Doc Savage - Terror and the Lonely Widow Part 8

"What island?" Ham wanted to know. He turned to Doc, demanded, "What island?"

"Search me," Doc said. "But wait until I look at these pictures before you get busy."

IT developed that Brigadier General Lowell was only going to allow Doc Savage to inspect the photographs of the operatives in his department. He was very insistent, and not too graceful, about this.

Doc pretended to be disgruntled, and pointed out that Renny, Monk and Ham might have seen some crooks around and mistaken them for federal agents.

"That's ridiculous!" Lowell snapped. "You grabbed everybody you suspected, right down the line."

"We didn't grab Mr. Cavendish," Doc reminded. "He grabbed me-and Miss Gilroy. And he was able to do it only because your outfit made a move that wasn't particularly bright. It wasn't chivalrous, either, to put a lady in the danger you put Miss Gilroy in."

The Brigadier General spread out the photographic file, which was marked top secret. He said, "This is what I call wasting time." He was an immaculate man, and he stepped back, struck an att.i.tude of attention and waited. He looked remarkably young for a man with so much responsibility.

There was no sound but the shuff-shuff the leaves of the photo file made as Doc turned them. The crowd in the conference room had thinned out. A uniformed cop seemed to be asleep in a chair. Lieutenant McGinniss, looking tired and wan, watched in silence, eyes bright and a little fevered. He should not have left the hospital. An a.s.sistant District Attorney, a Mr. Gross, who was supposed to guard the public interest, seemed to have gone to sleep in a chair. There was Renny, Monk and Ham, and no one else.

"You certainly have more agents than I expected," Doc said.

"Half enough," Lowell snapped. "My department does very important work-jobs too secret, or too international, for the FBI, or the more direct and less trained Army and Navy agencies."

Monk tried to sidle over and take a look at some of the photographs. Lowell leveled an arm at him and said, "None of that!"

Monk mumbled that it looked to him as if some people didn't trust some other people around here. He was about to elaborate on this theme, but jumped instead. Doc had closed the photo file.

Doc slapped a hand down on the file.

"I'm through with this," he said.

He swung on Renny, Monk and Ham."Get busy on what I told you to do," he said. "And don't waste any time."

The three left hastily.

Lowell stared at Doc Savage with suspicion. "What are you pulling on me?" he demanded.

"The thing for you to worry about," Doc said, "is the shenanygin that has already been pulled on you and not by me, either."

Doc left.

Chapter IX.

THERE was a cold front over the states of Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska and South Dakota, a violent one with great thunderstorms marching almost shoulder to shoulder; and, farther west, they breasted an occlusion just west of the Continental divide. Coming down the High Sierras slope, they ran into a large area of fog of the advection type. It covered the earth like a silver rug. To get down through it at San Francisco, they had to take their turn in the holding pattern while several s.h.i.+ps ahead of them let down, but finally they picked up the runway localizer-they had been completely on instruments much of the flight, and were now-and pa.s.sed the outer marker, made the glide path. Monk was handling the controls, but Doc kept a wary eye on the pointer of the glide path indicator. He had never gotten to feel at ease while coming in blind at better than a hundred miles an hour. The squawk of the tires on the runway was very welcome.

Ham Brooks lifted an arm, bent it at the elbow, wrist presented in front of his face, and inspected his watch. "Anybody want to bet we make it?" he demanded.

"I'll take five on that," Monk said. "Let's see the color of your money." After a brief, bitter argument, they decided neither one trusted the other, and Renny had better hold the stakes.

As the plane moved on to the taxi strip, a cab whipped alongside; the cab driver leaned out, gestured, yelled, something. Doc said, "This must be the cab I radioed ahead for."

They stopped the plane, left the engine idling, set the handbrakes, piled out. A man in overalls got out of the cab. Doc said to him, "Are you the man who is to taxi the plane in and hangar it?"

"That's right," the man said. He had a scrubbed, s.h.i.+ny, ruddy face like a tomato.

They piled their bags into the cab, climbed in and the cab got going. Ham told Monk bitterly, "You knew Doc had radioed ahead for quick transportation. You knew that when you made the bet." Monk said, "What are you squawking about? You made the offer." Ham replied that this did not alter his feeling that Monk was a low-grade rascal. This, he added, he had long suspected. To which Monk leered and said, "Doc radioed them to hold the Clipper, too."

"You bug-faced missing link!" Ham yelled. "You're a crook!"

AN impatient-looking attendant was waiting at the trans-Pacific seaplane terminal. He had their reservations, and told them, "They're holding the s.h.i.+p for you."

A steward met them at the gangplank, said, "Your stateroom is aft. Number fifteen."

Monk held out a hand to Renny, rubbing thumb and forefinger together, for Ham's five-spot. Ham scowled and said, "Pay the Missing Link!"

