Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 127 - Hell Below

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HELL BELOW
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2003 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
? Chapter I. THE OLD THIEF
? Chapter II. THE SCARED MEN
? Chapter III. DESIGN FOR DEATH
? Chapter IV. LENA
? Chapter V. TRAIL TO TROUBLE
? Chapter VI. AMBUSH
? Chapter VII. LIGHTNING FLATS
? Chapter VIII. SEA TRAIL
? Chapter IX. THE UNEXPECTED HERR SCHWARTZ
? Chapter X. THE DARK TURN
? Chapter XI. RABBIT AND SEAL
? Chapter XII. BAD BREAK
? Chapter XIII. THE FAT FISH
? Chapter XIV. GEEK!
Chapter I. THE OLD THIEF
“I USED to fight Indians,” the old gentleman said. “I used to eat their ears. I would stew their ears, then
eat them with salt.”
He stopped and looked at the man across the desk while he tried to think of something that would
express his feelings.
“But I wouldn't feed your ears to my dog!” he finished.
The young man said, “Hah, hah!” Then he waved at a chair. “Go sit down, pop. Go sit over there and
have a good cuss.”
“I wasn't trying to amuse you,” said the old gentleman.
“I wasn't amused,” said the young man. “You can rest assured of that.”
The old gentleman spat. You could tell from the look of him that he had come from a hard, bleak desert
country, and he spat the way he would spit to kill a bug on the sun-baked earth.
“I'm old Too-Too Thomas,” he said. “And to think I would sink to taking sass off a clerk in a
Washington bureau.”
“I'm not sassing you, old-timer,” said the young man back of the desk. “I'm just asking you kindly, please
go over there and sit down. Cuss, chew tobacco, spit on the floor, but just leave me alone.”
“I want to see the main guy.”
“No.”
“Listen, pup, I tell you—”
“Sit down. The head guy can't see you. He's got troubles of his own right now.”
Old Too-Too Thomas gave his tooled leather belt a hitch, the belt that had an enormous silver and gold
buckle set with diamonds of respectable size. He crossed the room and took a chair, stretched his feet
out in front of him and scowled at the toes of his embroidered cowboy boots.
Then he frowned at the door of the inner office. There were voices behind the door, and he had noticed
that they were getting a little louder.
“I been in Washington seven hours,” he said. “And as near as I am to that door is as close as I've got to
anybody who amounts to anything.”
“Believe me, pardner,” said the young man, “some fellows are in Washington seven months and don't get
that close.”
“Mule feathers!” said Too-Too Thomas.
Suddenly there was no question about the voices getting louder in the inner office. They were very loud.
They were angry.
One voice said: “You're not going to get in the shooting end of the war. That's the decision. You keep
right on with what you are doing.”
“Who's that?” asked Too-Too Thomas.
“The head guy,” said the clerk.
A second voice said: “That is the same song and dance you've been giving us since the war started. My
five aides are tired of it. I'm tired of it. We want action!”
“Who's that?” asked Too-Too Thomas.
“A man who wants to fight,” said the clerk.
“That makes two of us,” said Too-Too Thomas. “Who is he, besides a voice that's shaking the building?”
“His name,” said the clerk, “is Doc Savage.”
“Doc Savage, eh?”
“Ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Bless us!” the clerk said. “Where did you say you came from, the planet of Mars?”
“I came from the Dirty Man Rancho in the foothills of the Sierra Santa Clara in Lower California, where
the pigs chase mountain lions,” Too-Too Thomas said. “A man's country.”
“Oh!”
“Is this Doc Savage going to get to fight?”
“Not,” said the clerk, “if we can help it.”
TOO-TOO THOMAS listened to the voice of Doc Savage which was causing the door to bend on its
hinges. He chuckled and said, “I'll bet you he does. I'll just bet you.”
Then he leaned back to listen.
The head man was speaking, trying to soothe Doc Savage.
He was saying, “You're doing the work we want you to do. It's the work for which you were fitted when
you were placed in the hands of scientists, as a child, and given the remarkable training which lasted until
early manhood. You were given that specific training to fit you for the job of righting wrongs and
punishing evildoers who are outside the law, and to do the job in the far corners of the earth if necessary.
