Doc Savage - The Man Who Shook The Earth Part 9

As Doc approached the warehouse, a weird thing happened. The strange mechanism turned the valves on!

"Just like the doors have been opening when you come near them," Monk yelled excitedly.

IT works from exactly the same thing which causes the doors to open," Doc admitted. "How is it done?" Monk questioned.

From his vest pocket Doc extracted a small metal case.

"The explanation of this concerns certain scientific phenomena which are rather vague," said the bronze man.

"For instance, you know that radium gives off emanations which cause the leaves of an electroscope to fly apart when brought near."

"Sure," said Long Tom, "that's elementary."

"Right, Sherlock," Doc said dryly. "But it's not quite so generally known that other substances give out emanations. The exact nature of some of these radiations is not understood, but their effects are known.

Take cosmic rays, for instance. I have been doing some experimenting along those lines."

Doc replaced the tiny case in his watch pocket.

"As part of the experiment, I rigged up the device to open doors," he went on. "It consists simply of a bit of radiating substance in my pocket. The emanations travel through cloth, and even through metal. The receiver is a screen sensitive to the emanations in the same way that a photo-electric cell is sensitive to light.

"Whenever the emanation strikes the screen, it causes a relay to close. This actuates the electrical and mechanical device that opens the door."

"So that was how it was done," Monk grunted.

"Holy cow!" exclaimed Renny. "That device was highly complicated, yet it was on this gas trap. That shows the fellow who set it is smart."

"To be candid," Doc said, "it shows he is among the most learned scientific men in the world. I'm telling you, brothers, it would take a genius to solve the riddle of those opening doors. It must have been done by watching me. The apparatus shows signs of having been thrown together very hastily-perhaps in the last two or three hours."

"The girl in the gold dress!" Monk exclaimed suddenly. "She's not here?"

"No," said Doc. "But she has been here. On the floor upstairs, I found several tiny gold scales from her gown."

Monk started for the stairs, as if to see the golden scales himself.

"Hold on!" Doc called. "You fellows ran off and left John Acre. You'd better gallop back and watch him-all four of you."

Reluctantly, Monk returned from the stairs. "What are you going to do, Doc?"

"Merely look the place over more thoroughly," Doc replied. "I have a hunch that it'll be a waste of time. Those fellows were too clever to leave tracks-if they were smart enough to see through my door-opening device.

But I'm going to look anyway."

The four men nodded in concert and started for the door.

"Question John Acre," Doc called after them. "There's a recording device in one of the planes. Use that to get a record of all he says. Later, I'll play it back."

Again the bronze man's aids signified understanding. They stepped out into the raging storm.

RENNY and the others exchanged little conversation during the walk back to Doc's airplane hangar. Each time they opened their mouths, the bitter wind seemed like a frozen hand that grabbed the words and pushed them far back into their chests.John Acre was sitting on a box when they entered the warehouse.

"Feeling better?" Renny boomed.

John Acre made no answer.

Monk and Ham sprang forward.

"Blazes!" Monk groaned. "The guy's had a setback! He's worse than he has ever been."

The Interior proportions of the warehouse were vast. For half its length, the structure was built out over the Hudson River. Its concrete floor slanted down into the waters of the river.

Arrayed inside was a striking a.s.sortment of planes. These ships ranged from a gigantic tri-motored ship, with exquisite stream-lining, to a grotesque little true-gyro, which, if necessary, could descend and take off from the top of a kitchen table.

Long Tom went to one of the planes. He withdrew the recording device which Doc had mentioned. This was similar to the one which monitored the phone wires in Doc's office. It consisted of a supersensitive parabolic microphone, amplifier, and a needle device which recorded the voice lines on a wax cylinder.

Working speedily, Long Tom set up the contrivance. He placed the microphone close to the weirdly inanimate John Acre.

Long Tom had barely started the apparatus recording when there was an ugly interruption. A stuttering roar burst loose outside. It was echoed by a loud sputtering and ripping from the walls of the warehouse-hangar-a noise made by bullets trying to get in.

A machine gun! Doc's men had heard the staccato syncopation of such weapons too often not to recognize them.

"Blazes!" Monk howled. "They're gettin' reckless!"

The homely chemist sprinted for the door. The other three followed him. John Acre was forgotten.

Long Tom doused all lights inside the hangar. Monk stood well clear as he wrenched the door open. It was well that he did. A storm of machine-gun lead ripped through the aperture.

Two gigantic bullfiddles seemed to cut loose with a great moan inside the hangar. Renny and Long Tom had unlimbered Doc's remarkable little superfiring machine guns. The mercy bullets poured out in almost solid lead-and-chemical rods.

The clatter of rapid fire outside promptly ceased. Then a lone shot sounded. A moment later there was a second shot. The last one was more distant.

