Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 107 - The Rustling Death

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THE RUSTLING DEATH
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2002 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. A RUSTLING NOISE
? Chapter II. PLANS FOR DOC
? Chapter III. BEHIND THE INVENTOR
? Chapter IV. TRUFFLE HUNTER
? Chapter V. WARD HILLER LAUGHS
? Chapter VI. BOLT OF DEATH
? Chapter VII. KRAG’S WARNING
? Chapter VIII. INSTRUCTIONS
? Chapter IX. CONFESSION OF GUILT
? Chapter X. VANDERLEE APPEARS
? Chapter XI. STOCKHOLDERS IN DEATH
? Chapter XII. DEATH CHANGES HANDS
? Chapter XIII. HIDDEN TERROR!
? Chapter XIV. DOC DISAPPEARS
? Chapter XV. NEW PRISONERS
? Chapter XVI. BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE
Scanned and Proofed
by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. A RUSTLING NOISE
NO one realized that Doc Savage stumbled upon the rustling death quite by accident. Had that fact been
known, some terror might have been avoided. Or at least delayed.
The occurrence in the hotel lobby was really a coincidence. But the small
man with the wise face apparently did not think so. He had bushy hair, bushy eyebrows, a long pointed
nose that twitched, and small eyes. He stood, as if frozen, in the center of the lobby of one of
Washington’s most fashionable hotels. An expression of fear was stamped on his pinched features.
The newcomer at whom the pinch-faced man stared did not look like a fearsome creature. He was a tall,
handsome man, dressed immaculately. He signed the register: "Theodore Marley Brooks, New York."
Then he took the elevator to his rooms with the announced intention of dressing for dinner.
A windy sigh escaped the lips of the pinch-faced man. He darted quickly to the desk. Before the clerk
had a chance to turn the removable signature card around, he seized it with skinny hands and twisted the
card so that he could read it. A ghastly, croaking sound crawled from his lips.
The clerk was solicitous in a superior sort of manner.
"Are you ill, Mr. Strang?"
Strang croaked again. He strove to recover his poise.
He darted toward a bank of phone booths. The clerk was still smiling in a superior fashion as the little
man raced, rabbitlike over the floor. Fox Strang was the sort of guest who had to be treated with just so
much respect. He paid his bills. There was no question that he had money. But the management wished
that he’d stay at another hotel.
Fox Strang had never been convicted of a crime. He had been accused of murder, arson, grand larceny
and several other infractions of the law. But he was smart. No one had ever caught him red-handed. That
was how he got the name of Fox.
He was perspiring as he wedged himself into a booth separated somewhat from the rest. He got a
number in New York City.
"Hello, Krag?" he barked. "Ham Brooks just blew in. That means Doc Savage is probably wise."
The voice that came back over the wires was stilted in tone, practically without inflection.
"Doc Savage will be disposed of at this end. You merely follow instructions."
He hung up, leaving Fox Strang staring at the mouth piece of his phone. Fox shuddered.
"I wish I’d stuck to picking pockets," he mumbled.
Then he made a couple of phone calls. When he had finished, he stepped out into the lobby. He bought a
paper at the newsstand, sank into one of the biggest easy-chairs in the lobby, apparently to read. But
first, he punched a hole in the middle of the newspaper with one finger so that he could see what was
going on in the lobby without anyone noticing that he was watching.
Fox twitched and fidgeted for quite a while. The man he had called Ham Brooks apparently took his time
at a leisurely dinner. When he finally emerged from the dining room and strode to the street, Fox got up
and followed him.
THEODORE MARLEY BROOKS was the subject of two strange coincidences that night. Ham
Brooks, as he was called by his friends, had come to Washington on perfectly legitimate business. One of
the best legal brains ever to have been graduated from Harvard University, he intended to plead a case
before the United States supreme court the following day.
Ham had two further claims to fame aside from his legal ability. For one thing, he was recognized as one
of the best-dressed men in the nation.
But he was also one of the five aids of Doc Savage. It was this distinction that really set Ham apart from
most other men.
The dapper lawyer was not thinking of any particular distinction or prowess as he strolled through the
beautiful night in Washington. Ham was quite at peace with the world. It was quite natural that Ham
should have wandered toward the outskirts of Washington to enjoy the moonlit night.
