Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 162 - Three Times a Corpse

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Three Times A Corpse
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
Additional proofing by Moe the Cat
Chapter I
SAM CLARK was crawling on the floor looking for a paper clip when—without a knock, without a
warning—the hotel room door burst open. Sam was frightened until he had to jam both fists hard on the
floor to keep his arms from trembling.
“Petey!” he gulped, identifying the arrival.
Petey cam in saying, “You know what—I saw the best-looking blonde babe just now —” He stopped
and stared. “What's the matter, Sam? Did you lay an egg?”
Sam cursed him bitterly and in detail, his deep and rather hard tones knocking together like rocks. He
touched on most of the intimate details of Petey's ancestry. Then he cautiously lifted one arm to see if it
was still shaking, and it wasn't. He said, “Why didn't you telephone the room, or knock?”
“Why, you told me not to telephone—it might set off the rifle,” said Petey.
“Yeah, that's right,” Sam muttered, and, embarrassed by having been so frightened, went to looking for
the paper clip again.
Sam had a headlong, athletic look about him, and this air—alert, active, devilish—gave him an
appearance of being larger than he was, which was two inches under six feet and twenty pounds lighter
than the two hundred he seemed. A collegiate way of dressing helped out this sprightliness. He was
twenty-five and looked thirty-five or even forty, due to the kind of treatment his face had received as a
result of pushing it into the kind of places where he had pushed it. He looked—and was—the kind of guy
who was living in a century that was too peaceable, a fellow who should have lived back when there
were more new frontiers to explore, and kingdoms to be won, fair damsels in distress, and buccaneers
sailing the seas.
“You told me,” said Petey again, “not to telephone the room on account of it might set off the gun.”
Sam grunted and hunted the paper clip.
Pete was a wiry little man of uncertain nationality—he was Polynesian, he claimed frequently, supposedly
from an island called Oh Hah, in the group north of Tahiti. On the other hand, he sometimes said he was
a Limehouse boy from London, a Sands Street boy from Brooklyn, or assorted other places—he could,
rather remarkably, look and act each of these nationalities. He, like Sam, was an adventurer at heart, and
he adored Sam, took Sam's word as law, and seemed very grateful to Sam for tolerating him. He was
outspoken with Sam, which seemed to bother Sam not at all.
Petey went over and examined the rifle.
“This is a hell of a contraption,” he said. “You think it's gonna work?”
“Sure it'll work,” Sam said.
“What if it shoots the wrong guy?”
THE rifle, a 30-06 U. S. Army issue weapon which they had bought that afternoon at a sporting goods
house, had been lashed in a substantial manner on top of the hotel dresser which was in turn wired
securely to the radiator below the window. Two telephone directories, the classified and the Manhattan
directory, had been used for wedging purposes.
Petey sighted down the barrel. There was a restaurant in the building across the street, on the second
floor, and there was one table in a sort of windowed alcove which offered a view of the street and made
an excellent target. The table was quite large. The rifle was sighted directly in the center of it, at an
elaborate centerpiece of floral design.
“You sure this gun is sighted in?”
“Yeah,” Sam Clark said.
“How you know?”
“Dammit, we just bought the gun new this afternoon.”
“You gonna take the word of the guy sold us the thing?”
“Help me find this paper clip!”
“I wouldn't take the word—”
“I drove out in the country and shot it,” Sam said patiently. “It targets in good enough to suit me.”
“Whatcha want the paper clip for?”
He got no answer, so he scrambled around on his hands and knees helping Sam, and presently they
found the paper clip.
Petey then watched with interest as Sam arranged a trigger-tripping gadget that was rather elaborate. A
string ran from the clapper of the telephone bell—Sam had removed the cover from the ringer—to the
tongue of a trip, home-made, of the sort boys call a figure-4 trap and set for rabbits. Ringing of the
telephone would trip the figure-4 gimmick, a book would then fall off the table, a string tied to the book
would yank the rifle trigger.
“That gonna work?”
“Sure it'll work.”
