Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 134 - The Whisker of Hercules

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THE WHISKER OF HERCULES
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2003 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
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I
THE heavy-faced man took a .22-caliber rifle out of the golf bag. And then the younger man, without
saying anything or asking anything, hit the heavy-faced man. The young man hit the other first with his fist.
Then he got a flashlight out of the dashboard compartment of the car and let the heavy-faced man have it
again. Twice. The flashlight lens broke.
The driver of the car kept turning a scared face to look. But he continued driving.
The three men in the machine—the driver and the two who had fought—were silent for a while. That is,
there were no words. The young man who had done the hitting had asthma badly, and it was worse when
he was excited. He wheezed. The heavy-faced man who had been hit had fallen over on the seat cushion.
He was not unconscious. He was merely lying still, trying to figure what he should do.
“She is my sister, damn you!” The young man rattled a little with his wheezing.
“Charley, I—”
“You were going to shoot her!”
“Charley, you're crazy!” The man with the heavy face was scared. “What gave you such an idea?”
“You got that gun out.”
“I was only going to look at it, Charley.”
“Sure, sure! I saw you look at it before we started out.” He stared at the other. “I ought to fix you.” He
hefted the flashlight. “I ought to brain you.”
The young man's facial expression, his wheezing, his gray hard grip on the flashlight which made his hand
tendons show up like bone, were frightening things to the other.
“No, Charley, no! Listen, I only just bought that rifle and I was going to look—”
The young man made a cutting gesture as if the flashlight was a sword.
“You get this through your head!” he said. “If anybody touches Lee, if anybody lays a finger on her, I'll
smear the lot of you.”
He looked violently at the heavy-faced man, and glanced as violently at the driver.
He repeated: “I'll smear you, so help me! You and all the others. And that goes for the boss, too!”
There was more silence.
The car moved slowly, trailing a taxicab which was now about two blocks ahead. The cab was black,
and no different from a passenger car except for a TAXI sign on each door and in front above the
windshield. But across the back of the machine was a yellow banner advertising the Cedar County War
Bond Drive. And this conspicuous banner made the cab easily followed.
Bitterness was around the young man's mouth. “This asthma may have kept me out of the army,” he gave
each of the other two a fierce look, “but it won't keep me from messing you up plenty if anything happens
to Lee.”
“The trouble is,” said the driver, “she knows that story about Hercules.”
“Yeah,” said the heavy-faced man. “And it's plain as the nose on your face she's going to do something
about it.”
“She don't get hurt.”
“Sure, Charley. She don't get hurt. Sure.”
The heavy-faced man was vehement with his assurances. It occurred to him, as he felt tenderly of the
spots where the flashlight had hit him, that he might have been too emphatic, so that it would arouse
Charley's conviction that he was lying. Which he was. He thought: We've got to kill her, even if she is
Charley's sister. She doesn't know what that wild tale about Hercules means, but she can't be
allowed to carry the story around. She has to be killed. Maybe we can do it as an accident, to fool
Charley. His thoughts kept prowling in that vein.
SHE was a long, dark girl who had a perpetually pleasant face. The unvarying agreeableness of her facial
expression was unusual, and nice. The makeup of her features somehow kept them from looking sour
even when—as she was doing now—she frowned or looked grimly worried.
“Taxi.”
The driver turned his head. “Yes, Miss.”
“Is that car behind following us?”
“Which car?”
“The sedan. The gray one.”
After a while, the car driver became troubled. “I think it is, Miss.”
The girl compressed her lips. She leaned forward. “Driver, my name is Lee Mayland. I live at 134
Highland Drive. I am a photographer by profession. That is, I worked for Mr. Leeds of the Hillside
Studio until Mr. Leeds turned the business over to me to run and went off to war.”
The driver was more troubled. “Why you telling me that?”
“The police might be asking you for the information. Also make a note of the license number of that car
following us. The police might ask that, too.”
“What's going on here?”
“I think I'm getting into some serious trouble.”
“Shall I call a cop, Miss?”
“No.”
The driver was silent a moment. His voice was suspicious, unfriendly, as he demanded, “Why not call a
cop?”
The girl did not answer immediately.
“I would have to tell them a story about Hercules,” she said. “A story they wouldn't believe.”
The cab driver thought it over, then did what a life of hard knocks had taught him was the prudent thing
to do. He pulled up to the curb, reached over, unlocked the cab door and threw it open. “I don't know
what this is. I don't want any part of it. This is as far as I haul you.”
“But—”
“Sorry, Miss. Get out!”
LEE MAYLAND paid the cabby and said, “Thanks, anyway,” without resentment to the driver. The
driver flushed and was sheepish, then he drove away.