And having reached the fringe of the city where there were few dwellings, it was quite natural for him to
notice the four lighted windows of the only structure that seemed inhabited for more than a mile. There is
something about a solitary lighted dwelling at night; it draws one.
There was nothing about the shack that particularly attracted the dapper lawyer’s scrutiny. It just
happened that the moon, rising in the distance over a ridge of tall trees, offered an impressive picture
from that spot. Ham paused, leaned on his shiny cane as he gazed at it.
It was at that moment that a young man came along.
At first, Ham thought the oddly pale countenance of the man was merely the reflection of the white
moonlight. Then he noticed the stark expression of the eyes. Ham moved toward the young man,
intending to ask him if he were ill. But before he could open his mouth, the pale man was gone.
He headed straight for the shack. Then he slowed. Stealth was evident in his sudden crouch. In another
half a dozen seconds the man blended into the shadows cast by shrubbery in front of the building. Ham
turned to follow. The soft, slurring tones of a Virginian came from behind him, made him pause.
"Maybe Mr. Jan is workin’ late tonight. Guess Ah’ll jes’ check up on it, though."
Ham turned his head. A Washington policeman swung down the street, twirling his nightstick. Ham
moved into the shadows. There seemed no point in identifying himself in something that might be a quite
ordinary and innocent situation. He shrugged, as the patrolman strode toward the shack. The lawyer then
turned to go on his way.
But in that moment, the terror that was to sweep the land made its first appearance!
Ham froze where he was. At first, an eerie rustling noise seemed to come from all directions at once.
There was an ominous, threatening note to it, as if some giant virago of vengeance had stepped from
history’s pages with an enraged swirl of skirts that were silk and crinoline.
Then a scream of pure terror welled up from the flat-roofed shack!
The lights of the shack flickered strangely, then went out. Ham leaped to swift motion; he began to race
toward the shack. He whipped up the shiny black cane he carried, pressed a hidden button. The black
case dropped away, fell to the ground. It left a long, slender blade of spring steel that was tipped with a
sticky substance. This was a sleep-inducing drug, instantaneous in its action.
Ham’s sword cane was a celebrated weapon that had won a lot of scraps. The dapper lawyer had
complete confidence in his ability to come out on top, even against great odds. It could have been
expected that he would plunge right into whatever enemy might be lurking in the darkness.
That made his sudden hesitation quite peculiar. The rustling sound grew louder, a weird, omnipresent
thing. Ham shuddered. An expression of amazed uncertainty spread over his features. He gave the
impression of a man awakening from a nightmare, still certain that it is real and terrible.
And, in fact, a queer overpowering feeling of apprehension was gripping Ham. His flesh was suddenly
damp with perspiration—dripping with the sweat of a terror that he could neither understand nor admit to
himself was really there!
The rustle of silk and crinoline ceased. In its place there came a hum that was not a hum. It was a sound
that the ear did not record; something sensed and felt rather than heard. Ham Brooks staggered. His
brain grew fuzzy. Meaningless words jumbled from his lips. His eyes stared with a lack of comprehension
that seemed to indicate approaching idiocy.
He slowed to a grotesque, exaggerated pace, somewhat like a slow-motion movie.
Time lost all meaning for Ham Brooks. He sank slowly and wearily to the ground. How long he lay there,
his eyes half seeing, he had no idea.
RATIONAL thought crept back into Ham’s brain slowly. He again had the sensation of emerging from a
dream. This time, he was aware of the reality of the world into which he was waking. It was a dark
world, illumined only by the paleness of the moon.
He staggered to his feet, glanced at his wrist watch. Less than fifteen minutes had actually gone by. He
shook his head, picked up his sword cane and moved toward the shack, which was now in darkness. He
stumbled over some large, soft object. From one pocket he took a spring-actuated flashlight that was an
invention of Doc Savage. He washed the ground with its bright beam.
At his feet lay the body of the Washington policeman! Ham leaned over, felt the pulse. The man was
quite dead. The lawyer rolled the cop over and moved the light up and down. There seemed to be no
mark upon his body, no indication of what had caused death. Ham straightened. Then he heard the soft
moaning sound from the open door of the flat-roofed shack. Cautiously, he moved toward it.