Petey looked at the name of the book that was going to pull the rifle trigger. It was a copy of How To
Win Friends And Influence People. Petey thought this was funny.
“Did you think that up yourself, or was it an accident?” He indicated the book.
Sam said modestly that he had thought it up himself. “A touch of the unique,” he explained.
“Yeah, a touch that is gonna make him think you're touched,” Petey said. “You know this is a smart guy
you're fooling with. He is liable to look at the place where you stood and read your mind. What if
something like that book should tip him it was a shenanygin?”
“What time does this come off?”
“What time is it now?”
“Six thirty-eight,” Petey said without looking at his watch. He had, and was proud of, a rather uncanny
facility for telling the exact time at any given moment.
“He eats at seven,” Sam Clark said.
Petey scratched his head and wished to know how the hell Sam had found out that Doc Savage dined at
seven. “I phoned the restaurant,” Sam explained. “I said I was supposed to join Savage for a business
conference at dinner, and what time did he eat, and did he have a regular time. They said as regular as
clockwork, and it was seven o'clock.”
“What if he don't?”
“Well, what if he don't?” Sam snapped.
“And what if he doesn't take that table?”
“The guy in the restaurant says he always uses that table, because it's private.”
“What if the telephone here rings at the wrong time?”
“Listen, I'm gonna ask some questions,” Sam said sharply. “First, did you buy the ticket?”
“No. I had the guy downstairs, the porter, buy the ticket for me. It's on the eight o'clock train to St.
Louis.”
“The ticket read only St. Louis?”
“Nah. To Butte, Montana. That's where you said, wasn't it?”
“I said any place in Montana. Butte is as good as anywhere — You sure the porter will remember you
buying the ticket and what train it was on?”
“He oughta, after the argument we had.”
“What kind of an argument? We don't want this too obvious.”
“It wasn't exactly an argument. I just recited him a poem. 'There was a young lady from Butte, Who went
on a terrible toot—”
“Never mind your poem,” Sam said hastily. “The thing we want is a clear trail leading to the eight o'clock
train out of Miami, and I hope that'll do it. But you be sure to get on that train or at least go through the
gate. Make some kind of commotion when you get aboard, so the guy at the gate will remember you.
Not too obvious. Something like misplacing your ticket and looking scared and having a little argument.”
“Sure. I got that all figured out.”
“But don't get on the train, actually.”
“Not me.”
Sam did some pondering, then announced, “You might do it like this—walk through the gate and down
the ramp with the rest of the passengers, but instead—”
“They got a long platform, not a ramp. This ain't New York—”
“Down the platform, dope! But don't get on any of the coaches. Keep going, and walk around the front
of the engine, acting like you were on business, maybe a guy working for the railroad. Anyway, keep out
of the conductor's sight, and let the train get out of town without you.”
“Okay.”
“What time is it now?”
“Six forty-seven.”
“Better light out for the railway station. I don't want you around here when the shot goes off.”
“When Savage gets to the table, I'll be in the restaurant, and I'll use the telephone there to call this room,
and discharge the rifle.” Sam grinned. “Pretty slick, don't you think.”
“Very slippery,” Petey agreed. “I hope our feet don't slide out from under us on this deal, is all.”
SAM CLARK had not previously seen Doc Savage, but had heard vaguely of Savage on a number of
different occasions and—and this had surprised him—in widely separate parts of the world, so evidently
Savage, who was called the bronze man, or the man of bronze, had a rather widespread reputation. Sam
did not believe what he had heard about Doc Savage, because it did not seem quite logical, particularly
the part about the bronze man's reputation, which was supposed to be righting wrongs which were, for
one reason or another, outside the ability of the regular law enforcement mediums. This sounded too
much like Galahad stuff to Sam, and he could not see where there would be any profit in it, other than
satisfaction, and it was difficult to make a meal from satisfaction. He had heard that Doc Savage had
considerable financial means which Sam figured further disproved the Galahad theory, which had gone
out of style along with tin pants, and going to a blacksmith when you wanted your coat patched. But he
was quite interested in seeing what sort Doc Savage really was.