We want you to go right ahead.”
Doc Savage said loudly, “There's a war going on!”
“Yes, a modern war,” the other said. “A war being fought on the home front just as much as in the
foxholes and behind bombsights.”
“The home front,” Doc Savage shouted, “is getting along extraordinarily well! Capital and labor and other
special interests now and then try to push across one of their pet greedy ideas under cover of the war
excitement, but the newspaper publicity and the people are taking care of that very nicely. The war is
where the shooting is. We want to be in it.”
Doc Savage had a remarkable voice, a voice that was full of controlled power, deep and modulated,
giving the impression of vast strength and ability.
“You are not feeling very reasonable, are you?” the head man asked.
“Not particularly,” Doc said. “Not to the brand of reasoning you are offering.”
Now the other became indignant.
He shouted: “There is more to this war than just shooting Japanese or Germans. They can sink a
battleship and we can build another one. But if they kill you, where would we get another man with your
inventive skill and your thinking equipment? Where would we get a man with your almost fantastic ability
to ferret out the most remarkable plots and intricate schemes?”
“You won't,” asked Doc, “assign us to active service?”
“I will not.”
Another voice, a small, squeaky one that the owner should have outgrown about the age of twelve, burst
into the discussion. “What about me?” it demanded angrily.
Old Too-Too Thomas glanced at the clerk and asked, “Who's that one?”
“They call him Monk Mayfair,” the clerk said. “But he is Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair,
one of the world's most able chemists.”
Inside, the voice of Monk repeated, “What about me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Let a chemist of your ability waste your time packing a rifle? Anyway, you're a Doc Savage aide.”
A fourth voice, a cultured Harvard voice, said, “I take it you are going to include me in this ridiculous
refusal?”
“We are and we have!”
Outside, old Too-Too Thomas looked questioningly at the clerk.
“That one,” said the clerk, “is Brigadier General Theodore Marley Ham Brooks, a lawyer.”
Inside the office, Doc Savage said loudly, “This quarrel over whether we see action has been going on
since the war began.”
“That's right,” said the head man.
“And the answer is still no?”
“It's still no.”
“We're disgusted.”
“If it's action you want,” the head man said, “you get plenty of it the way things are.”
Monk Mayfair said, “That's no argument—”
“How many times,” demanded the other, “were you shot at in the past six months?”
“Not over a dozen times,” Monk said. “What has that—”
“More than half the soldiers in the army never hear an enemy gun explode!” yelled the head man.
Doc Savage, in a quieter voice, said, “Come on, fellows. We're wasting breath.”
They walked out of the inner office and old Too-Too Thomas stared at them in astonishment. He was
impressed.
“They look even more capable than they talked,” he said.
“They are,” the clerk said.
“I got me an idea,” said Too-Too Thomas.
DOC SAVAGE, Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks were walking angrily down the impressive hallway
when Too-Too Thomas overtook them.
“My craw,” said Too-Too Thomas, “is stuck plumb full of red tape.”
Monk Mayfair examined the leathery old Westerner. Monk was a short man who gave the startling
impression at times of being as wide as he was high. He had a large crop of rusty hair, a big grin, and
affected the manners of a circus clown.
“Tsk, tsk,” Monk said, shaking his head. “Poor fellow. But I guess it happens often.”
Too-Too Thomas scowled. “You think I'm crazy, pardner?”
“Yes, and you have my sympathy,” Monk said. “I'll bet you're not the first one got twittery trying to get
something done.”
“If you wasn't so homely,” Too-Too said, “I would pop you right in the eye.”
“You're offended?”
“Yeah, mad as a hornet. I ain't no crazier'n most.”
“We're perfect strangers,” said Monk. “You walk up and start talking about your craw. What do you
expect us to think?”
“Don't care what you think,” said Too-Too Thomas. “You fellers want action?”
“Action?”
“Heard you talkin' to that guy back there.” Too-Too eyed them speculatively. “Right likely lookin' fellers,
you-all. Figure you've sort of been up against a thing or two in your time.”
