Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 151 - Terror Takes 7

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TERROR TAKES 7
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 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
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I
THE man from the American Express arrived about three o'clock bearing a skinny package about six
feet long and wrapped in tough pigskin-colored paper. Monk Mayfair, the chemist, accepted the
shipment, after inquiring cautiously whether or not it was collect. He carried it into the library of Doc
Savage's eighty-sixth floor headquarters in a midtown New York building and showed it to his friend
Ham Brooks, the lawyer.
“Look,” said Monk, “what somebody sent us.”
“What are you trying to pull now?” asked Ham Brooks, who felt that it was well to regard with suspicion
almost anything Monk did.
“Don't be so suspicious. Somebody sent us this thing.”
“What is it?”
“I don't know.”
“Why not look and find out.”
“It's addressed to Doc.”
“Well, stop bothering me about it,” said Ham, who thought Monk was probably playing a practical joke
on him. He added, “Take it in and give it to Doc.”
Monk was dubious. “Doc still working? I mean on that limit of compressibility for the air research job?”
“What if he is?”
“Yeah, you want me to get chased out of there, don't you?” Monk said.
Ham grinned. “I think he's going to run us both off anyway if his temper keeps getting worse. What have
you got to lose?”
“I'll take a chance,” Monk decided.
He went into the laboratory carrying the package, explaining, “This thing came by express, Doc.”
The laboratory, which occupied most of the eighty-sixth floor of the building, had been temporarily
crammed with air-compressors, wind tunnels and compression chambers. The current research job,
which Doc Savage was doing for an aircraft manufacturer, concerned the behavior of air when it went
past the so-called compressibility limit. The research covered a field of hitherto unknown phenomena, for
it had only lately been discovered that when an airplane starts traveling faster than sound, mysterious and
unorthodox things happen to it.
Doc Savage was aggravated about the whole thing. It had been dumped in his lap after everyone else
was stumped, handed to him along with a lovely speech how he was probably the world's greatest
research scientist, that since his abilities covered a number of fields in addition of aërodynamics, he was
the man most apt to strike a solution. This he didn't mind; it had been a lovely speech.
What he did mind was a story he'd heard, going the rounds of aviation engineering circles, to the effect
that Doc Savage had the thing in the bag. He didn't have it in the bag; it had him in the bag. He wasn't
sure who had started the story, but he suspected the plane manufacturer was using his reputation to scare
a competitor. He didn't like that. This was supposed to be for the Army; he wasn't getting a commercial
fee.
His mood was acid. When Monk unwrapped the package and Doc saw what was inside, he said several
things, using plain words, about not being bothered again.
Monk retreated in red-eared haste, carrying the thing that had been in the package.
“I was spoken unkindly to,” he reported to Ham.
Ham chuckled. “I heard.”
“I guess he thought somebody was ribbing him when he saw what was in the package.”
“What was it?”
“I'd call it part of a Daniel Boone outfit,” Monk decided. “A flintlock rifle and a pair of buckskin leggings.
Here, take a look.”
The rifle was dilapidated and useless-looking under a coating of rust. It was over six feet long. The
buckskin leggings were in somewhat the same condition.
“Why would anybody send us that stuff?” Ham wished to know.
The name of the sender was on the pigskin-colored paper wrapper:
P. ARGUS
NEW YORK CITY
Monk said, “Let's get his name out of the telephone directory, call him up and ask what's the big idea.”
They spent some time with the telephone directory.
“I'll be damned,” Monk said.
“There's no P. Argus listed,” Ham agreed.
They were looking at each other, puzzled, when the telephone rang.
“Answer it,” Ham said.
“ANSWER it yourself. It's probably that blonde babe you fed that line about being a millionaire. That girl
will get your shirt if you don't watch out.”
“Yes?” Ham said into the telephone.
A well-put-together female voice said, “I wish to speak to Doc Savage.”
“I'm afraid that Doc—”
“It's important, please.”
Something in the young woman's voice jarred Ham. A quality of urgency that was not normal. “Just a
moment,” he said, and threw the switch which connected the laboratory instrument. “Call for you, Doc!”
he yelled.
Monk eyed Ham suspiciously. “Man or woman?”
“Man,” Ham said, merely for the satisfaction of telling Monk a lie.
In the laboratory, Doc Savage listened to the very good voice of the young woman. Young? That was a
guess, but he thought it was probably correct. She said her name was Paula Argus.
