.
Sally Treat lost herself in the sidewalk crowds. She made her way, via a devious route, back to the hotel.
She didn't go to her room. She didn't want to be alone. There were numerous people in the lobby. Surely
she was safe enough there. She wanted time to think. . . .
She sat down, jumped up again, noting that there was a telephone operator around the corner from the
main desk.
Sally went to the telephone desk and gave the name of the officer she had spoken to at the army base
just a little while ago. She also gave her own name. “I'd like to speak to him if you can reach him again,”
she said.
“Where will you be, miss?” the operator queried.
Sally indicated the lobby chair nearby.
The operator pointed out a phone booth nearby, said, “I'll call you when I reach your party. You can
take the call in that booth.”
SALLY went back and sat down. She found that she still carried the newspaper. Opening it, flattening
out the rolled pages, she held it up before her. But all the time she was watching the entrance and the
desk and the people moving back and forth.
She pretended to be reading the paper, glancing down at the front page, looking up sharply again for any
sign of the three men from the sedan, watching the telephone operator.
Once, as her gaze slid across the newspaper, a name caught her eye. Her gaze went back to the item
again. The item was captioned:
PAT SAVAGE VISITS CITY
Patricia Savage, lovely cousin of Clark Savage, Jr., famous international figure known as Doc Savage,
the Man of Bronze, is now visiting in Honolulu. . . .
Pat Savage! The name recalled a scene to Sally Treat's mind. It had been a hospital in Manila. Pat
Savage had visited there, and they had met for a moment. She remembered a tall girl with beautiful
bronze-gold hair, and with the most amazing eyes. . .
Sally glanced at the item again. Pat Savage was staying at this same hotel. Sally Treat was remembering
the stories you heard about Doc Savage, the reputation he had for righting wrongs to people and always
punishing evildoers.
Maybe . . .
Maybe Pat Savage, his cousin, could help her!
Sally hurried back to the telephone operator's cubicle. “I'm sorry,” the operator started to say, “I haven't
been able to reach your party yet. They're trying to find him.”
“Look,” said Sally Treat anxiously, “there's something else. A Miss Patricia Savage is stopping here at
the hotel . . .”
The operator nodded. “That's right.”
“I'd like to speak to her. It's very urgent.”
Catching the tone in the brunette girl's voice, the operator looked at her thoughtfully. Then she said: “I'll
see if Miss Savage is in.”
Next, the operator was talking to someone. It was upsetting the way switchboard operators could speak
into a receiver in a way that you could not hear what they were saying.
Finally she looked at Sally Treat and asked, “You're positive it's something urgent?”
Sally jerked her head.
“Tell her we met in Manila.” She named the hospital. “Tell her my name again. I must see her!”
The operator was talking again. Then she broke the connection and said: “You may go up. It's Room
321.”
Sally let out her breath with relief. “Thank you,” she said.
She started to turn away when the operator asked, “What shall I do about the other call, miss?”
“Oh!”
Sally Treat thought swiftly, then asked, “Could you put the call through to Miss Savage's room if it comes
in?”
“Yes.”
“Please do that. Keep trying to reach them!” She hurried toward the elevators.
The man, the thin, unobtrusive-looking man sitting in the wicker armchair nearby, lowered his newspaper
slightly so that he could watch Sally Treat's progress across the lobby to the elevator. He waited until the
elevator doors had closed. Then he got up and strolled casually through the lobby.
His features were sharp and foxlike, dark, but he was not a Filipino.
He left the hotel. He walked fast now.
摘要：

TARGETFORDEATHADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispageformatted2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXII?ChapterXIIIOriginallypublishedinDocSavageMagazineJanuary1947       ...

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