Monk grinned. “Old-timer, I'll bet you've eaten a few tacks yourself. What's on your mind?”
“Craw's full of red tape, like I said. Got a job that has to be done, and there ain't time to fool around no
more about doing it. Need help.”
“What kind of help?”
Too-Too Thomas winked. “Kind you can give me, I expect.” He gestured. “C'mon. Let's get outa this
wickiup so we can talk.”
They walked through numerous corridors and showed their passes to watchmen, took an elevator down,
ran the gantlet of more watchmen, then finally stood on the street.
“Now, old-timer,” Monk said. “What's this bur you've got under your saddle.”
Too-Too Thomas eyed them intently.
“Know anything about submarines?” he asked.
Monk said, “Sure. Why?”
“Fine,” said Too-Too Thomas. “Now the first thing we do is steal a navy airplane with some bombs on it
and a can of quick-drying paint.”
DOC SAVAGE was a man with more qualities than a remarkable voice. He was a giant of a man who
was so symmetrically proportioned that his actual size was not evident until one stood close to him; then it
became startling. When he moved, the play of sinews in his neck and wrists indicated strength that was
equally startling. His skin was a deep bronze color, his hair was straight and slightly darker, and his eyes
were like pools of flake gold always stirred by tiny winds.
Until now he had, as was his habit, remained silent and expressionless. But the old Westerner's calm
mention of stealing a navy plane was unusual enough to bring a startled expression to his face, and cause
him to speak.
“Steal a navy plane?” he said.
“That's the only chance we got to make it in time.”
“Stealing a navy plane is something they shoot you for,” Doc reminded.
Too-Too Thomas shrugged, not impressed. “Done things I could've been shot for before.”
A small park, pleasant in the sunlight, was across the street. Indicating the park, Doc said, “We had
better go over there and sit down while you explain this.”
They crossed the street, dodging traffic, which was thick. There were benches along the sidewalk, one of
which they selected.
Too-Too Thomas took a deep breath.
“Lives,” he said, “have a relative value, I've noticed. In wartime, they somehow ain't as important. But
these are important to me. They're my friends, the ones that'll die right away. The other ones, the ones
who'll die later, ain't people I know, probably, but they'll be nice folks.”
Doc Savage said patiently, “The best way to tell a story is the way you read a book. Begin at the
beginning and don't leave anything out.”
“I do it a little different,” said Too-Too Thomas. “You savvy what I'm telling you? I got to save some
lives. They'll die right away, tonight probably, if I ain't fast enough on my feet. Later on, more will die.”
“Where?”
“I'll take you to the place.”
“Where is it?”
Too-Too Thomas looked at Doc Savage steadily. “Don't push me.”
“Are you,” Doc asked, “going to tell us the whole story?”
“Not now, I ain't.”
“Why not now?”
The leathery old man thought about the question for a few moments, then shook his head.
“There's somebody I don't want to involve until I'm danged sure,” he said. “That's why. I just ain't going
off half cocked, that's all.”
“Do you,” Doc asked, “expect us to steal a navy plane and a can of paint on the basis of no more than
you're telling us?”
Too-Too Thomas got to his feet.
“You could buy the paint, not steal it,” he said. He shook his head slowly. “Reckon it was a kind of a
locoed idea I had. I was feeling kind of desperate or I wouldn't have tried it. Feel like the time the Yaquis
chased me into the ocean and I couldn't swim a lick.”
He eyed them and shook his head some more.
“You're right likely lookin' gents, too,” he said. “Well, so long. I would tell you not to take any wooden
nickels, only I can see you wouldn't. So long.”
He walked off and left them.
DOC SAVAGE, as soon as Too-Too Thomas was out of earshot, said quickly, “Monk, follow him. He
is going north. Ham will go west, in case he turns in that direction. I will go east.”
“I didn't think the old fellow was kidding, either,” Monk said, and got to his feet.
Monk was rather proud of the job he did shadowing Too-Too Thomas. He ambled casually across the
sidewalk as if he was going back to the building they had just left. In the street, he got into a taxicab. He
felt sure he had disappeared in the street, as far as Too-Too Thomas was concerned, as if by magic.