He was not disappointed.
He said, “Whoeeee!” softly.
Any doubts about his being able to recognize Savage vanished, for the man was physically as noticeable
as a neon sign. He was a man with a remarkable personality that did not come entirely from the deeply
sun-bronzed hue of his skin and the slightly darker bronze of his hair and a somewhat unusual flake gold
coloration of his eyes—not brown, and not citrine either. They were striking eyes. Savage's size was also
striking, Sam suddenly realized, when he noticed the comparison between the bronze man and the
headwaiter in the restaurant, who was not a midget.
Impressed, alarmed, Sam Clark watched Doc Savage being conducted to the table in the windowed
alcove, where the bronze man seated himself and began inspecting a menu. Quite a number of thoughts
dashed through Sam's mind, most of them having to do with whether or not he might have made a
mistake somewhere. It was not Sam's nature to become alarmed readily—the fact that sudden
unexpected events could startle him and make him shaky as the devil for a few moments had nothing to
do with a state of protracted alarm; he was of a jumpy nature, that was all—but he was concerned now.
Maybe, he thought this is once I should have looked more closely before I took a bite.
Bosh! What was there to be afraid of? His plan was nicely laid. The shot would arouse in Savage a wish
to catch whoever had fired upon him, and the trail that had been laid was a plain one. The rifle bullet, for
instance, would smash the hotel room window through which it passed, which would be clue enough as
to the source. The railway ticket Petey had bought would lead straight to the St. Louis train, and even a
slight inquiry would indicate Petey had boarded the train. Petey was supposed to be the only one
occupying the hotel room, so actually he, Sam, was in the clear.
Having re-assured himself, he touched his lips with his napkin—he had ordered pompano, had taken a
few hearty bites before Doc Savage had appeared and impaired his appetite—and arose. The telephone
was convenient; he had made sure of that. He dropped in his nickel, got the operator.
“Adair Hotel,” he asked. He turned his head, made sure that the rifle bullet, if it hit where aimed, would
not strike Doc Savage. “Room 308,” he said.
The rifle bullet came into the restaurant and made all the commotion he had hoped for.
Chapter II
VIOLENTLY, crash-jangle, the vase in which the table centerpiece was arranged sprang to bits and
scattered over the room, or at least over the alcove and the area immediately adjacent, along with the
window, all the glass of which—a pane about four by seven feet—seemed to split into a thousand bits
and fall into the room. The table top—it was modernistic black glass, something Sam Clark hadn't noted
previously—also burst into sections when the bullet passed through; afterward the bullet, hitting the floor,
which was of reinforced concrete covered with some sort of tiling, got under the tiling and came across
the room leaving a track, under the tiling, that might have been made by a small speedy mole.
Then silence. It was almost as brittle as the breaking glass.
Doc Savage had hardly moved. Sam Clark, at this point, made a rather shocking discovery—he realized
that Doc Savage, in seating himself at the table, had occupied such a position that a part of the building,
brick several inches thick had shielded him from the hotel window across the street. There was not much
time for this to more than come to Sam's attention.
Arising, Doc Savage crossed the restaurant, not seeming in any particular hurry. It appeared to Sam that
Savage was heading for the exit, which proved to be a wide error of judgment on Sam's part.
Suddenly Sam found himself seized.
He said, “Here! Dammit! What's the idea?” He did not sound as innocently indignant as he sought to
sound.
“The idea,” Doc Savage said, “is purely your own. Or is it?”
He had a powerful voice with qualities of tone and training and power.
“Leggo me!” Sam said.
Doc Savage did not say anything and did not let go, and Sam, whose idea of a fight was to get it over
with quick, and anything would go, made am ambitious attempt to kick Doc in the stomach. Doc moved
just enough so that the kick missed. He hooked an arm under Sam's leg and jerked, and Sam came
down on the floor, hard. He was fortunate enough to keep his head from cracking the floor more than
enough to daze him momentarily. Doc leaned down and planted a fist on Sam's third vest button, not
appearing to hit very hard. But the result stopped Sam's breathing, and most of his other functions, for a
few moments.
