Doc Savage - The Monsters Part 5

Doc saw the face behind the gun -- the visage of the man who had killed Carl MacBride.

A split second before the gun discharged, Doc veered left.. The bullet chopped shrilly at the s.p.a.ce he had vacated. Seeming not to slacken his pace at a", the bronze man gained a sheltering corner of the house.

FROM THE top of the wall came an abrupt, almost deafening moan. Monk and Ham had put their supermachine pistols in action.

The rifleman ducked from view so quickly, that he was unhit.

Monk and Ham hastily made the grappling hook fast and slid down the silk cord. They used care not to touch the charged copper cables. Monk had his pet pig under an arm.

Ham came up, sword cane unsheathed. Monk lumbered on his heels. The pig, Habeas, trailing Monk, was as excited as the simian chemist.

"We'd better get inside," Doc said crisply. " That fellow may try to use his rifle from another window."

The bronze man reached a window and gave the sash a rap with his palm. Gla.s.s fell with a brittle clanging. Doc crawled in through the opening.

Ham and Monk kept at his heels. The homely chemist grabbed Habeas by an ear and hoisted him inside.

The room in which they found themselves was large, apparently a smoking room. The chairs were upholstered in leather; the furniture was ma.s.sive, dark. A thick layer of dust reposed over everything.

Cigarette stubs were scattered about with great carelessness for the well-being of the furniture. Not for a long time had the place received a cleaning.

Doc yanked open a door. It gave into a hallway. This, too, needed cleaning.

The men went down the hallway, making no attempt at silence, except when pausing to use their ears.

But no sound did they hear; nor did they see any one.

They came to the room from which the rifle had been fired. An empty, high-powered cartridge sh.e.l.l lay on the floor. It reeked of burned powder.

The rifleman had fled.

A scuffling sound led the trio toward the upstairs regions. They mounted stairs which were carpeted.

From the carpet nap their feet knocked up little puffs of dust. It had been long uncleaned. At the top they found a corridor lined with many doors. Pa.s.sages branched off from it.

"You'd think this place was a hotel," Monk breathed.

To their left a door opened. The bright metal snout of a pistol poked out.

A determined feminine voice said, "Don't move!"

Chapter 8. THE EX-LION-TAMER.

THE YOUNG woman was tall. A plain traveling frock set off the enticing curves of her form almost as effectively as would have an evening dress.

Her hair was her really striking feature. Young women with attractive figures were fairly common. Not so hair such as this. It was the shade of steel. And the young woman's eyes were as metallic as her hair.

Doc acted while her command still echoed. His hand drifted with blinding speed to Ham's sword cane.

Surprise had slackened the dapper lawyer's clutch on the weapon. Doc swept it from his hand and flung it, hilt first.

The hilt hit the girl's gun hand. She squealed and dropped her gun, then sought to recover it.

Lunging, Doc scooped up the gun before she got it. His fingers banded the young woman's wrist, not tightly enough to inflict pain, but with a firmness which prevented her flight.

The girl threw back her head and shrieked. There was splintering terror in her voice.

"I'll do it!" she wailed. "I'll do it!"

That she was genuinely frightened, Doc could tell by her trembling. Her firm muscles quivered under his clutch.

"Where's the fellow who shot at us?" he demanded. The girl looked surprised. Her struggling ceased.

"What -- what -- " She seemed bewildered. "You mean -- you're not one of them?"

"Who are you?" Doc asked her.

The girl stared distrustfully. She seemed a bit more at ease when Doc released her wrists.

"My name is Jean Morris," she explained.

The name meant nothing to Doc. This was the first time he had heard it "I'm a circus lion-tamer by profession," Jean Morris elaborated. "My last job was with the Atlas Congress of Wonders. It went broke in Michigan."

"Not at Trapper Lake?" Doc asked sharply.

"How did you know?"

"Do you know a man named Carl MacBride?" Doc queried, instead of answering her.

The girl's burnished-steel head shook a negative. "No."

Monk now addressed Habeas Corpus. "Go hunt 'em, Ha. beas. Hunt 'em up!"

The pig trotted off.

The girl stared after the pig, surprised at the unlovely porker's prompt obedience.

"I got 'im trained until he's better'n a bloodhound," Monk grinned.

