Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (9 page)

Long Tom had succeeded in luring the woman into the vestibule, but he had not figured out how to open up the wormy can of lies he had served and confess the truth.

So he decided to come right out with it. Long Tom was a lifelong bachelor and he did not know women very well. Thus, he might be excused for his mistake.

The woman said, “Show me the package. I want to see it before I accept it.”

That helped Long Tom get to the point. “Actually, this package isn’t from Ned. Doc Savage sent me here. I’m Long Tom Roberts, the electrical engineer. Probably you’ve heard of me.”

Long Tom’s professional reputation was such that practically the whole world knew him. Declaration of this made no great impression upon Janet Falcon, however.

She attempted to slam the door in his sour face. Long Tom saw that coming, and inserted his shoe between door and jamb.

As a consequence, he let out a yelp of pain when the panel collided with his shoe. The woman was stronger than she looked. Or anger lent her greater strength than normal.

Long Tom dropped his box, which spilled its contents.

This was unfortunate, for the box proved to contain an unusual pistol, looking nothing like anything that had ever come out of a gun manufacturer’s factory. The mechanism was neither that of a revolver nor an automatic. Its elongated barrel was distorted in a peculiar way. A ram’s horn ammunition clip jutted out from the walnut grip.

While Long Tom was hopping on one foot, holding the other in both hands, the woman lunged down, took hold of the queer pistol, and lifted it. The weird barrel pointed unerringly. It could be seen that the hole from which bullets might be expected to emerge was unusually thin. Thin as a needle, in fact.

“This gun,” she bit out, “tells me that you are lying. You mean to kill me.”

Now, the normal response to having a weapon pointed at one is to raise both hands to show that you intend no attack. But the pain in Long Tom’s throbbing right foot made that reflexive gesture inconvenient.

“Whatever you do,” Long Tom said, holding onto his throbbing foot, “don’t pull the trigger. That is no ordinary pistol.”

The woman did not take him at his word. She directed the weapon at the glass on either side of the vestibule door and constricted her trigger finger.

The gun made no sound, nor did it jerk about like an automatic and spit out spent cartridges. There was no kickback, no stream of gunsmoke, no outward indication of an operating mechanism.

Instead, the door glass shivered into fragments, producing a cacophony of breaking glass.

Long Tom made his move then, grasping fingers lunging for the weapon.

Alas, he missed. The woman directed the strangely distorted barrel in his direction and suddenly Long Tom’s hands were in the air and he was trying not to keel over.

“Upstairs!” she commanded. “March!”

Having no choice in the matter, Long Tom obliged. His pallid face was beet red.

Still keeping his open hands in sight, the slender electrical expert started up the stairs. The woman was canny. She stepped aside to let him pass, then dug the clumsy barrel into the small of his back, prodding him upward.

“You’re making a mistake,” Long Tom warned.

“I will add this error to the growing collection,” the woman snapped.

When they reached the third floor, Janet Falcon directed her chagrined prisoner down a short hallway and pushed him into an apartment that was unlocked.

Locking the door behind her, she said, “Sit down, please.”

There was an overstuffed sofa upholstered in faded yellow damask. Long Tom sat. He did not look happy.

The woman asked what was, under the circumstances, a peculiar question. “What kind of gun is this?”

“It’s new,” supplied Long Tom.

“I can see that!” the woman snapped. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“What I mean is, it’s a new invention. I devised it.”

“This barrel of a thing—is that a silencer?”

“No. But it’s complicated. It would take an hour to explain it.”

Experimentally, Janet Falcon showed that she possessed a cool nerve. She directed the barrel at a horsehair easy chair that had seen better days, depressed the trigger.

The weird weapon spit out bullets without any sound, gunpowder, or recoil.

A furry of slim holes peppered the chair, which showed no other reaction to being shot up. Neither did it shake or quiver. Perforations were too numerous to count.

“This is like no gun on earth,” she marveled.

Long Tom grunted, “You have that right. I planned to show it off at the science exposition. That’s why I’m lugging it around. All the rest of it was a lie. Except the part about me being a Doc Savage associate.”