Sam was dragged toward the door.
The restaurant proprietor, who was also the head-waiter, bounced nervously alongside, wishing to know,
“Is there anything—anything at all—”
“No. No, we'll take it from here.” Doc Savage's voice, manner, were friendly. He added, “I want to tell
you again that I appreciate your telling me there had been someone telephoning and showing curiosity
about exactly what time I ate here, and what table I used.”
“Glade to do it,” said the restaurant owner. He was pleased.
“Well, you did us a great favor, and we appreciate it. If we could make some kind of financial
remuneration—”
The restaurant man wouldn't hear of that; hell, don't be ridiculous, he said; after all, his brother,
Frederick, wouldn't be the successful surgeon he now was if it hadn't been for the study foundation which
Doc Savage had established so that fellows like Frederick, who had talent but not money, could take
specialized study.
Sam Clark revived enough to swear bitterly.
“So this restaurant monkey tipped you off!” he complained.
DOC SAVAGE took Sam Clark across the street to the Adair Hotel.
“So you got them!” said the pleased manager of the hotel.
“That's one of them,” said the hotel porter, looking at Sam.
“The other'n is upstairs,” said the elevator operator.
Sam asked bitterly, “Is there anybody in Miami who doesn't know all about this?”
Petey was waiting, or being detained, in their room. Petey, skinned and bruised in several places, eyed
Sam gloomily and said, “I thought you had such a slick plan!”
Sam, in no mood for conversation, inspected Petey's captors. There were two of these and they looked
nothing alike, seemed to have nothing in common, not even much fondness for each other. He recognized
them, after a moment's thought, as being Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks, two of a group of five
specialists who were supposed to be associated with Doc Savage in most of his activities.
Monk Mayfair was a squat four-by-fourish sort of an individual with a startlingly homely face, a
considerable growth of wiry red hair that was as thick elsewhere on him, namely his forearms, as it was
on his bullet head. Apparently he had gone to considerable trouble to dress as sloppily, and also as
loudly, as possible. Sam, remembering Monk Mayfair was reputedly one of the world's great industrial
chemists, was startled.
Ham Brooks looked somewhat more the part. He was a wide-mouthed, wide-shoulder, rather
handsome man with the wiry air of a fox-terrier, and the cultured and unconsciously projected voice of an
orator of the spellbinder school. His clothing was expensive, immaculate, and a compromise between
Bond Street and Hollywood, impressive without being loud. Brooks, Sam reflected, at least looked like
the noted attorney he was reputed to be.
Petey cleared his throat.
“They musta been smarter than somebody figured,” he ventured.
“So was the restaurant guy,” Sam agreed gloomily.
DOC SAVAGE examined the rifle, mentioned that it showed a certain ingenuity, then began going over
the room, finding nothing in the way of baggage except a cheap new suitcase, thoughtfully loaded with
bricks so the bellhop wouldn't think it contained no baggage. In a wastebasket was heavy wrapping
paper, grease-stained, which had obviously been around the rifle.
“Nothing to identify them,” Doc announced. “Let's see what they have on them.”
Sam objected indignantly to being searched. “This is illegal!” he yelled.
“As illegal as anything,” agreed Ham Brooks, the lawyer. “Stand still, brother, or some more illegalities
will happen to you!”
Petey said hopefully, “Sam, I think you can lick them. Are you gonna stand for this?”
Sam snorted. He was still not breathing normally as a result of the punch Doc Savage had given him in
the midsection.
Monk and Ham tossed the contents of Sam and Petey's pockets on the bedspread as they unearthed
them, and Doc Savage, sitting on the edge of the bed, went through the stuff. Petey's pockets contained
two dozen slot machine slugs and another dozen slugs for illegal use in pay telephones, four dog-track bet
ticket stubs, several more pari-mutuel bet tickets from Hialeah track, a half-eaten candy bar, and a total
of eighty-seven cents.