The second body was inside the door. This man was not dead. He lay on his back, half-seeing eyes
staring at the ceiling. Moans of anguish came from his lips.
This man was about the same size as the pale young fellow who had crouched outside. But his ruddy face
was round and chubby, rather than pale and pointed. Ham leaned over and shook the fellow’s shoulders.
The eyes flickered, seemed to come more into focus. The voice rose to a thin scream.
"P-please d-d-don’t kill me!"
Then he opened his eyes wide and sat up. He could see Ham in the reflection of the lawyer’s flashlight.
"Wh-who’re you?" he demanded. "Where’s Jan?"
The voice was brisk, businesslike. Ham parried with two questions of his own.
"Who are you and what’s all this about?" he snapped. "There’s one dead man here already."
The young man with the round, chubby face paled slightly. He looked past Ham and saw the dim outline
of the policeman’s body.
"Gosh!" he said. "I’m Tester Lyons. I worked here for Jan Vanderlee."
Ham wanted to know what the nature of the work might have been. Tester Lyons shuddered. He
staggered to his feet, found a light switch. Then he gasped. The interior of the shack looked as if a
hurricane had gone through it, followed by a tornado, a typhoon and an earthquake.
What little there was left of benches and equipment had been smashed to bits so small as to defy repair
or even, in many cases, identification. There was a huge hole in one wall where some heavy apparatus
had apparently been taken out. Tester Lyons stared at the wreckage and then at Ham.
"J-Jan must have taken it away," he stammered.
Ham stamped his foot.
"What is it?" he demanded. "Quit stalling!"
Tester Lyons drew a deep breath.
"Jan Vanderlee was working on something he said would revolutionize warfare and some branches of
peace-time industry," he explained. "Jan is an inventor. I’m an electrical engineer. I’ve been working for
Jan a month, and I don’t know what it is he has invented—except that it is terrible."
Ham considered that for a moment.
"What did Jan look like?" he inquired.
Tester Lyons described the youngish man with the pale, pointed face who had passed Ham out in the
street.
"I saw him come in the shack," Tester said in his brisk voice. "Then that is all I remember except a sort of
rustling noise. I think Jan must have been afraid I was getting wise to whatever it was he’s discovered."
"Were you?" Ham asked.
Tester Lyons’ eyes grew thoughtful. He shook his head.
"No! I wish I had been. It must be worth millions."
Ham did not reply to Lyons. Instead, he twisted a fancy pin on his tie, switched on the hidden transmitter
of a compact two-way short-wave set. Then he began to give a detailed account of what had happened
to him and what he had found. Ham was using a throat microphone, similar to those used by some
air-line pilots, which is hidden underneath the collar. It picks up sound by vibration from the outside of
the throat.
Chapter II. PLANS FOR DOC
A FIVE-PLACE cabin job was taking off from a private flying field in another part of Washington. The
pilot, a scarred and thoroughly tough-looking individual, occupied one of the five seats. The one beside
him was filled with baggage. Behind him sat Fox Strang. The other two seats were taken up by a skinny
giant who was so tall that he had to sit sideways, his knees occupying the space that normally would have
accommodated another passenger.
The tall man had an Adam’s apple so prominent that it made one think of an ostrich who had swallowed
a baseball. When he spoke, it was with the general effect that he was starting a speech of great
importance.
"The boss will expect us to move with expedition," he rumbled. His voice started down somewhere near
his shoes.
Fox Strang bobbed his head up and down in agreement. "That’s right, Ward. I’m waiting for a call from
him now."
He adjusted a radio headset to his ears. Then he grunted. Signals began to come in.
"The boss," he said. Then he devoted his attention to the radio set.
"Ward Hiller and I are taking off from Washington," he reported. "We were getting ready to move the
stuff when Ham Brooks showed up at the shack. We tried to get him, but a dumb cop stumbled in the
way. We got him instead. The stuff is being taken care of. What’ll we do?"
Words poured over the air. Fox Strang nodded his head. Finally he took off his headphones.
"We go to the spot in New York," he said. "The trap is set for Savage. If we get him now, we won’t
have anything more to worry about."
