Doc Savage - 065 - The Green Death Read online

  The Green Death

  By Kenneth Robeson

  Published November 1938

  Doc Savage Magazine #69

  by Street & Smith Publications

  Table of Contents

  I JUNGLE DOOM

  II THE CURSE FULFILLED

  III A RAID

  IV MONK FINDS TROUBLE

  V GANGSTERS ATTACK

  VI A STOWAWAY

  VII A DESERTION

  VIII FALSE TRAIL

  IX A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD

  X DISASTER STRIKES

  XI TOMB OF THE DEAD

  XII MONK TUMBLES

  XIII RAIDERS ATTACK

  XIV A PRINCESS COMMANDS

  XV INTO THE ARMS OF DEATH

  XVI BETWEEN TWO FIRES

  XVII CRIMSON WATERS

  XVIII CLOUDS THAT PASS

  XIX A DIRIGIBLE FALLS

  XX THE REAL GREEN DEATH

  I

  JUNGLE DOOM

  DEATH was abroad in the jungle. The moist hot air was ominous, as the sun beat in vain on matted trees and vines, unable to pierce the gloom beneath.

  Through that gloom a man raced.

  He was a very tall, very thin man, with a peculiar sallow complexion that now was literally streaming with perspiration. His eyes, behind the glasses he wore, were worried. Occasionally he would dart a quick glance over his shoulder, then he would plunge on, even though he knew escape was impossible.

  The attack had come just at dawn. All the natives who had made up his party had either been killed or had fled, panic-stricken, in that first attack.

  There had been soft puft sounds, and death had arrived in the form of poisoned arrows.

  The tall, thin man had snatched a gun and fired recklessly toward the foes he could not see; then he, too, had run. There had been nothing else to do.

  That had been hours ago. The sun was high now. And hour after hour he had kept up a steady jogging pace, never seeming to tire. But he had not shaken off pursuit. Only minutes ago a single poisoned arrow had sped past his head. He had seen nothing, heard nothing; but death was trailing him.

  Despite the worry in his eyes, the tall man did not appear afraid; rather, he seemed irritated, as if he had been interrupted while performing an important task. Suddenly, he paused. A shot had sounded from ahead.

  A peculiar, almost unbelieving look came to the man's eyes. That shot would indicate that other white men were near--and that was impossible. He was hundreds of miles from the closest village. There could be no help, yet there had been a shot.

  He increased his speed quickly, running easily, winding and twisting through the big trees, dodging underbrush, racing through wild country that never before had been explored. A gun was in the holster at his hip, but he ignored that. Only two shots were left in that gun. And two shots could mean nothing, when he never had been given even a glimpse of those who pursued him.

  Then the tall man's speed slowed. His face became puzzled and questioning, nostrils twitching uneasily. Premonition of danger, of unseen, terrible danger, made the short hairs rise on his neck, sent icy thrills down his spine despite the heat.

  All sound had ceased. The jungle was still--a strange, frightening stillness. Not a bird stirred; not a monkey chattered in the trees.

  THE heavy, moisture-laden air carried a faint odor, an unusual, though not unpleasant odor, such as might have been caused by a field of flowers. But there were no flowers.

  Only for a moment did the tall, thin man hesitate. Then his pale lips tightened. Unconsciously he freed the gun in its holster. His nerves were tighter than ever before. Ever since dawn he had run with the feeling that unseen eyes were staring at his back; that every move he made was being watched.

  That feeling was gone now. It was as if those who pursued him had quit the chase, had fallen back from a danger far more vivid and real than any their intended victim might prepare for them. The very absence of that feeling of being watched made peril more real.

  Sunlight suddenly flashed ahead, blinding in its brilliance after the gloom of the jungle. There was a cleared area directly in front. The cleared area was semicircular in shape. Beyond it were more trees, then high cliffs.

  An unbelieving gasp came from the thin man. His eyes were wide behind the glasses he wore. A strange sight presented itself to him on those cliffs, a sight that seemed unreal, as if he were visioning a scene from some bygone age.

  Long legs pounding, he burst from the jungle, started across the cleared area toward that scene. For just an instant he felt strong, able to conquer anything he might meet. Then an expression almost of terror swept over his features.

  He knew he was lost; knew that he had left one danger only to encounter another, one that he could not defeat. Fiercely he turned, tried to run back toward the comparative safety of the jungle. His knees buckled under him, and a thin cry came from his lips.

  Then he was very still; breathing stopped.

  His body was twisted and contorted horribly. The skin no longer was sallow. It was green, a startling shade of green. He appeared to have been mummified, as if he had been dead for many years.

  II

  THE CURSE FULFILLED

  THE story first broke when three men staggered out of the jungle. The world was thrilled, horrified and more than a little unbelieving. The men's clothing was in tatters. Their faces and bodies were swollen and red from numerous insect bites. They were hungry, almost starving, their ribs showing plainly. Their eyes were wide and staring. Fear was written there, as well as suffering from the hardships they had undergone.

  Kind-hearted officials gave them food, fresh clothing and medical attention. And bit by bit the story came out.