For a moment, Doc didn't remember the package that had just come. Then he asked, “P. Argus?”
“Yes, I—but I don't think you know me.” She sounded puzzled.
“The name was on a deerslayer's outfit that came by express a while ago,” he said.
“Oh! You got the rifle and leggings?”
“Yes. Did you send them?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to you about them,” P. Argus said. “I want you to come downstairs, walk north on Fifth
Avenue, and enter the small bar on the right side of the street just off Fifth. I'll be waiting in the first booth
on the south side. I have on a brown coat, a mink.”
Doc remembered he was trying to find out why air went crazy when airplanes went through it faster than
sound traveled, added the thought that the young lady was probably a crank, and concluded he wanted
no part of it. He said, “That is a very explicit set of directions, but it happens that I am infernally busy just
now. I'm sorry.” Then, because the girl might be in genuine trouble, he added, “Why not come here if you
want to talk?”
“I'm afraid,” she said.
He frowned at the telephone, wishing he could tell something about a woman's voice. He didn't think she
sounded frightened; on the other hand death might be at her throat and he would have the same opinion.
Every man in the world, he frequently thought, knew more about women than he did. Not, he suspected,
that any of them knew very much.
“You don't sound scared,” he said.
“What do you expect me to do, scream and faint?” she demanded.
He suspected, now, that she might be frightened. At least she was angry; if she were some silly fan after
an autograph, or wanting to tell her girl friends she'd had a date with Doc Savage, she wouldn't flash
anger probably.
He said, “I'm sorry, but this experiment of mine is in a critical stage. I can not come.” The experiment had
passed through series of critical stages, none of them productive, he thought. He added, “However, I will
send one of my friends to talk to you.”
He was surprised when this satisfied her. She asked, “You mean one of the five men who are associated
with you? Mr. Renwick, Mr. Roberts, Mr. Littlejohn, or Mr. Brooks?”
She knew who he was, he thought, knew his friends by name.
“You left one out—Mr. Mayfair,” he said. “I'll send him.”
“The wolf, eh?” she said. “Well, all right. I'll wait.”
ENTERING the library, concealing his impulse to laugh at Monk, Doc Savage said, “Monk, that was P.
Argus, who sent the rifle and leggings. You are to walk north on Fifth Avenue, enter a small bar on the
right side of the street just off Fifth, go to the first booth on the south side and meet P. Argus, who will be
wearing a brown coat.”
“Me?” Monk was disgusted. “Listen, I've got some work to do. Ham is loafing. Why can't Ham talk to
this crank.”
Ham snorted. “You haven't got any work. You noticed it is raining.” Then Ham remembered that P.
Argus had been a female, and a pleasant-sounding one, and he pretended to make a great concession.
“However, you manage to shove off all the dirty work on me, so I suppose I'll have to go see the crank.”
Monk eyed him suspiciously.
“Yeah? I think I'll go,” he said. “You sound too eager.”
Monk got his hat and raincoat and departed.
Doc told Ham, “You're losing your technique with Monk.”
“I should have kept my mouth shut and let him bulldoze me into going. The minute he saw I didn't mind
going, he smelled a mouse.”
Doc nodded. “The mouse sounded very nice over the telephone, too.”
“You're a big help,” Ham said bitterly.
Outdoors it was raining fat oyster-colored drops, and Monk Mayfair turned up his raincoat collar and
wished he'd let Ham do this.
Monk was not a tall man, but he was very wide, and his hair was bristling, resembling rusty wires. His
face was homely to such a degree that its homeliness was an asset; any and all expressions on such a face
were amusing.
There was one hitch in the directions to finding P. Argus, he discovered; they didn't say how many blocks
he was to go north on Fifth before he found such a bar. It proved to be some distance.
The place was small, done in chrome and shades of sky blue and royal blue, and with the customary
inadequate lighting. Monk shook the rain off his coat and looked around.
A wild goose chase, he thought, discovering a girl in the first booth. He took a closer look and added the
thought that it was just too darned bad she wasn't P. Argus. Wow, wouldn't that be something!
She was a long young woman; no, on second thought she wasn't tall, but she was built so that she
seemed so. A pocket edition, seal-brown hair, blue eyes, a diamond ring of eye popping size, but not an
engagement ring, and a brown mink coat . . . Brown mink . . . Brown! Glorious angels!
