Doc Savage - 013 - Land of Always-Night Read online

  Ool tried desperately to bring his right hand into play, but it was pinned to his side. He lifted his feet in an attempt to overbalance his assailant. The apish attacker did not upset. Ool's mother-of-pearl face began to take on a purplish hue. He was entirely helpless.

  III

  THE MAN WHO WAS NOT HUMAN

  A FLASHLIGHT spiked a white beam out of the darkness and another man came from behind the ventilator.

  "You do have your moments, eh, Monk?" he asked.

  "Frisk 'im, Ham," grunted the apish man who had seized Ool. "See if he's got a gun."

  The newcomer, "Ham," placed his flashlight on the roof, then stepped forward to search Ool. This put him in the flash glow. He was lean, of about average height, and attired in remarkably dapper fashion. He carried a slender black cane.

  Ool stared at him.

  "Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks," he said emotionlessly.

  Ham did not look surprised. Courtroom training had taught him that, for Ham was one of the most astute lawyers ever to be matriculated from Harvard. He was also by way of being the male fashion plate for New York City. His other and major claim to distinction was that he was a member of Doc Savage's group of five remarkable aides.

  Ham tucked the cane under an arm and began searching Ool.

  "Hurry up, you overdressed shyster!" "Monk" grunted. Monk had a small, childlike voice.

  Ool tried to move his right arm. Monk put on pressure. A faint, strangely piteous cry came from Ool's lips and he subsided. Monk's strength was fabulous.

  Monk had other abilities too, although a stranger would not have dreamed it after one look at his bullet of a head. There did not seem to be room for even an ample spoonful of brains above Monk's eyebrow line. Yet, as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, he was among the half dozen greatest living chemists.

  Monk was also a member of Doc Savage's group of five aides.

  Ool revived slightly and spoke, his voice weaker, but still retaining its mechanical quality.

  "How did you discover me?" he asked.

  Monk grinned. The grin had the effect of making his incredibly homely face very pleasant to look at.

  "A bird can't light on this building without us knowing it," he said. "Boy, you should see our alarm system."

  "I see," Ool said. "I should have thought of photo-electric eyes and magnetic fields."

  Ham, conducting his search leisurely, said, "The man seems to know something of electricity."

  "Will you hurry up, you fashion plate?" Monk requested.

  Ool lifted his left foot and stamped with all of his might on Monk's toes and instep. Monk bellowed--he liked to yell at the top of his voice when he was getting hurt. He released Ool suddenly.

  Ool, so unexpectedly released, staggered. Monk swung a fist. Ool had no time to dodge. The fist hit him and he slammed down on the roof. Almost instantly, he sat up, but did not try to get to his feet.

  "Blazes!" Monk grunted. "He's tough. When I hit a guy like that, he generally sleeps."

  HAM studied Ool's face. Ham had withdrawn a pace and tugged his black cane apart near the handle, disclosing that it was in reality a sword cane with a long, thin blade.

  "He is a strange one," Ham said wonderingly. "Look at those eyes, and that mouse-fur hair on his head. And the color of his skin! Say, he's almost as funny-Looking as you!"

  Monk scowled at Ham.

  Ool chose that instant to lunge, and his right hand drifted out with a moccasin speed. Monk jumped. Only his agility, fabulous for one of such bulk, saved him.

  "Watch it!" Ham yelled. "He's got something in that right hand!"

  "You're telling me!" Monk circled warily.

  Ool was up on all fours now. He scuttled backward, spider fashion. Ham, circling swiftly, menaced the pale man with the tip of his sword cane.

  Ool, staring at the cane, saw that the tip was coated for some inches with a sticky-looking substance.

  "Poison?" he asked. His voice was still utterly flat.

  Ham, startled by the calmness of the question, started to say something, then reconsidered and was silent.

  "Shut up!" he snapped. "Show us the inside of that hand!" Ool hesitated. Then he turned the hand over, and both Monk and Ham bent over to examine it.

  There was nothing in Ool's hand.

  "You search him," Ham told Monk. "If he gets funny again, I'll tickle his ribs in a way he won't like."