There was a neighborhood drugstore near. The girl stood in the doorway and saw the car which had
been trailing her go past. As nearly as she could tell, there was only the driver in the machine, but other
men might have been out of sight, ducked down in the rear seat. The car went on and vanished along the
curving boulevard. Lee was a little astonished, not sure now that the car had been trailing her.
She pinched her handbag thoughtfully with her fingers.
Anyway, she thought, I've learned not to talk too much to cab drivers. They seem to be fellows who look
out for themselves.
She went into the drugstore, after glancing at the TELEPHONES sign.
She put a ten-dollar bill in front of the cashier. “All of it in quarters and dimes.”
She took the change to the telephone and dialed long distance.
“I want to talk to a man named Doc Savage, in New York City,” she said. “I think he is also known as
Clark Savage, Jr. I'll hold the wire.”
It was not long before the operator said, “I have Doc Savage in New York. Deposit one dollar
seventy-five cents, please.”
Lee poked coins into the slots. “Hello.”
“Savage speaking,” said a voice over the telephone.
Lee felt easier. The voice had a quality—later she was surprised at how quickly the voice reassured
her—of firmness and amiable sureness that was reassuring.
“I am Lee Mayland, speaking from Cedar County, from Center Lake. You do not know me, Mr.
Savage. I am calling you because I once met a man who spoke very highly of you. The man was named
Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, but I think the first thing he said was to call him Monk
Mayfair.”
“Monk Mayfair is one of my associates.”
“Yes, I know. Mr. Mayfair said that if I was ever in trouble, to call on him for assistance.”
“Mr. Mayfair is here. Do you wish to speak to him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Mayfair seemed to be very susceptible to even a moderately attractive young woman.”
The voice of Doc Savage, which had been without particular expression in spite of its warmly friendly
quality, now had an unmistakable sly amusement.
“I see your point,” he said. “You have something which you wish judged on its merits, without your
appearance being an influence.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“First, tell me this: Mr. Mayfair said your profession was an unusual one. He said your business was
simply helping people who got into unusual trouble.”
“He used the word unusual?”
“Yes.”
“It is not the exact word. But it is something near the right one. It will do for the time being. . . . You have
some unusual trouble?”
“I'll say I have!” Lee Mayland said fervently. “It is such a screwball thing that I'm afraid to tell the police.
Because I've heard they sometimes send people—people who have a story like this one of mine—to a
psychopathic hospital for examination. And I . . . well, I've got another reason for not going to the police.
Don't misunderstand me—I'm not a crook.”
“This sounds interesting, but not very definite.”
Lee took a deep breath. “If you want something definite—who was Hercules?”
“HERCULES?”
“Yes. H-e-r-c-u-l-e-s.” She spelled it out.
“What about him?”
“Who was he?”
“Quite a figure in ancient mythology. He performed superhuman tasks which were forced on him by an
enemy. Providing that is the Hercules you mean.”
“That's the one I mean.”
“What about him?”
Lee asked grimly, “Did he ever exist?”
“Hercules was a figure of mythology.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he probably didn't exist in the form in which we know of him now.”
“Did he exist at all?” The girl's question was serious and pointed.
“Perhaps. It is hard to tell about mythology.”
Lee turned her head to look about the drugstore uneasily.
She said, “I guess I sound silly. But this is so serious it has me just about crazy. If I come to New York,
could I see you immediately?”
“You think you need help?”
“I certainly do!”
Doc Savage said, “There is a plane out of Center Lake for New York at two o'clock. Could you make
that?”
“Yes. But what about a priority?”
“Is this important?”
“Very.”
“We will see that you get a priority.”
“Oh, thank you!” Lee said fervently.
“You sound,” said Doc Savage quietly, “as if you are scared.”
“As a matter of fact, I am. I think my life may be in danger.”
“Who from?”
Lee Mayland hesitated.
“I don't know,” she said.
After the conversation ended, Lee sat staring uneasily at the telephone. The way she had hesitated, she
realized, must have told Doc Savage that she was lying when she said she didn't know from whom she
was in danger. She regretted the lie. She should have told the truth.
THE three men in the sedan—Charley, the man he had clubbed, and the car driver—had parked one
street over, in the middle of the block.
Another car, occupied by a single man, pulled up and parked behind them. The man came to them. He
was a small young man with yellow hair.
“I got a break,” he said. “I saw her get out of the cab, so I parked in a hurry and went into the drugstore
ahead of her. There were two telephone booths. She went in one. I was already in the other. Boy, was I
lucky!”
“Who did Lee call?” Charley asked.
“Somebody named Doc Savage, in New York.”
The car driver bolted up in his seat He paled and kept losing color until he had a pallid blue hue.