“Are you waiting for someone?” Monk asked her.
“For you, Mr. Mayfair,” she said. “I'm Paula Argus, and I sent Mr. Savage that devil-spear thing. Won't
you sit down?”
Monk said, “Will I sit down! Would I like to look at a million dollars!” He slid in on the other side of the
booth. “This is a surprise, and I'm not easily surprised.”
She looked at him intently.
“Not readily surprised? That's good. Because I want to talk to you about a murder.”
Monk batted his eyes a couple of times. “What was that?”
“I didn't intend it to sound as if I was shooting off firecrackers.” She stood up. “Will you come with me?
I'll talk while we're driving.”
Chapter II
THEY rode north through the oyster-colored rain in a cream convertible roadster that must have been
listed at about four thousand six hundred dollars F.O.B. Detroit before the war. Monk Mayfair was
thinking about Ham Brooks, Ham Brooks the dirty liar who had told him that P. Argus was a man. A
great pal, that Ham Brooks.
P. Argus drove. She said, “I have an uncle, Carlton Argus. I have noticed him being scared for two or
three days. This morning, I heard a noise in the orchid culture room and went in to investigate—”
“Pardon me, where was the noise?” Monk asked.
“Uncle Carlton raises orchids as an avocation. I heard a noise, and found that Uncle Carlton had
fainted.”
Monk liked her handling of a private orchid culture room as if it were nothing special.
She added, “He fainted when he saw that old flintlock rifle and buckskin leggings, which had just come
by express.”
Monk jumped. “The same rifle and leggings?”
“Yes.”
“Why'd they shock him into passing out?”
“I don't know.”
“Who sent the stuff?”
“There was no return address on the wrapper. I looked.”
Monk rubbed his jaw. “Sort of got a mystery on your hands, haven't you?”
“I don't think I've impressed you with Uncle Carlton's condition, his complete, abject error. It's a
frightening thing to see. There is something strange about it, because he doesn't want to talk to anyone. It
took a great deal of persuasion to get him to consent to talk to Mr. Savage.”
She turned the car left into the more expensive section of Park Avenue.
“Mind telling me how you thought of calling on us?” Monk asked.
“You know Patricia Savage?”
“Doc's cousin? Sure. Do I know Pat? Every once in a while she takes a notion to help us out on a case,
and gives us fits. She likes excitement a little too much.”
“Patricia is an acquaintance of mine, and I've heard her talk about Doc Savage. That's why I happened
to think of asking him to look into this thing. It sounds like the sort of thing Pat says always interests him.”
“You live at your Uncle's home?” Monk asked.
P. Argus nodded. “My mother and my father—my father was Uncle Carlton's brother—are no longer
living. For many years Uncle Carlton lived with our family, and then he made a lucky investment with
some money he borrowed from father during the war and cleaned up. He insists that I live with him, that
whatever he has is mine.” She looked sidewise at Monk, added, “Which is rather fortunate for me. I
haven't any money.”
Okay, so you're not wealthy, Monk thought. So what? So it's a minor matter, like a pine tree not having
pine cones. You're very ornamental without it.
“We'll do what we can,” Monk assured her.
She smiled. The world stood still, covered by sunshine, as far as Monk was concerned.
“I wish Doc Savage could have had time to help personally,” she said. “Not that I don't appreciate your
efforts, Mr. Mayfair.”
Monk said, “When I telephoned him about it, Doc was awfully sorry but he couldn't possibly get away.”
This was an inspired lie. The telephone call which Monk had pretended to make had been another. What
was he, a dope? Call Doc and have the handsome Doc and the syrup-tongued Ham Brooks around for
competition? Ho, ho!
“I'm sure I can take care of everything,” Monk said, pleased with his chicanery.
THE copper was named Clancy. Clancy Weinberg, and he happened to know Monk personally, and
also happened not to like Monk; the other circumstance, how Clancy happened to be standing in front of
the Argus apartment house, remained temporarily a mystery. Temporarily was to be about fifteen
minutes, which was too fatally long.
“Well, well, the answer to the chorus girls' nightmares,” said Clancy unpleasantly, scowling at Monk.
“Hello, flatfoot,” Monk said, also with no pleasure.
“Get outa that car, Romeo.” Clancy put his hand under his coat tail, where New York policemen keep
their guns. “Start something if you wanta,” he added invitingly.