From Sam's pockets came a pair of brass knucks, a roll of nickels that would also serve well in a fight, a
receipt for a fine paid in court, ten dollars, a short newspaper item about the fight—the same one,
evidently which had drawn the fine—which said that one Sam Clark, a vagrant, had badly beaten a night
club bouncer and two socialites in a fracas over a blonde. There was also a brand-new billfold in the
two-dollar price range which contained two hundred dollars, in fives and tens, neatly fastened together
with a paper clip.
Doc Savage fanned through Sam's two hundred.
“All of the pay-off, or part of it?” he asked Sam.
“You ain't gonna take that dough?” Sam demanded, alarmed.
The greenbacks made a fluttering sound as Doc fanned through them again. “You work cheap.”
“Huh?”
“Not enough.”
Sam said indignantly, “Two hundred is a lotta dough.”
“You think so?”
“Why not?”
“I think I know some individuals who would go a little higher, say around fifty thousand dollars, for
somebody to take a shot at me,” Doc said dryly. “They would expect a somewhat more skillful job,
though.”
Petey showed interest. “Would you mind giving me the names of them guys?” he asked.
“Shut up!” Sam snapped.
Monk Mayfair gave his slacks, which seemed in perpetual danger of sliding off his hips, a hitch. “So you
guys were hired.”
“Mind-readers!” Petey said.
“Shut up!” Sam ordered Petey.
Doc Savage scraped the belongings together on the bed, and remarked, “No weapons. That speaks a
word in your behalf.” He leaned back, relaxed and not seeming upset—alarmingly calm, in Sam's
opinion—and examined the two prisoners speculatively. He selected Petey for his next questions, asking,
“Who hired you two fellows to put that on me and why?”
Petey registered blankness. “Sam told me to shut up,” he explained.
THAT, after five minutes, was the sum total of information that Petey and Sam were willing to divulge.
The questioning was interrupted—not as permanently as Sam hoped; he was beginning to be quite
alarmed by Doc Savage—by the ringing of the telephone, and the information from downstairs, that the
police were there to see what had happened.
“Send the officers up,” Doc directed.
Sam was upset by this. “You ain't got nothing on me!” he said hastily.
“Only enough to get you about twenty years for attempted homicide,” Ham Brooks, the attorney,
informed him.
“It was a gag!”
“What was?”
“The whole thing!”
“How do you know?”
“That's what the guy told me.”
“What guy?”
Sam considered this. “I guess I can't say. I told the guy I wouldn't,” he muttered.
There were two policemen, a lieutenant named Avery and a patrolman in uniform named, or called, Gilly.
Lieutenant Avery had a long mule-shaped face which, when he saw Doc Savage, lighted up in a grin as if
he were preparing to bray. “Well, for God's sake, it's Mr. Savage!” he said explosively. “Say, maybe
you don't remember me—Avery, Theodore Avery—but I was in the FBI police school a couple of years
ago when you lectured on the Keeler polygraph for recording psychogalvanic reflexes.”
Doc Savage said that of course he remembered the lieutenant, and added, “Have you still got the party
fishing boat for a side-line?”
“Sure, I still got the boat. I want to take you out in the Gulf Stream for a day's fishing while you're here,”
said the lieutenant. “Uh—this is Patrolman Gilly. Gilly put in a call; said there was a shooting.”
“There was,” Doc indicated Sam Clark and Petey. “A gag, they say. Someone paid them two
hundred—the two hundred may have been a down payment only—to fire a shot into the restaurant table
where I was eating. I was then supposed to investigate, find a trail which they'd arranged for me, and
follow the trail to Butte, Montana, I think it was. The deal stubbed its toe when the owner of the
restaurant across the street, Mr. Domani, became suspicious of a telephone caller who wished exact
details about when I ate dinner, and what table I used. Mr. Domani notified me, and Monk and Ham
here did some investigating—with a pair of binoculars, they discovered a man rigging a rifle behind the
window in this room, and so we took measures to apprehend this pair”—he nodded at Sam,
Petey—“and I was careful not to show myself within range of the rifle, in case it was an attempt on my
life. Apparently it wasn't such an attempt, because Sam Clark, in the restaurant, where I seized him a few
moments later, did not seem surprised when the bullet only went through the table.”