The seaplane, which made the trans-Pacific run all the way to Shanghai, via the Philippines, was, DocSavage saw, one of the new type. It was a product of the war, adapted to civilian use, and impressive.

More impressive, he realized, than he had expected. Doc was particularly interested be- cause he had served in a consulting capacity during the designing of the s.h.i.+p, and there had been some bitter arguments about the functional feasibility of a s.h.i.+p of that size. His connection with the designing had ended at the blueprint stage, and he was curious about the outcome. It seemed satisfactory.

The pa.s.senger accommodations were on two decks, one above the other; the lower deck, which was farthest from the six wing-nacelled motors, was composed of sleeper compartments, these somewhat resembling the compartments on Continental railway coaches, except that there was an aisle down the center, with compartments on both sides instead of one side. Occupants slept in berths which ran crosswise of the hull, rather than lengthwise as in a pullman.

Gangplank entrance was forward for convenience, whereas most landplanes were entered aft of the wing trailing edge. Pa.s.sing up the gangplank, one entered a service area where there were lockers for the pa.s.sengers wraps, and for the many small things-magazines, charts, newspapers, extra pillows, blankets, writing materials, books-that the stewards used to give service.

The steward said, "This way, gentlemen." He was a slender bright-eyed young man, very neat of uniform, very exact of manner. "During take-off, will you keep your seats with safety belts buckled," he requested.

Monk flopped into a comfortable seat. "Well, we made it," he remarked. "But will somebody tell me just what we've accomplished, besides catching a trans-Pacific seaplane?"

Both Monk and Ham looked at Doc questioningly. They both wanted to know what had been accomplished.

Suddenly, without warning, the engines began starting one after another. Their power flowed through the s.h.i.+p. "Maybe," Doc Savage said quietly, "we've caught up with more than a seaplane."

Puzzled by that, Monk looked out through a window. He saw, with surprise, that the big plane was being driven backward by the engines, and for a moment he wondered if his mind hadn't failed. Then he remembered that airplanes now had reversible propellers, or some of them did.

JAKE LEWIS, Captain of the plane, issued orders to co-pilot and engineer in a grouchy tone. "Watch what you're doing. Let's not have any more delay, he said. Jake felt that circ.u.mstances had conspired against him to make them thirty minutes late on take-off. He was a tall, dark, saturnine man, given to long spells of simmering bad humor which usually coincided with interruptions in routine. If, for instance, weather forced them off course, he would be scowling and disgruntled until they were back on scheduled flight plan.

The seaplane ceased backing, remained loggy and motionless for a moment, then moved forward, swinging to the left and lining out into the wind for the take-off.

Jake swore, grabbed up the radio microphone. He addressed the sweep boat, a large fast motor launch which was performing its duty of making sure there was no floating object that would endanger the plane.

"Head off that tramp steamer," Jake ordered. "We got no more time to lose." He listened to an answer from the launch. "The h.e.l.l with control tower," he said. "Get that steamer outa our way!"

The control tower man cut in. Jake won a brief, bitter argument, and the launch streaked off to halt the tramp steamer long enough for the plane to take off. Pleased, Jake said, "Okay, let's get baby in the air."The co-pilot had been handling the controls while taxiing. Jake took them over for the take-off. He was an excellent pilot, which was probably why the company, and the crew, tolerated his quarrelsome disposition. The manner in which he got the plane in the air, the tone of his commands, indicated he was getting some satisfaction out of it.

Airborne, the big s.h.i.+p made its initial climb through the fog layer. It suddenly emerged in bright silver moonlight, and Jake permitted himself a sour grin. He got the s.h.i.+p on the radio beam which pointed toward Hawaii. He was stretching and yawning when the Chief Steward, Gramm, thrust his head into the control compartment.

Steward Gramm was excited. "I got a stowaway here," he said.

"Stowaway! For G.o.d's sake!" Pilot Jake Lewis was astonished. "Some danged kid musta slipped past the checker. Well, we ain't gonna turn back. Throw a scare into the kid-"

"This ain't no kid," Steward Gramm said.

THE stowaway was a man about forty years old, lean and darkly sunburned. Pilot Lewis had seen stowaways before, and the manner of this one puzzled him, because the fellow was neither frightened nor defiant, the way illegal pa.s.sengers usually were. The thin dark man had a rather coldly possessed manner.

"You gotta ticket, buddy?" the Captain demanded.

The thin dark man surprised them.

"Sure, I got a ticket," he said.

Steward Gramm blurted, "But he told me-!"

"This," interrupted the dark man, "is the ticket."

He had produced two revolvers. He menaced Captain Lewis, Steward Gramm and the co-pilot, the only ones present in the control compartment at the moment.

"A nut! A lunatic!" blurted the co-pilot.

The lean man's skin was the color of plug chewing tobacco ... He shot out a hand, the hand seized the throat microphone around Captain Lewis neck, jerked it loose.