Following Too-Too Thomas wasn't too tough, although the leathery-looking old gent behaved in a way
that showed he was afraid he was being trailed. He walked fast, took a cab, and the cab went in and out
of streets.
Doc Savage and Ham Brooks did not appear, for the simple reason that they'd had no chance to catch
sight of Too-Too Thomas.
Washington is a city of contrasts, where a remarkably shabby street often adjoins a fine one. Too-Too
Thomas picked one of the most ragtag thoroughfares to leave the cab.
He walked to a narrow alley and entered, striding along rapidly as if he knew where he was going.
Before Monk entered the alley, he cautiously used the shiny inside of the lid of his large silver watch as a
mirror, and examined the alley periscope fashion. He saw no sign of his quarry.
However, Monk found after he had walked about twenty feet into the alley that he had walked against a
gun. The gun was an impressive weapon of the type called a hogleg by cowboys. Too-Too Thomas, who
held it, had stepped from a niche that Monk hadn't noticed.
“If this gun was to go boom-boom,” said Too-Too Thomas, “it would blow you right out of this alley.”
Monk didn't doubt it. As a matter of fact, Monk was wearing a bulletproof vest, but thinking about the
kick that old gun would give his middle made him turn green.
“Figured one of you gents would trail me,” said Too-Too Thomas. “Trapped you neat, didn't I?”
“What do you want with me?” Monk asked.
“Why, you're gonna run that submarine for me,” Too-Too Thomas told him.
Chapter II. THE SCARED MEN
MONK was not concerned so much about the submarine as he was about what might come out of the
pistol. “You know about them things?” he asked uneasily. “They make a loud noise and a piece of lead
flies out.”
Old Too-Too Thomas chuckled. He was quite calm, a man who had walked in the path of danger
before. He was somewhat proud of himself, too.
“Before you start something,” he said, “just tell me where to send the body.”
They walked to the other end of the alley. Just before they reached the street, Too-Too Thomas stowed
his enormous piece of hardware inside his coat.
“We're going to take a ride in a taxicab,” he said. “Behave yourself. If you don't, I give a sort of twitch,
and the bullets fly around.”
“A model boy,” Monk assured him, “is what they always call me.”
They found a taxicab, although it was a job. Cabs were not plentiful in Washington, and the drivers had
more business than they could take care of.
Monk was familiar with the address which Too-Too Thomas gave the cab driver. It was a military air
field.
The cab got moving, and Monk said, “Since we're partners, you might tell me what we're undertaking.”
“Shucks, I don't see what makes you think we're partners,” old Too-Too Thomas said. “We're man and
lackey, that's what we are. You're the lackey.”
“We going to steal a plane?”
“Sure.”
They did not steal a plane immediately, though. They did not steal one from the military field at all. They
got out and dismissed the cab and Too-Too Thomas looked the flying field over.
The man was evidently an old campaigner, because he correctly surmised that there were too many
sentries and armed men around the place.
“Even if the guards were that many Yaqui Indians, the chances would be too long,” he said. “And these
soldiers may be tougher than Yaquis.”
“So now I can go home?” Monk asked hopefully.
“No, no,” said Too-Too Thomas. “I'll work the pump on my resources some more.”
They went back to the city of Washington. This proved to be tiring, because they could not find a taxicab
until they had walked through the heat and the dust for about a mile.
Monk felt foolish riding around, a prisoner. But he did not make a break.
The reason he was being meek, Monk told himself, was so he could stick around and find out what this
was all about. But that big revolver was a consideration, too.
They went to a hotel. It was a remarkably fine hotel, where the minimum rate was fifteen dollars a day,
American plan. The surroundings were impressive and rich.
“Be a very genteel place to be found a corpse,” warned Too-Too Thomas, “if you want to try anything.”
“No, thanks,” Monk said. “I hope to die of old age.”
SEVERAL small square envelopes had been shoved under the door of Too-Too Thomas' room. Some
of the square envelopes protruded under the edge of the door, and Too-Too eyed them before he
unlocked the door. He immediately picked up the envelopes.