Janet Falcon studied the unhealthy-looking electrical wizard with earnest green eyes. “I spoke with Doc Savage not an hour ago. How is it that you come to be in Chicago so rapidly?”

Long Tom said patiently, “I just explained that. I’m in town for the big scientific conference. Doc called me. Told me to look you up. We need to get to the bottom of what happened to Ned Gamble.”

At the sound of her late fiancé’s name, Janet Falcon began to tear up. She fumbled into a pocket of her frock, pulled out a handkerchief that was noticeably wet, and started dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes.

“They killed him,” she murmured jerkily.

“Who are they?”

Coming out of her crying jag, the woman suddenly snapped, “It is just an expression! Forget I said that.”

“Doc Savage seems to think you sent Gamble to New York.”

Janet Falcon made no reply, but pain brought a wince to her attractive features. For despite the pale strain on her features, she was an attractive woman—beautiful the way a marble bust can be beautiful: Cold and austere.

Long Tom decided to twist the knife. “Sent him to his death.”

Janet Falcon’s face fell apart at that point. “Oh, poor Ned! I should never have told you what I did.”

The peculiar weapon in her hand wavered. Knowing the unpredictability of women, especially those under emotional distress, Long Tom attempted a thing he normally would not have tried.

Reaching into his coat, he found the grip of a second weapon nestled in his underarm holster, brought it out and fired two rapid shots in succession.

The machine pistol in his hand barked, and two rounds struck Janet Falcon on one bare arm. Almost immediately a combination of shock and surprise overtook her disintegrating features.

For a terrible instant, it looked as if she was going to return fire, but the weapon fell from her fingers, and she collapsed on top of it.

“Just my luck to encounter a difficult female,” muttered Long Tom as he holstered the weapon, then rushed to reclaim the unusual pistol, which had tumbled to the floor.

ONCE he set this odd pistol aside, Long Tom gathered up the woman in his arms and placed her on the sofa, knowing that it would be at least an hour before she awoke again. For he had struck her with two “mercy” bullets—hollow shells that were filled with a chemical preparation invented by Doc Savage, and which were designed to disable a foe without permanently injuring them. Once the slugs struck flesh, they ruptured, introducing the anesthetic potion into the bloodstream. The speed with which unconsciousness took hold was sometimes difficult to believe. But the bronze man had formulated the stuff so that it could be used in situations exactly like this one. Janet Falcon had succumbed before she could pull the trigger on the electrical expert.

Looking at his rather large wristwatch, Long Tom noted the time and sat down on the perforated horsehair chair to await the woman’s return to consciousness. At that time, he would have the upper hand and was determined to extract from her the truth, if for no other reason than to make all the trouble he had just endured worthwhile.

Unfortunately for the pale electrical wizard, he did not have an hour to wait.

A dozen minutes along, the doorbell buzzed insistently. At first, Long Tom ignored it, but when the buzzer refused to cease its annoying repetition, he went over to the electrical panel, pressed a push-button and called into the speaker grille, “Who is it?”

“This is Malcolm McLean,” a thin voice returned. “I just heard about poor Ned. I’ve come to pay my respects and offer my condolences.”

“She is indisposed,” returned Long Tom impatiently.

That should have done the trick, but it did not. The thin voice became suspicious and demanded, “Who is this? What are you doing in Janet’s apartment, if she is indisposed as you say?”

Long Tom had no good answer for that. So he snapped, “It’s none of your business. Call another time.”

“I’ll call the Chicago police,” snapped the voice over the calling system.

Long Tom realized this would not do. He would have to deal with the caller.

“If you insist. I’ll buzz you up.”

“I thank you,” said the man waiting below as Long Tom pressed the push-button that electrically disengaged the vestibule door lock.

By the time a rattling knock came at the apartment door, Long Tom had inserted his unusual pistol under the horsehair chair seat cushion where the incriminating weapon would be out of sight, and went to the door.

Throwing open the panel, he was met by a remarkable sight.

The noteworthy thing about Long Tom Roberts was the fact that he looked as if death were following in his footsteps. The man who had presented himself at the door appeared as if he had been overtaken by the Grim Reaper long ago.