  While Ham threatened with the sword cane, Monk went through Ool's pockets.

  "Nothing!" Monk said disgustedly. "No gun, no knife--wait a minute. What's this?"

  He pulled the strange goggles out of Ool's pocket and held them up to get better light on them.

  Ool stared blankly, but his right hand, held high above his head, started wavering like a butterfly's feeble fluttering when it feels the first warm rays of the morning sun on its wings.

  Monk pressed the goggles to his eyes.

  "Can't see through 'em," he growled, then addressed Ool:

  "What are these things?"

  Ool did not answer. His right hand kept up its weird shifting.

  Monk pocketed the goggles.

  "What did you come here for?" he asked Ool.

  Ool said nothing, but his right hand continued its butterfly fluttering.

  Ham watched the motion, frowned, then pressed the point of his sword against Ool's ribs. The chalk-faced assassin quieted his hand and kept it motionless.

  "We'll take him to Doc," Ham said.

  IN the center of New York City, the skyscrapers jut up like silver pines, each seemingly striving to overshadow the other; but there is one building taller and finer than all the rest, an astounding mass of polished granite and stainless steel towering nearly a hundred stories into the sky, a structure that is possibly man's proudest building triumph.

  The entire eighty-sixth floor of this building was occupied by the man whose name was lettered in modest bronze on a door:

  CLARK SAVAGE, JR.

  Monk and Ham took their captive to Doc Savage's headquarters by way of Doc's private speed elevator, a lift especially designed by Doc, one which swooped the eighty-six stories in about the time it took an ordinary express elevator to rise half a dozen floors. Almost invariably, a man, riding in the speed elevator for the first time, was forced to his knees by the shock of starting.

  Monk and Ham watched Ool amusedly when the elevator started. But Ool's knees gave slightly, and that was all. At no time was he in danger of losing his balance.

  "I told you he was tough," Monk grinned.

  "And funny-looking," Ham reminded. "Funnier looking than you."

  Monk ceased grinning. "Listen, shyster--one of these days I'm gonna make you put on a sword-swallowing act with that trick cane!"

  The pair glared at each other the rest of the way up. A stranger, from their manner, would have thought they were on the point of coming to blows, when, as a matter of truth, they were the best of friends.

  They stepped out on the eighty-sixth floor, crossed the corridor and passed into a large room, plentifully furnished with huge, comfortable chairs. A deep-piled Oriental rug lay underfoot. Between the two great windows stood a solid-looking table inlaid with ivory of exquisite workmanship.

  A short-wave radio receiving set squatted inconspicuously at the back of the table, and a voice was droning from the loud-speaker as the men entered with their captive. It was a police broadcast.

  "--all cars will be on the lookout for Dimiter Daikoff," the radio droned. "Daikoff is a very large man, with black hair and dark eyes. Officers will use care, since Daikoff is reported to be dangerous. Daikoff recently escaped from a Chicago jail and is reported to have been seen in New York--"

  Monk raised his voice over the drone of the radio.

  "Doc!" he yelled. "We found a guy on top of the waterfront plane hangar! Thought you'd want to talk to him! He must've been up to something!"

  Doc Savage came through a door into the room.

  PERHAPS the reaction of Ool to the appearance of Doc Savage was the thing which best indicated what a remarkable physical specimen the bronze man presented. Ool, who had murdered a man that evening without showing the slightest excitement, stared and let his jaw down slightly; his watercolored eyes became quite wide.

  Doc Savage was a giant of bronze. As he came through the door, his stature was tremendous, but when he was beyond the door and there was nothing by which to compare his size, he seemed to grow smaller in stature. That was because of the symmetry of his development; his corded muscles meshed under his skin in a manner which made their tremendous size scarcely noticeable, except for the tendons on his hands which were like cables.

  But the compelling thing about the bronze man was his eyes. Strange eyes, they were, like pools of flake-gold, hypnotically compelling in their power, stirred continuously with a weird life.

  Doc Savage was quietly dressed. The bronze of his hair was but little darker than the bronze of his skin.

  "What's this?" he asked.