Monk was amazed.
“What's got into you?”
Clancy wasn't fooling. “Come on, come on, get outa that heap! Too bad I gotta pick you up for
something as petty as car stealing. But it's your speed, I guess.”
“Car stealing?”
“Alight and relax in these handcuffs, brother,” Clancy said. “I got a telephone tip you were stealing this
car and would turn up here.”
Monk's amazement climbed. “Who telephoned you that lie?”
“Search me.”
“Ridiculous!” P. Argus exclaimed, entering the argument. “This is fantastic.”
Clancy took out his handcuffs and shook them and said, “It's a damned great pleasure, though.”
P. Argus said, “But this is my car!”
Clancy eyed her suspiciously, and with approval. “You're a lovely babe,” he said. “But it'll take more
than your good looks to prove it's your car.”
“Would my license and certificate help?” P. Argus asked angrily. “And the apartment house doorman's
word?”
Clancy looked at her documents; he listened to the apartment house doorman. He wasn't pleased. He
was puzzled. He was angry. He grasped Monk's necktie and said, “If I find out you caused that phony
telephone call, I'll feed you your own teeth!”
“Leggo my tie!” Monk said.
Presently Clancy departed, putting his feet down hard on the sidewalk.
Monk placed a hand on his forehead and found perspiration thereon. He said, “Whew-w-w-w-w!”
feelingly.
P. Argus eyed him dubiously.
“Just what,” she asked, “was that.”
Monk used a handkerchief to blot his forehead. “It was a cop giving a citizen a bad scare.” He gave the
distant Clancy a somewhat frightened look. “That guy's after my peace of mind. We—uh—we had a little
trouble, couple of days ago. A kind of a fuss in a night club, mostly words, although Clancy took a swing
at me and missed. A nosey newspaper columnist saw it and next day his piece carried a wisecracking
squib about it. Doc Savage gave me a lecture, and Clancy nearly got suspended—would have, too,
except I told his superiors I started it. Which was a lie, incidentally; I only did half the starting. His girl
friend did the other half by sitting on my lap.”
“Serves you right,” said P. Argus, “for fighting over a girl.”
“That was about what Doc said, too,” Monk admitted.
“However,” said P. Argus, “I don't think he was just riding you. I think, from the way he sounded, that he
had really received a telephone call.”
Monk pondered this. The same idea had occurred to him, together with another one that Ham Brooks
had pulled a practical joke. He suspected Ham.
“The rat!” Monk said feelingly.
“He seemed like a nice young policeman,” said P. Argus.
“I didn't mean the cop.” Monk was wondering how Ham had found out about his trouble with Clancy.
Probably the same way Doc had found it out: the paragraph the columnist had printed. Convinced Ham
had caused him the embarrassment, Monk said, “I'll look into the thing later. Right now, let's talk to your
uncle.”
THE apartment would have been the latest thing in ultra-modern living back in the late twenties, when
there were stock-market-millionaires and a penthouse on Park Avenue was the ultimate. It was rather
impressive now. The furnishings weren't modernistic, Monk noted with pleasure. He had gone in for the
very gaudiest form of ultramodernism when he fixed up his own place downtown, and he was getting
almost as tired of its flash as he was of the mortgages he had on the place.
A tuxedoed old gentleman with a Scotch whiskey and sea wind complexion stood stiffbacked in front of
them and said, “Your hat, sir.”
“A butler, eh?” Monk said admiringly. “I thought they survived only in the history books and the movies.”
“One of Uncle Carlton's little extravagances,” P. Argus said.
Monk wondered what she meant by little. The salary of a genuine butler equipped with dignity like this
one was probably something to raise your hat.
“Fifteen minutes till two, Miss Paula,” the butler said.
P. Argus seemed surprised. “Why do you mention what time it is, Jonas?”
“Didn't you call by phone, Miss, and remind me to state the time to you when you arrived?”
“Certainly not!”
“I beg pardon, Miss.” The butler seemed somewhat confused. He went away.
“I'll leave you in the armory,” P. Argus informed Monk, “while I go hunt Uncle Carlton.” She added
vaguely, “I wonder why Jonas said that about the time.” She consulted her wrist watch. “It is fifteen of
two.”