He was thin to painful proportions. Taller than Long Tom, he looked nevertheless far more unhealthy, to an almost unbelievable degree.

For the skin of this man was as gray as that of a corpse that had been lying in its coffin for weeks. His hair had a dry quality that made it seem lifeless. His eyes were a lighter gray than his skin, but the combination was vaguely repellent.

The corpse-faced caller took one look at the pale electrical wizard, and started. “Why, you’re Long Tom Roberts, aren’t you?”

“What’s it to you?” returned Long Tom belligerently.

A curious light came into the other’s eyes. “I’ve been an admirer of your work, particularly in the field of television.”

Taken aback, Long Tom demanded, “Who are you?”

“Malcolm McLean. I am a chemist of some note. Perhaps you have heard of me.”

Long Tom shook his head vigorously. “Chemistry is not my line.”

Peering over Long Tom’s shoulder, McLean asked, “May I enter?”

Reluctantly, Long Tom let the man in. As soon as he entered the apartment, his strange gray eyes fell upon Janet Falcon lying on the divan.

“What—what happened to her?”

“She fainted, I guess,” Long Tom said vaguely. “So I laid her out on the sofa. She ought to wake up before too long.”

Malcolm McLean looked back at the pallid electrical wizard and said thinly, “So you were not lying, after all. But what is your business with Janet?”

“My business is my business,” snapped Long Tom. “Or maybe I should say Doc Savage’s business, get me?”

“There is no need to be rude about it,” said Malcolm McLean dolefully. “I merely stopped by to pay my respects, and to ask if there was anything I could do to help Janet in her bereavement.”

“News travels fast,” clucked Long Tom.

“We live in an age of scientific marvels,” retorted McLean.

The two men studied one another like a pair of alley cats waiting for the other to make a wrong move. But neither man did.

When nothing untoward transpired, Malcolm McLean turned his attention back to Janet Falcon, and observed that she appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

Then he spied the two spots of moist crimson on the young woman’s forearm. His gray eyes narrowed, gristle-like lips writhing with some unexpressed emotion.

“Janet appears to have injured herself,” he commented finally.

“She fell when she fainted,” returned Long Tom. “I was about to tend to the wounds when you showed up.”

“I know where she keeps her first-aid kit,” McLean offered. “Let me get it.”

“Help yourself,” said Long Tom casually, not taking his pale eyes off the man.

The corpse-gray man disappeared into the bathroom, rummaged around for a time. When he returned, he was carrying a small white metal box with a red cross stamped on it.

“Would you hold this while I perform the appropriate ministrations?” he requested.

Long Tom saw no reason why not, so he held out his hands and took hold of the metal box.

While Long Tom was getting a good grip, Malcolm McLean wheeled suddenly, snatched up a brass lamp on the nightstand and raised it, quickly braining the unprepared electrical wizard, who fell immediately to the floor, completely insensate.

“That will teach you!” McLean snarled vehemently. “You puny brute!”

Chapter VIII

CIGARETTE CLUE

THE AJAX TRUCK RENTAL COMPANY was nothing special.

Situated in the borough of Brooklyn, it was not much more than a dingy garage equipped with a modest fleet of trucks which were available for hire at reasonable prices.

There was a small office in one corner. Doc Savage, followed by Monk and Ham, entered to the astonishment of the proprietor.

The man’s eyes popped. “Aren’t you—?”

Doc looked vaguely uncomfortable. The fact of his celebrity was not something to which he had ever grown accustomed.

The bronze giant placed the photograph on the man’s desk and asked, “According to the license plate, this is one of your rental vehicles.”

The flustered man looked down, saw that this was true, and said, “Is this trouble?”

“Probably not for you,” admitted the bronze man. “We are seeking the individual who rented the truck.”

Monk inserted, “That bird, he’s in a pile of trouble. And we intend to pile on him once we get hold of him.”

The proprietor looked suitably impressed and said, “Just a minute.”

Riffling through papers on his desk, he found a pink sheet and handed it over to Doc Savage. “This is the guy.”

Doc picked up the sheet, and absorbed the name and address inscribed on the carbon paper.

“John Stone,” he said. “But this address is a false one.”