  The bronze man had a voice of remarkable modulation, and his tone, while not loud, carried to the corners of the room.

  Monk explained what had happened.

  "The photo-electric alarms on the roof gave the guy away," he said.

  Then he went on to tell of the capture, of the weird way in which Ool moved his hand-the hand in which they had found nothing. He finished up by producing the goggles with the black lenses as thick as condensed milk cans.

  The bronze man eyed the goggles closely.

  There came into existence an eerie trilling sound. It welled up and pervaded the room, tuneful yet tuneless, mellow and so soft that it might have been the whispering note of an evening wind seeping through palm fronds, or the distant murmur of glacial ice on i
ts ponderous way to the sea.

  Monk and Ham watched curiously. They knew that sound. It was part of Doc Savage, although they could not see his lips move as he made it. The note was a small, unconscious thing which he did in moments of stress, or when surprised, or puzzled.

  Doc Savage asked Ool, "What are these?"

  Ool replied promptly, tonelessly.

  "Just a toy," he said. "They are of no value, no importance."

  There was nothing in his voice to show that be had killed Beery Hosner earlier in the night because Beery had taken the strange goggles with the intention of selling them to this same remarkable bronze man.

  DOC SAVAGE watched Ool intently.

  "Why were you prowling over our water-front hangar?" he asked.

  Ool smiled. It was the smile of a man not accustomed to showing emotion in that manner. The smile was slightly horrible.

  "I went to the hangar for the purpose of contacting you," Ool said.

  "Why did you not come to me here?" the bronze man asked.

  "You are a busy man-I know your reputation-I despaired of being granted an interview." Ool spoke by spurts.

  "The interview was an urgent matter?"

  "Tremendously urgent."

  "So you went prowling about the hangar, knowing it would be guarded, knowing you would be captured and brought to me?"

  "Precisely."

  Monk blurted: "Bunk! This lug was up to something."

  Doc turned the curious goggles over slowly in his cabled hands. Again came his low trilling sound, more felt than heard, flooding the room with its tremulous quality.

  Police broadcast continued to issue from the short-wave set, flooding the room with droning. "Calling all cars--calling all cars--"

  Then the announcement concerning the Chicago criminal came through again:

  "--Dimiter Daikoff wanted for murder. A big man, walks with a limp; black hair; small, dark eyes; a scar that starts from the lobe of his right ear and slants across his neck--"

  Doc Savage's compelling voice broke in upon the radio droning.

  "Who are you?" he questioned Ool.

  "Gray Forestay is my name," Ool said promptly. "In Mongolia my name, as nearly as can be translated, was Lleigh Foor Saath."

  Doc Savage's features remained undecipherable, but the flake-gold which seemed always alive in his eyes, swirled a bit faster.

  Monk muttered: "The yahoo is lying, Doc."

  Ool kept his flat-eyed stare centered upon Doc. "I am not lying," he said. "You are judging from my appearance that I am not a pure Mongol. You are correct. I am only part Chinese."

  He paused. "My unnatural appearance is not entirely the result of a mixture of bloods. It is the result of hardships more grueling than you would believe a man could endure, and live."

  "Go on," Doc said.

  Ool spoke monotonously. "I hesitate to speak lest I be disbelieved, and yet I know you to be a man of such mature intellect as to realize that there are strange things in the world, things so strange as to be utterly discredited by the conventional mind."

  Ool paused again. After fully half a minute, he continued:

  "You have heard of the Lenderthorn Expedition, lost in the pack ice north of Canada? I, Gray Forestay, was the only member of the expedition to escape. In recent months, as perhaps you have read in the news, I headed a rescue expedition to search for the lost men. We found that airships were utterly impractical in that region. We could not effect a landing upon the rough ice. But where an airship has failed, a dirigible would succeed."

  "So?"

  "You have a dirigible. That is one reason why I have come to you. There is also another reason.

  "And this other reason?" Doc queried.

  "You control, so I understand, what is perhaps the most superior aggregation of brains and brawn in the world. I need your help."

  Monk squinted at Doc. "Is this dope about a Lenderthorn Expedition straight stuff?"