Ward Hiller grinned tightly. His eyes glowed briefly with some private enjoyment.
"Smart guy, the boss," he said.
Fox Strang shot a covert glance at his long, skinny companion. Apparently he thought Ward Hiller knew
more than he had confided.
"Just who is the boss?" Fox asked. "I know his real name ain’t Krag. That’s probably just a phony."
Hiller shrugged.
"Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Who knows?"
Fox tried again.
"Wonder what nationality he is. He talks good English. But it sounds kind of foreignlike."
Ward Hiller merely smiled again. He looked out of the window at the lights of Baltimore spread out
below them.
"Must be up about five thousand feet," he observed.
TESTER LYONS’ mouth dropped open as Ham began to talk. As far as Tester could see, Ham was
talking to himself. Then he began to realize that Ham was using a throat microphone.
From the tiny receiver that was inserted in Ham’s right ear came a shrill, metallic voice.
"Yes, you danged shyster. A phone call came in on the automatic recorder from a guy named Tester
Lyons saying something phony was going on in a shack out there."
Ham interrupted the voice. He turned to Tester Lyons.
"Did you phone Doc Savage?" he asked.
A variety of emotions seemed to pass over Lyons’ face.
"What if I did?" he demanded. "What business is it of yours?"
"I am one of Doc’s men," Ham explained quietly. "I am in communication with his office at the moment."
Tester Lyons’ eyes went wide.
"Gosh!" he blurted. "Gee, I’m glad you’re here. Maybe we can bust this thing open now and find out
what it’s all about."
Ham nodded, then held up his hand for silence. He switched the short-wave set back on again.
"Where is Doc?" he asked.
The shrill voice informed him that Doc Savage would return to the office within an hour and that, in the
meantime, the speaker was looking forward to an extremely pleasant time.
"You should see her, you law book in doll’s clothing," the voice said. "She’s a dream. Brown eyes that
would melt an iceberg and a shape that an artist would rave about. Isn’t it just too bad, shyster, that I’ve
got the inside track all to myself?"
Ham Brooks snorted in impatience.
"Listen, you missing link, we’ve got to find this Jan Vanderlee. Never mind about beautiful women."
The voice from New York laughed.
"You worry about the missing Jan Vanderlee. I’m busy. I’ll call you when Doc gets back."
There was a click as the New York transmitter cut off. Ham stood glowering at the big hole in the wall of
the shack. His concentration was so great that he did not hear footsteps that crept softly up behind him.
Tester Lyons, beside him, was staring vacantly in the same direction in which Ham was looking.
The lights winked out and there were twin thuds as bludgeons of some sort smashed into flesh.
IN New York, the owner of the high-pitched voice moved back from the radio transmitter.
Most people called him Monk. His face was friendly in a simian sort of way. The eyes were sunk in deep
pits of gristle. Long arms hung to his knees. The visible portions of his anatomy were covered with a stiff,
reddish bristle. When he opened his mouth in a grin at having irritated Ham, Monk’s entire head almost
disappeared.
It was still a fact, however, that Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair was one of the outstanding
industrial chemists of the age. He was also a valuable aid of Doc Savage and the bane of Ham’s
existence.
He sighed audibly and turned toward an outer reception room. He’d left a brunette there. Monk was
very susceptible to good-looking women. So, for that matter, was Ham. A good part of their vehement
quarrels had started over women.
Monk opened the door leading to the reception room. The hairy chemist had been more than usually
smitten by this brunette vision, the kind of a girl that made a man think of a cottage with vines and a
garden. She had given her name as Nada Morrell. She wanted to see Doc, personally.
Monk opened the door and put on his friendliest smile. He looked at the girl. He also looked into the
business end of a pearl-handled automatic. The gun was in Nada Morrell’s slim white hand. And the
hand was perfectly steady.
The chemist’s mouth dropped open. He stared.
"I heard every word you said," Nada Morrell said in clipped tones that did not remind him of a cottage
with vines and a garden. "You must have bumped into the lever of an interoffice communicator. What do
they want Jan Vanderlee for?"
Monk gulped.
"It looks like he killed a guy," he said.
"Anyone he killed deserved it," she snapped. "Now, don’t come near me."