  One, who said he was Hugo Parks, acted as spokesman. Parks was a small man, with a body now more thin than ever. But his head was huge; it dwarfed the rest of his body, gave him a peculiar appearance. It was easy to understand why his companions called him "Brains."

  These three, Parks said, were the sole survivors of a party of twenty. They had entered Brazil from Paraguay, he insisted, and had made their way to the dread Matto Grosso section of Brazil, the "Green Hell" section.

  Parks said they were explorers. Whatever the authorities thought, they kept to themselves.

  After weeks of struggling, Parks recounted, they penetrated the Green Hell section farther than any other white men had ever gone.

  And they had found a fabulous, lost city!

  Newspapers grabbed onto the story. It had the element of mystery they liked. And, from their files, they told again of other explorers who had attempted to penetrate the district and whose fate never had been definitely learned.

  There was Colonel P. H. Fawcett, the noted British explorer, who, with his son, Jack, and a companion, had vanished in 1925. They, too, had entered the wild Matto Grosso jungle. They had been searching for a mythical "Atlantis," a lost city and a lost race. They had never been seen alive again. Some reports said they had been killed by hostile Indians.

  Then there was Paul Redfern, the American flier, also believed lost in the same district. More recently, one year before, another American flier, "Scotty" Falcorn, had also disappeared in the Matto Grosso jungle. He had been hunting for Redfern.

  The lost city was there, Hugo Parks said. It was inhabited by a mysterious tribe of white Indians. And it was guarded by a strange, horrible green death--a death that left the victim mummified, contorted in agony!

  BLASTS of publicity filled the newspapers. Almost fabulous offers for first-person accounts of their experiences were cabled the three survivors.

  They appeared strangely indifferent, almost suspiciously so, the Brazilian authorities thought. For
there were a couple of minor items the newspapers did not get.

  One was that Parks carried a small, lead box. He refused to let anyone see what was in this box, except that he took oath it was not treasure of any kind.

  Another detail was a small bundle that another of the men carried. Upon examination, this proved to contain only a part of a letter, a belt buckle and a watch. Parks refused to explain what this meant.

  The third point was not so mysterious, but it was unusual. The day after their arrival from the jungle, a New York bank cabled a letter of credit in Parks's name. It came even before their story had reached the outside world. It was for a very large sum of money.

  After their first stories, the three men became uncommunicative. It seemed they did not want to answer questions of any kind. They appeared more fearful than ever before. They hardly were civil to those who had befriended them. They were pressed for explanations. And just before they left for the United States, Parks sprung his bombshell.

  They had been warned, he said mysteriously, to do as little talking as possible. There was more to the lost city than they had told. Savages had whispered a warning. A curse would follow them. No matter how far or how fast they fled, death was to catch up with them. Parks shuddered as he spoke of that menace.

  It was the green death!

  That was the part the world did not believe. In fact, some newspapers, angry because offers for more details had been snubbed, hinted almost openly that the men were impostors, expressed doubt that they had ever reached the Green Hell section.

  Experienced jungle men in Brazil expressed no such doubts. The men knew too much about the country they said they had visited. No one could know all they did without actually having been where they said they were.

  But it was while the publicity was dying down that the men vanished. They rented a private plane and disappeared. A week later they passed through the customs at Miami. And the storm of newspaper comment broke out in redoubled form.

  For now it was learned that Parks was carrying the small lead box. And the customs men insisted that this box be opened before Parks was permitted to enter the country with it.

  The huge-headed man submitted with bad grace. Afterwards, the customs men wondered why. There was no need for such secrecy. The box was empty. At least, the customs officials found nothing in it.

  A DAY later the men were in New York City. Newspaper headlines read:

  TRIO FLEEING DREAD CURSE

  OF GREEN DEATH

  The tenor of the stories was more than half-humorous. The three returning explorers had been openly hostile to newspapermen, had refused to answer questions, and had eluded reporters as swiftly as possible. The newspapermen were paying them back.

  The more serious-minded publications referred to the reputed curse of King Tut's tomb, which was supposed to have claimed the life of many connected with its discovery and opening. Scientific writers pointed out that there could be no basis in fact for such beliefs, but that they had long been cherished, and that fear often killed when there was no other known cause.

  The tabloids kidded the whole thing, deciding now that these men probably had been raving when they first came out of the jungle, suffering from privation, and had told stories they knew would not stand expert scrutiny, so were taking refuge in silence.

  No answer came from Parks and his two companions. They sought and found a hideaway. But they prepared to call at once upon Doc Savage.

  The biggest one of the trio was selected to go. He was tall and thick-chested. His eyes were colorless, showing no emotion whatever. Parks called him "Frick."

  Frick powdered features that were deeply tanned from the tropics. It made him appear pale. That was the only disguise he used. Then he drifted into the street, worked his way toward the towering skyscraper where Doc Savage had his offices.

  He didn't have to ask directions--he had been in New York before. And everyone who had ever visited the city had heard of Doc Savage.

  At a bookstore, Frick paused. A new volume was on display. It was being strongly advertised.

  ATOMIC RESEARCH SIMPLIFIED

  By Clark Savage, Jr.

  Beside a pile of books was a big sign. It read:

  READ THE LATEST WORK OF CLARK SAVAGE, JR.