“Blazes!” he said. “Oh, damn!”
Charley and the small man with the yellow hair stared at him. Charley asked, “What's wrong?”
“Haven't you heard of this Doc Savage?” the driver asked.
Charley shrugged. “I've heard Lee mention the name. I think she met a guy named Monk Mayfair, who
works for Savage or something, and who made a play for Lee.”
The man licked his lips. “And you didn't say anything about it?”
“Why should I?”
The man started to speak, but did not. Then he got out of the car, pulling at the knot of his necktie. His
face was not healthy. He leaned weakly against the car, sagged down and sat on the running board.
“Somebody—got—a drink?” His voice was thick.
“What the heck?” Charley got out of the car. “What's wrong, Spencer?”
The man put his face in his hands. “I'm sick.”
The small yellow-haired man laughed. “I suppose hearing about this Savage made you sick?”
“That's right.” The other spoke through his fingers. “You dumb fool! Wait until you hear the kind of man
he is.”
The small man lost his mirth.
Charley said, “Get in the back seat, Spencer. I'll drive. We'll get you to a doctor.”
“Never mind the doctor,” Spencer muttered. “I'll get over it.” He waved a hand. “I've been scared
before. Let me alone.”
The heavy-faced man—the one whom Charley had earlier struck with the flashlight—asked a question.
“What did the girl tell this Doc Savage? You hear?”
“Asked him if there had ever been such a fellow as Hercules.”
“What answer did she get?”
“Evasive, I gathered.”
“What else did she say?”
“That she was coming to New York by plane. I think Savage is going to get her a plane seat priority on
the two o'clock plane. She gave Savage a general idea the thing was big, without telling him anything.”
Charley groaned. “If Lee didn't talk freely, it means she suspects I'm in on it.”
“Sure, she suspects you are,” the yellow-haired man said violently. “Why the devil do you think she got
to prying around in this in the first place?”
The heavy-faced man swore. “We've got to stop her.”
Charley faced him grimly. “I won't have Lee hurt!”
The small man took off his hat and ran fingers through his yellow hair. “You giving orders, kid?”
Charley looked frightened. But he said again, “I won't have Lee hurt!”
“This goes to the boss, you know.” The small man looked at him coldly. “He'll do the deciding.”
Charley seized on that eagerly. “Let's go to him. Maybe he will have an idea what to do to stop Lee.”
They got rolling.
The heavy-faced man sat sullenly in the corner of the seat. He touched his bruises where the flashlight had
hit him, and scowled at Charley.
“Your sis is a slick chick,” he said. “But considering what she's mixed up in, I wouldn't give much for her
chances.”
Chapter II
LEE MAYLAND found another cab which took her to the airport. She did no wild talking to the driver.
She was less frightened, now.
She told the reservation clerk, “I am Lee Mayland. I wish—”
“Yes, Miss Mayland,” the clerk said. “Your reservation is for the two-o'clock plane.”
“You have it already!” Lee was astonished.
“The priority notice just came through from New York. Is there anything else we can do for you, Miss
Mayland?”
Lee glanced at the clock. It was only a little after eleven. Nearly three hours until plane departure.
“Thank you, no,” she said.
She stood for a moment, lost in thought. Then she went out and caught a bus which went to the midtown
section. Lee got out in front of the public library.
She told the librarian, “I want you to help me, because I haven't much time. Between now and one
o'clock, I want to learn all I can about Hercules.”
“Hercules?” The library attendant was surprised.
“You know, the old-time Hercules. The one in mythology.”
“Yes, of course. I'll help you with the index.”
THE reservations clerk at the airport was named Warner, and he was proud of his job. The army had
missed him, not because he was physically disabled, but because he had a wife and baby, and also
because he was an essential airline employee. Airline employees were being deferred as essential
workers, for much the same reason as railroad men. Warner, however, had done one thing of which he
was ashamed; when his number came up in the draft, he had asked for deferment, citing his work, and his
request had been granted. The exact truth was that he was neither a courageous nor patriotic young man,
and he was afraid of going to war.
When a small young man with very yellow hair walked up to the reservations window at the airport and
said, “Hello, Floppy!” Warner jumped violently. And not happily.
“Cornsilk!” he gasped.
The yellow-haired man laughed. “Nobody has called me Cornsilk in ten years. Not since I was a kid.”
Warner moved his hands about uncomfortably. “Hah, hah, it's the same with me. I haven't heard that
nickname, Floppy, for ten years myself.”
The other grinned. “Not since we robbed that warehouse on Grant Street, eh?”
Warner didn't jump at that. He sagged. His mouth moved unsurely, finally forming itself into a round hole
of pain.
“Remember that, Floppy?”