Sam Clark's jaw had loosened, his expression had become blankly foolish; he swallowed twice, with
difficulty, and blurted, “How, by God, did you figure that all out?”
Lieutenant Avery said, “Restaurant man tipped you, eh? Sure he wasn't in on it?”
“Mr. Domani!” Doc seemed surprised.
“Oh, Domani—sure, he's all right. I know Domani. Nice guy.” The lieutenant scowled at Sam and Petey.
“You want us to fan these guys into the bastille for you?”
“I'd like to look a bit further into it.”
“Yeah, that wouldn't be a bad idea. You want us to help?”
“If it's not breaking any rules, we'd like to tackle it ourselves,” Doc explained.
Lieutenant Avery grinned. “It's breaking rules, all right, but that's what rules are for. If you need any little
service we can give, holler.”
“We will.”
TO Sam Clark's horror, and Petey's confessed disbelief, the two policemen now departed. Petey, after
his eyes had protruded, demanded of Sam, “What's got into them cops? They go off and leave civilians
to investigate their own shooting scrape! Who ever hearda sucha thing!”
“We got influence,” Monk Mayfair told him grimly.
Doc Savage, having accompanied the two policemen to the elevator, returned and closed and locked the
door, then went over and looked Sam coldly in the eye.
“Just before the officers arrived,” Doc said, “you started to tell a story. You got as far as saying it was all
a gag, and someone had told you it was a gag. Do you want to go on from there?”
“Go on?”
“The rest of the story.”
Sam was impressed, but not sufficiently impressed to talk.
“I got nothin' to say.” He put his jaw out.
“Why not?”
“I choose not to discuss it,” Sam said.
Monk suggested, “Maybe he chooses to lose his teeth instead.” Monk went over and showed Sam a
block of fist which appeared capable of smashing bricks and looked, from the scars on it as if it might
have been employed for some similar purpose in the past. “You think your nose is harder than this?”
Monk waggled the fist.
Doc Savage made a restraining gesture. “I think there is a less messy way.” The remark gave him Sam's
alarmed attention, and Doc added, “Sam—if that is your name—have you ever heard of hyoscine?”
Sam batted his eyes. “Which?”
“It is,” Doc explained, “nearly identical with scopolamine in its effects. It is administered hypodermically
in repeated does until a stage of mild delirium is induced, and at a certain stage the victim is afflicted with
a peculiar forgetfulness which seems to cover any alibi he may have figured out for himself as security
against being accused of a crime, and likewise he usually forgets that he does not want to tell the truth. In
such a state, he implicates himself readily if guilty.”
“Hah!” said Sam explosively. Just what he meant by the exclamation, the tone did not say. Mostly it was
alarmed.
“Unfortunately,” added Doc Savage, “there is a large element of danger connected with the stuff. It is so
dangerous, in fact, that its use in connection with twilight sleep for childbirth in hospitals has been
discontinued — Death indications, in the course of an autopsy are generally the same as those of
asphyxiation, which is equivalent to drowning or choking to death, and is probably not a very pleasant
way to die.”
Monk, realizing what Doc Savage was trying to do—induce a state of alarm—pretended some concern
of his own. “Doc, not that I give a damn about this guy, but I feel I should, as a chemist, point out that the
hyoscine manufactured under these post-war conditions isn't too reliable. If you want to murder this guy,
I'd say go ahead and use it. Otherwise, I think he would be better off if we beat it out of him.”
Having offered this he, Monk, looked as solemn as possible.
Sam Clark felt he was being kidded, but he wasn't too sure. He fitted two or three expressions on his
face—sneer, scowl, bravado, a second scowl that was thoughtful, a what-the-hell look of
resignation—which apparently mirrored the state of his mind. “Okay, but there's one thing you gotta let
me do,” he said.
摘要：

ThreeTimesACorpseADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispageformatted2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXIIAdditionalproofingbyMoetheCatChapterISAMCLARKwascrawlingonthefloo...

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