She backed toward the door. Monk moved toward her instinctively, put out one gnarled hand. The gun
blasted! The lead tore past Monk’s ribs.
"The next one," she informed him, "will not miss!"
Monk gasped. He staggered back against a table, moving it. The girl backed slowly through the door.
The chemist made no move to stop her. The door swung closed and she was gone.
Monk went into action then. When he had stumbled against the table, a lever had been pressed which
released a thin chemical sheen on the floor outside the door. That sheen would impregnate the girl’s
shoes with a chemical that could be easily followed with the aid of infrared glasses; which would make
the stuff fluorescent. Also, Monk had her fingerprints. He quickly developed a set of prints from a
specially treated magazine cover she had been reading while waiting for Doc.
Monk put the developed prints under a television-transmission unit which would reproduce them in a
private office in Washington. Ham, he figured, could then take them to the F.B.I. and learn immediately
whether the girl had a record.
The hairy chemist had not seized the girl before she left for two reasons. In the first place, he was afraid
she might have been injured. Doc’s aids did not make war on women. Monk, himself, was quite safe. He
was wearing at the time a bulletproof garment that covered his entire body like a suit of long winter
underwear.
The other reason was that, believing she had gotten free without identification or leaving a trail that could
be followed, the girl might lead them to some clue that would really help them. But when Monk looked
out in the hall, he decided that she had taken off her shoes to fool him. Monk returned to the laboratory.
He walked to a narrow panel that bore six names. There was a switch under each of them. He pulled the
switch under the inscription, "Doc." Then he sat down in a chair to wait.
DOC SAVAGE at the moment was in a large building in uptown Manhattan. There was quite a crowd in
the room. Even in the dimness, necks were craned to give their owners a better look at the bronze man.
Doc Savage towered in a crowd. It was by comparison with other men that the giant size of Doc Savage
became apparent. Away from other men or familiar objects, Doc’s development was so symmetrical that
the effect of size was lost. His hair was a bronze hue just slightly darker than his skin.
He moved through the crowd with the supple grace of perfectly coördinated muscles. The bronze man
was a striking figure; one upon whom strong men looked with awe. His eyes were probably his most
compelling feature. They were flake-gold pools, constantly stirred as if by tiny whirlwinds of thought.
They had a hypnotic, dynamic quality that caused great discomfort to persons of uneasy conscience.
Doc Savage had dedicated his life to an unusual career. He and his five aids directed their energies
toward helping the oppressed and to punishing evil and evildoers. Doc paused in the center of the crowd,
now. There was a crackling, spitting noise in one corner of the room. Gigantic sparks ripped the air
between two large balls. The device he was watching was an artificial-lightning machine, similar to the
one that had been on display at the World’s Fair for two years. It had been claimed that this one was
utilizing a hitherto unheard-of voltage with interesting results.
Another man wedged in beside Doc Savage. He was an extremely unhealthy-appearing fellow. He was
of slight build and looked as if any well-developed lad of sixteen could have given him a battle. That
appearance had fooled a lot of people about Thomas Long Tom Roberts. It seldom fooled the same
person twice. Long Tom was the electrical wizard of Doc’s group and an able scrapper in his own right.
"I don’t see anything so unusual about this generator," Long Tom told Doc. "It is little, if any, more
powerful than the one at the Fair."
Doc Savage nodded. He was silent for a moment. Suddenly he turned, started out of the room toward a
bank of phone booths.
"Monk is calling," he said. His voice was well modulated and carried just as far as he desired it should.
Long Tom heard him. But no one else in the room did.
Monk’s signal indicating that there was information of importance at headquarters, was received only by
Doc. The bronze man and each of his five aids, when in New York, wore a compact metal ring that was
thermally reactive to a certain wavelength stimulation. The wave length in each ring was different. The ring
Doc wore had become heated, informing the bronze man that Monk was calling him.
The hairy chemist told Doc what had transpired. He told him about Ham’s communication from
Washington and of the queer death of the Washington policeman.
"It looks like something pretty big to me, Doc," Monk said.
Doc Savage agreed with him.
"Long Tom and I will return to the office immediately," he said. "Contact Ham at once. Tell him to pick
up the televisor-transmitted fingerprints and get them to the F.B.I."