The armory . . . what's the armory, Monk wondered. He found out. It was the armory, a room for
storing arms; pop-eyed, Monk eyed an array of hunting rifles, revolvers, modern and antique hand arms,
knives and machetes, which adorned the place. There was an added collection of hides and mounted
heads of such ferocious animals as tigers, lions and bears on the floors and walls.
“Some collection!” Monk waved a hand. “Uncle Carlton must keep busy hunting. It would take
practically a week just to shoot all the guns in here.”
P. Argus smiled slightly. “Uncle Carlton doesn't shoot anything but the breeze.”
“Who's the nimrod, then?”
“I am.”
“Hully chee! No kidding? You'll have me scared of you.”
“I'll find Uncle Carlton,” she said, and departed.
Monk, examining the stuffed animals, was impressed. The place looked like a taxidermist's shop. A
remarkable girl, certainly a lovely girl; however, he was glad he'd found out she was adept with
dangerous weapons.
He felt like grinning, so he hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and grinned. The situation pleased him.
The girl was beautiful. There was no Ham Brooks around to fly-speck the situation; there were a couple
of interesting mysteries—who had telephoned Clancy, and who had phoned the butler. And Uncle
Carlton's fright, of course, with his Satan's pitchfork. And I'm just the boy, Monk thought, to save Uncle
Carlton from his fears and receive P. Argus' gratitude.
He was feeling of the teeth in the gaping mouth of a stuffed tiger to see how sharp they were when the
butler said, “He'll see you, sir.” Monk only jumped a foot, wheeled and demanded, “Whatcha mean, see
me? The thing's stuffed, ain't it?”
The butler bowed apologetically. “I meant Carlton Argus, sir. He will see you now.”
“Oh.”
“This way, sir.” The butler was holding open the door.
They walked down a hall, turned right through a door into a room which was furnished as a living room,
and the servant stopped before another door, faced Monk, asked, “Do you have a watch, sir?”
“Watch? Sure.”
“Might I see it?”
Monk carried a pocket watch with a closed front; the lid opened by pressure on the stem. It was
old-fashioned. He produced it, said, “Five minutes until two.”
“Might I have it a moment?” the servant asked. He accepted the watch with a polite, “Thank you. Just a
moment.” He turned and went back into the hall; in a moment he returned and gave Monk the watch,
saying, “I am sorry, but I thought our clock was off. Thank you again, sir.”
The butler went to the inner door, opened it a couple of inches, stopped quickly as if he'd made an error,
and rapped the panel with his knuckles.
“Yes?” asked a gruff voice inside.
“Mr. Mayfair to see you, sir.”
Louder, the gruff voice said, “Come on in, Mayfair, and have a chair. Be with you in a minute.”
Monk entered. The butler withdrew, closing the door, possibly two seconds later, the lock clicked.
The butler had locked the door.
WHAT the hell, Monk thought.
Apprehension came slowly to him; he was feeling too good for it to grab him at once. He faced the door,
put out a hand. Locked, all right. He wheeled again slowly, now aware of the stillness in the room, the
utter abnormal stillness that stirred the skin along his nape unpleasantly.
He saw the clock, an electric clock lying on the floor, indicating two o'clock. It had fallen there; the fall
had yanked its cord from the wall socket, so naturally it had stopped. Two o'clock, it said.
A chair was upset. The rug was crowded up in one spot, as if it had skidded under urgent feet. The room
was a sort of an office, a record room; there was a desk, a swivel chair, and the straight chair that was
upset. Books were on the desk, books about orchid culture. A few tools on shelves, and in a rack, tools
for the care of flowers, Monk supposed.
“Mr. Argus!” Monk said loudly. “Carlton Argus!”
Stillness came to him, settled about him, as warmly moist as animal breath. It was greenhouse air, he
supposed; this must be a part of the orchid culture room P. Argus had mentioned. There was a
glass-paneled door through which he could see plants growing like a jungle. He had seen orchid plants
growing, and these were orchids. But what bit into him was the sight of the broken glass in the door.
One pane was broken out of the door. The glass, in fragments, was scattered on the floor.
“Carlton Argus!” Monk said sharply.
He expected no answer. He didn't know why he hadn't expected a reply; he had just known there would
be none.
Two o'clock. He was looking at the stopped electric clock. Two o'clock. It must be about two now; it
摘要：

TERRORTAKES7ADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2004BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXIIScannedandProofedbyTomStephensChapterITHEmanfromtheAmericanExpressarr...

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