  "It is," Doc nodded slowly. "It was in the newspapers, but not prominently so. Lenderthorn was not a famous man."

  Ool spoke suddenly, dramatically:

  "The Lenderthorn Expedition was not lost through natural causes, as was reported."

  Ool stared with his flat, water-colored eyes while he let an interval of silence pass.

  "We encountered what I can only call mysterious 'things,'" he went on. "These came in the night, and I know only that they were black, shapeless and utterly horrible, and that they carried off members of our expedition one at a time, until only I escaped."

  IV

  THE MOCCASIN DEATH

  OOL paused after making his unusual proclamation, and eyed Doc Savage and his two aides, as if endeavoring to learn how they took it.

  Monk and Ham registered an admixture of doubt and surprise. Doc Savage's regular bronze features portrayed no emotion at all.

  On the inlaid table, the radio droned on and on, the police announcer reciting descriptions of stolen cars, of lost persons, of petty crimes and emergency calls.

  "Emergency call to all cars," the loud-speaker droned unexpectedly. "Pickup order for a tall, slender man with very pale skin. Man wanted for the murder of Beery Hosner, a man with a police record. Killer's most pronounced characteristic is his short, very fine hair, which looks from a distance somewhat like the fur on a mole. Man was wearing dark suit and dark hat and..."

  Monk, watching Ool intently, breathed, "Blazes!" in soft comprehension.

  Ool began to sidle toward the door.

  Doc Savage ripped out a few words in a softly musical, but unintelligible, jargon-a language known only to himself and his aides. It was the language of ancient Maya, the speech of a civilization which had supposedly vanished from the earth centuries ago. Doc and his men used the tongue to communicate orders.

  Monk and Ham, reacting to the order in Mayan, rushed on Ool. Things happened quickly. One moment, Ool was under their finger tips. It seemed impossible that they could miss seizing him. But the next instant, Ool eluded them, his speed blinding, and Monk and Ham found themselves clutching each other.

  "You dumb fashion plate!" Monk choked.

  "Ape!" Ham retorted.

  Jerking around, Doc's aides charged Ool again. Carefully this time, with grim purpose. Doc was barring the door.

  "That guy is greased lightning," Monk muttered.

  Ool made a snarling sound and advanced on them. His right hand was weaving about in its peculiar weird fashion.

  "Look out!" Doc called sharply. "Get back!"

  Monk and Ham retreated, but in uncanny fashion Ool was within striking distance of them. His weird right hand floated out. There was no dilatory butterfly flutter about the motion this time.

  Straight at Ham, the hand drove. The hand was bent at the wrist, the bony fingers extended.

  Then, suddenly, Ool was off his feet, falling to the floor. Doc Savage had whipped out a foot to kick hard against the side of Ool's leg.

  Ool should have been stunned by the shock as he struck the floor. But the white-faced murderer bounced up immediately. His moccasinlike hand drifted out viciously.

  "Monk--get clear!" Doc Savage's voice was a crack 'of authority.

  Monk hurled his simian bulk to one side. Ool's hand went short'. The hand jerked back. It was like a snake's head recoiling. It struck again, at Ham.

  "Ham!" Doc Savage rapped. "Don't let him touch you!"

  Ham, dropping to the floor, evaded the hand. He rolled to one side, got his feet under him, whipped upright.

  Ool glared at them.

  "The goggles," he said flatly. "Throw me the black goggles or I will kill you all!"

  Doc Savage spoke in Mayan. His hands went into his pocket, came out and were clasped behind him. He took a single step backward. After that, he stood still. A surprising thing happened.

  The long, skeletal frame of Ool went down like a bag of bones collapsing. His fiat eyes blinked shut; the gaunt head flopped forward on its stringy neck; the legs bent at the knees, and be lay as still as if in death.

  DOC turned, walked over and hoisted a window. For a space of about forty seconds neither he nor his aides said anything, but simply stood and regarded each other.

  Monk went over and, with a foot, reached out exploringly and stirred a few fine particles of glass on the floor where Doc Savage had been standing when Ool went down. There were crystal--glinting particles, such as might have been made by the shattering of a very small electric light bulb.