Doc hung up the receiver and rejoined Long Tom. Together, they walked to a long, sleek sedan parked
at the curb of a side street. Doc tooled it carefully over to the West Side elevated highway and down
toward midtown Manhattan.
They were just cutting off a few blocks below Forty-second Street when the two-way short-wave set of
the sedan began to crackle. Monk’s high-pitched voice came from the speaker.
"I can’t raise Ham," he shrilled. "He said he’d keep his receiver open, Doc. I think something’s happened
to him."
"We will be in the office immediately," Doc Savage told Monk.
DOC SAVAGE’S offices occupied the entire eighty-sixth floor of one of New York’s most imposing
skyscrapers in the midtown area. Ordinarily, Doc, when driving, entered the building by a private ramp
that led to his own garages beneath the ground.
This time, he parked a block away from the building.
"It would not surprise me if we were expected," Doc said.
They entered the big building through a little-used entrance. It gave onto a long corridor that ended in the
main lobby. The building was practically deserted at this hour of the night. Doc paused a moment inside
the door through which they had come. He said several words to Long Tom. It was highly doubtful that
anyone overhearing them could have gleaned much information. Doc was speaking in ancient Mayan, a
language understood by scarcely a dozen people of the so-called civilized world.
Long Tom nodded as they walked along the corridor. Suddenly he stopped. An omnipresent rustling
noise filled the great office building. Then there was the hum that was not a hum; the high drone that the
ear could not record, but was sensed rather than heard. The unseen virago shook her silks and crinoline
with greater vigor.
Slowly, Long Tom sank to the floor. Doc’s greater physique apparently resisted more strongly. But
presently, the bronze man sank wearily to the shiny marble floor beside the electrical wizard.
Doc’s eyes were glazed. Meaningless words came from his lips. Then he was still.
Chapter III. BEHIND THE INVENTOR
IN a sumptuously appointed office not far away, two men looked into the luminescent scanner of a
television set. Across the screen stretched the forms of Long Tom and Doc Savage. The tableau brought
pleasurable reactions from the two watchers.
Fox Strang gave vent to a dry chuckle that was both brittle and harsh. He rubbed his hands together with
obvious glee.
"Didn’t think we could do it," he gloated. "The boss really is smart."
Sprawled in a big leather chair, his feet stretched before him, Ward Hiller cleared his throat. His amazing
Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if it were on a string.
"Certainly," he rumbled. Hiller could make a single word sound revealing and important.
Fox Strang nodded. He leaned forward and spoke into a microphone with his dry, crackling voice.
"Bring in the equipment, Flathead," he snapped.
"O. K., boss," a thick voice replied. "I’m on my way."
Fox swung around to Ward Hiller and snapped off the radio and televisor. He revealed one of his
business secrets.
"Always pick ‘em dumb enough so that they don’t get ideas," he suggested. "Dumb guys follow orders
best and don’t ask any questions. Like Flathead."
FLATHEAD SIMPSON indeed did not have any ideas of consequence. All he knew about the portable
short-wave receiver he carried in his pocket was that he pressed a button and it worked. He had no
concern whatever with what might have been inside of it. Flathead shuffled through the lobby of the
building that housed Doc Savage’s office. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man whose head looked as
though his mother had kept a flatiron on it during most of his formative years.
Flathead Simpson carried a mop and a big pail with a wringer attached. He looked like a janitor. But as
he shuffled through the lobby and toward the arch that led to a long passageway, he hid the mop and pail
in an open elevator that was shut off for the night.
When Simpson looked into the corridor, he could see the still forms of Long Tom and Doc Savage. They
seemed to be lying between two decorative pillars in the center of the passageway. Then he began to
blink. There was a faint rumbling of machinery, and the scene changed slightly.
Flathead shook his head. He couldn’t understand it. Had he been a bit brighter, he would have realized
摘要：

THERUSTLINGDEATHADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2002BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.ARUSTLINGNOISE?ChapterII.PLANSFORDOC?ChapterIII.BEHINDTHEINVENTOR?ChapterIV.TRUFFLEHUNTER?ChapterV.WARDHILLERLAUGHS?ChapterVI.BOLTOFDEATH?ChapterVII.KRAG’SWARNING?ChapterVIII.IN...

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