Warner said hoarsely, “Shut up! That was the only bad thing I ever—”
“Sure, sure, you were always pure as driven snow.” The yellow-haired man grinned at him. “No guts,
that was your trouble. Remember how you went to pieces on the warehouse job? You sure lived up to
the nickname, Floppy, that night.”
Warner held to the shelf inside the grill with both hands. “You want something, don't you?”
“That's right.”
“What?”
The small man glanced around cautiously. He lowered his voice. “There's a girl. Lee Mayland. She has a
plane passage to New York. Cancel it.”
“Then you'll let me alone?” Warner asked eagerly.
“Sure, Floppy. Nobody will ever know about you and that warehouse deal. Too bad there is still proof
that you did that warehouse job, incidentally. Too bad, but you needn't worry about it, as long as you've
got friends.”
Warner was frightened.
“All right, all right, I'll cancel—” He stopped, swallowed, said, “You say Lee Mayland?”
“That's right.”
“But I—I can't cancel that. It came from New York. A man named Doc Savage, who owns a big slice of
this airline. And more than that, the army has put out orders to coöperate with Savage fully.”
The small man looked at the other unpleasantly. “Remember Put Williams? He's in State, serving a life
stretch. He wants me to help him get out, and he'd jump at the chance to rat on you about that
warehouse thing if I gave him the word.”
Warner thought it over. He looked ill.
“Maybe I can give her reservation to a soldier, and claim I thought I was doing my patriotic duty,” he
muttered. “But the soldier would have to have a good story. I don't know of one.”
The small yellow-haired man grinned.
“I know where I can get a soldier suit, Floppy. So start making out that cancellation.”
BY half past one, Lee Mayland had dug a confusing amount of fact about Hercules out of the public
library.
She had written down a portion of a statement which she found in the encyclopedia. This was:
Probably a real man, a chieftain of Tiryns in Mycenaean times and vassal to Argos, lies behind the
very complicated mythology of Heracles (Hercules).
She found this statement, or one similarly worded but meaning the same thing, in five different reference
volumes. She seemed to consider this important, and was somewhat frightened by the fact.
She managed to find a taxicab which took her to the airport, and she reached the reservation window
about fifteen minutes before departure time.
Warner, looking more than somewhat sick, said, “I am sorry but your plane reservation has been given to
an army officer with an urgent priority.”
Lee stared at him blankly. “But I thought I had passage assured.”
“I know. These are war times. This soldier had a higher priority than yours, Miss Mayland.”
“What am I going to do?”
“I am afraid we cannot help you, Miss Mayland. There are no more plane reservations available. I would
suggest a train.”
There was much nervousness in the way the girl's fingers were biting at her purse. And not a bit of
happiness in her voice.
She said, “This is important. It is a frightfully vital matter.”
“I am awfully sorry,” he said.
“Isn't there any way I might get a plane ticket?”
“It isn't the ticket. It's the space reservation you need. But I'll tell you what. You might hang around.
Someone, at the last minute, might cancel out. It happens occasionally.”
Lee Mayland seized on this eagerly. “I'll wait around. If there is a cancellation, give it to me. You will,
won't you?”
“If there is a cancellation, you get it.”
“Please! I just have to get to New York.”
Warner twisted his mouth in shapes which he hoped meant sympathy, but meant shame and fear, only the
girl did not notice because she had too many troubles of her own.
Lee Mayland noticed the small man with the very yellow hair as she turned away from the reservations
window. He was standing close. Close enough to overhear.
“Pardon me,” he said.
The girl thought that he was asking pardon because they had almost bumped together. She walked on.
The yellow-haired man followed her and said, “Pardon me,” again. And he added “I couldn't help
overhearing that your reservation has been canceled. Perhaps I can help.”
Lee Mayland stopped and looked him up and down. He was a man she couldn't tell much about.
“Rogers,” he said. “My name is Rogers. Private flier. I have a plane.”
“You have a plane!”
He nodded. “Here is the situation: I am making a flight to New York this afternoon. I have room for a
passenger.”
The relief that came into the girl's voice made it shake. “Oh, I see what you mean by helping me.”
The small yellow-haired man registered embarrassment. “The truth is that I came over here hoping to find
somebody who wanted to fly to New York. Somebody who would pay the regular passenger line fare,
but pay it to me instead. I need the money.”
“How long would it take you to get me to New York?”
摘要：

THEWHISKEROFHERCULESADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2003BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI?ChapterII?ChapterIII?ChapterIV?ChapterV?ChapterVI?ChapterVII?ChapterVIII?ChapterIX?ChapterX?ChapterXI?ChapterXII?ChapterXIII?ChapterXIVScannedandProofedbyTomStephensChapterI...

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