"They can't take it!" Renny thundered. "They're beating it!"

All four men charged out in pursuit of their enemies. Three or four times, bullets snapped at them. In the murk and the blizzard, accurate shooting was impossible. The bullets did nothing but chip bricks and knock out windows in the storage and factory district.

Renny and the others put on speed, trying to catch the gun flashes. It was like chasing a will-o'-the-wisp.

Their foes were diving into alleys, legging it up side streets. They faded away.

"Let's get back to the warehouse," Renny said. "I don't like this. That attack was a little too reckless. Maybe they're up to some trick."

They returned to the warehouse-hangar. Entering, they came to a halt.

John Acre was gone!

IN front of the box upon which he had been seated was an ugly scarlet pool. From the pool a trail of red drops led out through the door.

The four men followed the scattering red. It was an ominous ending to which it led. Outdoors, it was not alone the ruby drops which guided them. They found footprints-prints of many men dragging another. The procession ended at the water.

"They threw him in!" Renny muttered.

Ham held his sword cane far behind so as to balance himself, and leaned over to look down into the water.

There was a concrete wall here. The tide was moving the water. The blizzard was dashing the waves high.

"It may takes weeks to recover his body," Ham said slowly.

They turned their attention again to the footprints. The evidence was plain, the tracks indicating that the men had dragged John Acre to the river and flung him in.

It was a glum-faced group of four which confronted Doc when he arrived some minutes later.

Renny recited what had happened. His great voice was considerably less booming than usual.

"What burns me up is this-they decoyed us away to get at John Acre," he finished.

Doc spoke no word of condemnation. His aids, in their haste to mix in a fight, had committed an indiscretion in leaving John Acre alone; but there was no use in lecturing them now. They would not make the same mistake again.

"Well, let's look at the tracks," Doc suggested.

He went outdoors. The fast-falling snow had obliterated many of the signs. The scarlet drops had frozen, and were covered by the white flakes.

Renny, accompanying Doc, boomed: "I guess there ain't no doubt about him bein' dead."

Doc replied nothing. He returned to the hangar interior, and indicated the sound-recording apparatus.

"Was that going when you were decoyed outside?" he asked.

Long Tom looked at the contrivance. He nodded. "Sure. It was running then, and it's been running every since."

Doc went to the device, removed the wax cylinders, and began playing them back.

There was no amplifier on the playback apparatus here at the warehouse-hangar. Because of that, the others could not hear what had been recorded. They watched Doc's face. But the bronze lineaments told them nothing.

When Doc had finished listening, he gathered the records carefully together, padded them with paper, and made a package of them. This he handed to Monk.

"Don't drop them and break them," he said. "Lock them up in the office safe. They're valuable evidence of what occurred."

Monk nodded, took the records, and eyed Doc curiously.

"What did you find back at the place where they set the death trap?" he asked.

"A newspaper," Doc said.

"Huh?"

"A newspaper from Antof.a.gasta, Chile," Doc elaborated. He allowed time for this to sink in, then added more information.

"I found a telephone in the building," he continued. "I called the purser of the steamer Junio, and found out there John Acre got aboard."

"Where did he?" Monk demanded.

"At Antof.a.gasta, Chile."

Shortly afterward, the group repaired to the gigantic building which housed Doc's headquarters. A night-hawk newsboy had taken shelter from the blizzard in the lobby. He looked up hopefully when Doc and his men entered.

"Buy a paper, fellers?" he pleaded. "Read about the earthquake close to Antof.a.gasta, Chile."

Chapter VIII. IN TERROR'S SHADOW.

NEWSPAPERS, in widely separated parts of the globe differ somewhat from each other. They are printed in various languages. Some are made up largely of pictures. Others are read backward. Reporters for the New York papers telephone their news to the city desk; in j.a.pan they quite often use carrier pigeons.

However, nearly all the papers have one thing in common. They have to go out and compete for circulation.

Putting noisy newsboys on the street is one way of doing this.

At about the moment the newsboy in New York was accosting Doc Savage, another newsboy in far-off Antof.a.gasta, Chile, was trying to make a sale.

Un papel, caballero?" he asked hopefully.

This was the Spanish equivalent of: "A paper, sir?"

His prospect was a wiry man. The fellow had a great sharp nose, which came down over his chin like a beak. His fingers were notable, also; they were so long and supple as to be remindful of strings dangling from his knuckles.

South Americans use the same word for "No," that Americans use. However, they say it several times in rapid succession.

No, no, no, no, no!" said the hook-nosed man emphatically.

"All about the earthquake which killed Senor Lapiz, the multimillionaire nitrate man!" persisted the newsboy in Spanish.

The customer scowled and walked on. He looked like an ill-tempered hawk.

The vender of newspapers started to follow him. A friend, however, grasped his arm and stopped him.