  THE WORLD'S MOST FAMOUS SCIENTIST,

  EXPLORER AND ADVENTURER

  Frick's pale, colorless eyes did not change; but his mouth worked curiously. It was well known that Doc Savage was a famous scientist. He understood medicine, hydrodynamics and meteorology equally well. With his five aids, each an expert in a separate line, Doc had long been recognized throughout the world as one of the most fearless foes of crime.

  Frick turned a corner, approached a huge skyscraper. Then he halted suddenly, one hand clutched at his heart. A strange expression flashed over his features, an expression in which wonderment was mingled with fear.

  ONLY for a moment did Frick hesitate. Then his husky form jerked erect, his breathing became more normal. He sped into the office building.

  "Eighty-sixth floor, and make it snappy!" he snarled at an elevator operator.

  The operator looked at him curiously, then shrugged. He was accustomed to having strange-appearing men rush in and demand to be taken immediately to the floor where Doc Savage had his offices.

  As the door clanged open on the eighty-sixth floor, Frick appeared to be swaying. With difficulty, he forced his way out into the corridor. His footsteps were uncertain as he moved slowly down until he reached a door that bore the sign:

  CLARK SAVAGE, JR.

  There was no sign of a knob or bell on the door. Frick's colorless eyes half closed. He slumped against the door.

  An instant later, and he pulled himself erect. A man stood before him. Photo-electric cells had given warning of Frick's approach; had opened the door.

  The man who stood there did not appear big. It was only when Frick pulled up that he realized the other was even larger than he, but so perfectly put together that it was not apparent.

  His features were bronze-colored; his hair, tight against his skull, was only a slightly lighter shade. There was no expression on his face, but his eyes held Frick's attention. They were strangely compelling eyes. Gold flakes seemed to whirl in their depths.

  "I--I seem to feel faint," Frick gulped. He slumped, tried again to straighten. His features changed. Stark terror showed in every line. Again his hand clutched at his heart.

  "It's got--" His shriek broke off in mid-breath. He dropped to the floor.

  A low, trilling sound seemed to fill the corridor. It seemed to come from everywhere, yet from no particular spot. It was an unconscious sound Doc Savage made when he was surprised.

  His visitor was very dead. An expression of ghastly pain and horror was frozen on his features. Those features no longer were pale. They were green. The man's entire body was green and queerly contorted. The body itself was as stiff as if it had been petrified.

  The strange curse of the Matto Grosso had been fulfilled, thousands of miles away.

  III

  A RAID

  THE bronze man's low, trilling sound had been heard. There were other sounds from inside the office. They were strange noises.

  First there was a queer squealing, grunting noise. Then came a chattering and whining. A moment later came action. Two very peculiar objects raced into view, almost colliding with Doc.

  The one in the lead might have been called a pig, but it was probably the homeliest pig outside a "believe-it-or-not" exhibition. It had a very long snout, big ears and a skinny, hard body. Its extra thin legs were carrying it along very fast.

  Behind it trailed what undoubtedly was an ape of some type. It had exceptionally long arms, hanging well below its knees and tiny eyes showed in a face covered with fur. Right now it appeared to be somewhat angry.

  "Give me that banana, you long-eared porcine monstrosity, or I'll tear you pork chop from pork chop," came a bellow, apparently from the ape.

  "You can
't have it! You can't have it!" a voice squealed. The voice seemingly came from the pig.

  There was a long banana tied firmly on the pig's back. The ape stretched out one long arm for it, missed, and redoubled its speed.

  Roars of laughter came from inside the office. Another figure appeared, one that strongly resembled the ape. The man was bigger about the middle, and there was no hair on his face, but those were the only radical differences in appearance. His tiny eyes were set in deep pits of gristle. His arms hung well below the knees.

  Now his lips were moving noiselessly, and his face was creased with what he fondly hoped was a smile. More words came from the running pig and ape.

  "Stop it, Monk, you hairy relic of the stone age!" a voice roared behind him.

  "Monk's" lips moved again. He was quite proud of his gift of ventriloquism. It was he who was making the animals appear to talk.

  Then Monk, formally known as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, one of the best chemists in the world, brought his two hundred and sixty pounds to a sudden halt. He had seen Doc--and the figure Doc was bending over.

  "Ham!" he called. His voice was thin and piping, in strange contrast to his big frame.

  There was movement behind him. "Ham's" slender, immaculately dressed form came forward swiftly. Monk and Ham delighted in rough jests; in fact, the pets were part of their idea of humor, but Ham knew when Monk had stopped playing.

  A thin whistle came from Ham. His face sobered, his eyes flashed shrewdly. As Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Ham was known to have one of the keenest legal minds in the country.

  Down the hall, Chemistry, the ape, had overtaken Habeas Corpus, the pig. He was holding the pig almost lovingly under one arm, while with the other hairy fist he plucked the banana from Habeas's back, ate it with every indication of enjoyment.

  None of the three behind them noticed. Monk's tiny eyes were glowing. "Trouble? Any chance of a fight?" he asked Doc. Even more than kidding Ham, the hairy chemist loved to battle.