"None o' that!" he said grimly.

The Captain's face became flat-cheeked with strain, and began to lose color. He had started, by speaking with his mouth closed, to give a warning-the throat mike would probably pick up his words clearly enough-via the radio transmitter to the sh.o.r.e station. The stowaway had s.n.a.t.c.hed the microphone too quickly ... Furthermore, the Captain was convinced that the man had seriously debated, for a moment, whether or not to shoot him. Captain Lewis had the horrible certainty that he had escaped death, just now, by the mere whim of a man's thought.

"Fold your hands neatly," the dark man said, "on the backs of your necks."

Steward Gramm cried, "Listen, you can't-"

His objection was ended by one of the guns. .h.i.tting him over the left ear. He fell forward stiffly, into the controls. The plane gave a sharp lurch as Gramm's shoulder moved the control column. Captain Lewis gasped, "My G.o.d, he'll put the s.h.i.+p-we're going into a spin!" He became a tangle of arms and legs withthe steward. Actually, he was endeavoring to get to his own gun, for the officers of the s.h.i.+p were armed.

The weapon, an automatic, was in a holster in a map pocket. He desisted when one of the dark man's guns gouged firmly into his ear.

"If you want your brains scattered, just keep trying," the man said.

Stunned, hardly believing what was happening could happen, the three men-Captain Lewis, Steward Gramm, and the co-pilot-permitted themselves to be searched. Steward Gramm was not unconscious, but he was dazed. The dark man, it was obvious, knew all the places to search, because he got all the guns.

"Keep right on course, and make regular position reports," he ordered.

He grinned thinly at them.

"I can read a compa.s.s, and I know what a radio is for," he continued. "Also, in a pinch, I could fly this job. So behave yourselves."

The co-pilot snapped stiffly erect. Blazing rage made his neck look as if there was a red m.u.f.fler around it.

"If you think you, one man, can hijack-"

"I'm more than one," the wiry dark man said.

TWO engineers, a navigation officer and another steward composed the remaining crew. One engineer was out in the starboard wing catwalk, making an inspection. The other engineer was in the little room with all the gauges-engine control instruments, pressurization and fuel dials. He lifted his head sharply, said, "Pa.s.sengers aren't allowed ... What silenced him was the snout of a gun, blue, round, unpleasantly promising.

"Close your eyes," said the holder of the gun. He was an average-looking, but deeply tanned man in a new-looking blue suit.

"What the-"

"Close your eyes, pal, or get em shot out!" the man said. When the engineer shut his eyes, he calmly whipped the fellow twice over the head with a blackjack.

Presently the other engineer thrust his head inside, stared in amazement, and was brought down by the blackjack.

Another sunburned man, who had been lurking in the background as lookout, grinned at the one who had overpowered the two engineers. He indicated the battery of instruments. "You know what all the gadgets are for?"

The other scratched his head. "Some of them ... I guess I'll get by." He nudged one of the engineers with a toe. "I better keep one of these guys as a pet. You want to put the other one away?"

"Not yet. We still got one to go."

"One?"

"The other steward."

"What about the new officer?""He's nicely tied up. And I gave him a drink of barbital, a big one. He'll go out like a light presently." The man grinned. "At least, he's one guy we don't need."

"Ain't you worried about the steward?"

"Nah. Skeeter is taking him."

Later, Skeeter appeared in the doorway. "How you like me?" he asked. He turned, mincing like a fas.h.i.+on model, for their inspection. He wore the steward's uniform. "Guy wore the same size as I do," he remarked. "Wasn't that lucky?"

That gave one of the others an idea. "Why don't we all put on the uniforms of the crew?" he demanded.

"That might smooth things out with the pa.s.sengers for a while ... I'm gonna suggest it to the boss."

He moved toward the control compartment, grinning. They now had, as far as the crew was concerned, complete control of the plane.

THE co-pilot was now bound hand and foot, and a hard blow on the head had rendered him unconscious. His form was neatly stacked in a niche behind the control compartment. Captain Lewis, considerably subdued, was flying the s.h.i.+p, acutely conscious that he had been ordered to keep his hands out of mischief.

"Don't touch a d.a.m.ned thing without you first tell me what it is and why," the lean dark man ordered.

Captain Lewis nodded glumly.

A head thrust into the compartment. "h.e.l.lo, Rice," the dark man said. "What's the word?"

"Sweet." Rice made a gleeful business of forming a circle with thumb and middle finger. "We got them all laid out ... And I got an idea. Why don't we put on the uniforms of the crew?"

"Why do that?" the dark man demanded.

"So the pa.s.sengers won't be suspicious."

"Okay. But later. After we get rid of Savage." The dark man reached down, grabbed the dazed steward by jacket lapels and necktie, pulled the steward's scared face within a few inches of his own, and demanded, "What compartment are Doc Savage and his men in?"