“I telephoned a bunch of agents to rent or buy a good seaplane for me,” he said. “I'll bet these are the
answers from them.”
He began opening the envelopes—they were the envelopes hotels use for telephone messages—and
reading the contents.
“I can read with one eye and shoot with one hand,” he warned Monk.
“Your modesty is giving me cold chills,” Monk assured him.
Too-Too Thomas waved one of the envelopes.
“Eureka!” he cried. “Hot snakes! This guy found one for me! He says its a big new seaplane, and I can
buy it.” He glanced at the message again. “A hundred and twelve thousand dollars. Cheap enough. I just
want it for this one trip.”
Monk was quite startled.
“One trip!” he said. “That's a lot of dough to put out for one trip.”
“It's a lot of trip.”
A spick and span new suitcase stood on a folding baggage rack. Too-Too Thomas opened the suitcase,
which held a suit of underwear and a safety razor. Packages of U. S. currency filled the remaining space
in the bag.
Too-Too Thomas stowed packages of money into his pockets until he ran out of pockets.
He looked at Monk.
“I ain't got time to count out a hundred and twelve thousand, plus expense money,” he said. “Here, you'll
have to carry some of it.”
Monk obediently loaded his own pockets with packages of greenbacks. The bills were tens, twenties,
fifties and hundreds. Monk was not able to judge the total of his burden as closely as a bank cashier, but
he felt it was impressive. He thought he must be packing anyway a hundred thousand.
“I feel like the mint,” Monk said.
“Just so you don't get to feeling like a rabbit.”
“I feel like that, too,” Monk told him. “Now it would be profitable to escape.”
“Yeah, maybe they could shingle your angel wings with greenbacks,” Too-Too Thomas said, and
sounded as if he meant it.
They got another taxicab in front of the hotel. When the cab driver heard the address, he informed them it
was farther than he was allowed to drive in his zone, on his gasoline allowance. But when Too-Too
Thomas showed him one of the greenbacks, he agreed to take them.
“This place is a farmhouse in the country, close to the Potomac,” Too-Too Thomas explained. “We go
there, and the feller shows us the plane, which is in a shed on the river.”
Monk said nothing, but looked to see if the old man seemed to be telling the truth. He did, and Monk
was puzzled.
There could not be any civilian plane, Monk knew, in any shed on the river. There was a government
regulation against keeping planes anywhere but on airports where there was a guard twenty-four hours of
the day. That is, it was against the law unless the motors were taken out of the plane. If this was a plane
without motors, Monk wanted to be around to hear Too-Too Thomas cuss.
“So you want me to run a submarine,” Monk said.
“You can get me a few cases of dynamite, some caps and fuses, too.”
“What's that for?”
“To take the place of a bomb.”
“What's the bomb for?”
“Now your nose is too long,” said Too-Too Thomas.
THE farmhouse looked deceptively innocent. The building was a long, low, pleasant structure which
needed paint, and the weeds in the yard needed cutting. If the door of the house had not been standing
open, with a man leaning in it, Monk would have sworn the place was deserted.
“Gent's waiting for us,” said Too-Too Thomas, pleased.
They walked to the door, leaving the taxi waiting at the gate, and Too-Too Thomas asked, “You the
feller with a seaplane for sale?”
“You the guy who wants to buy one?”
“That's me.”
“Come in.”
They walked into the house, and there was no furniture in the room. Not unless half a dozen men
crouching against the walls with leveled revolvers or leveled and cocked rifles could be counted as
fixtures.
“One jump makes you dead,” said the man who had been at the door. His remark seemed unnecessary.
Disturbed, Too-Too Thomas eyed them.
“Too bad I only got one gun with six shells in it,” he said. “If I had my usual two guns, I'd have enough
bullets to go around, and I would start something.”
摘要：

HELLBELOWADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2003BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.comScannedandProofedbyTomStephens?ChapterI.THEOLDTHIEF?ChapterII.THESCAREDMEN?ChapterIII.DESIGNFORDEATH?ChapterIV.LENA?ChapterV.TRAILTOTROUBLE?ChapterVI.AMBUSH?ChapterVII.LIGHTNINGFLATS?ChapterVIII...

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