Doc entered the room from which the young woman had accosted them. It was a bedroom, bleakly furnished. The mattress was missing from the bed; there were no curtains at the windows. Long disuse was apparent everywhere.

Doc crossed to a windowly in need of washing. Looking out, he found he could keep an eye on the gate.

Monk stationed himself in the door, apparently waiting for the return of his pig, Habeas Corpus.

"How did you get here?" Doc asked the young woman.

Her eyes snapped. "In answer to an ad in a circus trade journal -- an ad offering a job to any one who could speak the language of the pinhead tribe of African natives."

"You speak it?"

"I do -- a little. There were three pinheads with the Atlas Congress of Wonders. They were pitiful little fellows. They used to follow me around like three black dogs. I learned to speak some of their language."

Doc Savage's features indicated neither belief nor disbelief. He asked, "When did you come to New York?"

"To-day, by plane. I had been directed by telegram." She thrust her fingers into a tiny pocket in her frock and brought out a folded yellow paper. "Here it is" -- handing it to Doc.

Doc accepted the wire, and read the contents.

J MORRIS CARE OF GUIDE'S HOTEL TRAPPER LAKE MICHIGAN.

JOB YOURS STOP CATCH PLANE IMMEDIATELY FOR NEW YORK AND COME TO MY.

HOME ON HILL ROAD NORTH OF CITY GRISWOLD ROCK.

"Does Griswold Rock own this place?" asked Doc.

"A taxi driver told me he did," the girl replied. Monk had been listening for the return of Habeas. Now he glanced at the girl.

"That name -- Griswold Rock -- sounds kinda familiar," he said.

"Griswold Rock is president and chief stockholder of a small railroad which serves northern Michigan,"

Doc said. "He is well known."

"There are several men here," said the girl. "I don't think I saw Griswold Rock, though."

"You said there were three pinheads with the Atlas Congress of Wonders," Doc reminded the young woman. "What became of them?"

"They disappeared. They wandered into the country, and that was the last heard of them."

"How long ago?"

"Almost a year."

"Then the circus did not go broke recently?"

"Oh, no, it went on the rocks months ago. I have been working in Trapper Lake as a waitress."

With a slow gesture, Doc Savage indicated the high wall and the mysterious net of copper hawsers.

"Have you any idea about the meaning of all this?"

"No," the girl shuddered, "the place gives me the jitters."

"SOMETHING MUST'VE happened to Habeas Corpus," Monk groaned.

"You three stay here," Doc directed. Then he was gone down the stairway into the lower regions of the house.

Reaching the library, he glanced about. The furnishings, while old-fashioned, were not cheap. Condition here, as elsewhere in the house, indicated months of cleaning neglected.

The library was empty of life.

Doc crossed to a ponderous desk which' was something of an antique. Letters littered the top of it. More letters, obviously containing advertising matter, had been flung upon the floor.

Doc ran through the epistles. All were addressed to the same individual: "Griswold Rock."

Doc read several missives. They pertained to routine operation of the railroad with which Griswold Rock was a.s.sociated.

One thing was evident from the text of the missives. Griswold Rock had been operating the railroad from seclusion. It seemed that he had not visited the offices during recent months, but had handled all business by letter, telephone and telegraph. Just why this somewhat peculiar condition should exist, the communications gave no hint, Doc left the library and continued his hunt.

Monk's pet pig should have returned long ago. The fact that Habeas had not appeared was ominous.

Doc Savage examined a kitchen, a dining room, and a large pantry without finding any one. He did,however, note an enormous food supply. This indicated some tremendous eaters were around.

Doc dropped to all fours and pressed an ear to the floor. The wood brought faint noises from somewhere in the house. But they were too vague to be located.

Glancing from a window, Doc noted ruts which seemed to be auto truck tracks, swinging from the great barred gate and terminating against one wing of the house. This particular wing was windowless, little more than a great wooden box.

The peculiarity of the construction was interesting.

Doc Savage worked in that direction. His intention was to investigate the box of a room.

A door barred his progress. He tested it with his shoulder. Judging from its solidity, the panel must be armored on the other side with sheet steel.

There was no peering through the keyhole. It was covered on the opposite side by a swinging shield. This refused to move when Doc probed it with a slender metal instrument which he extracted from a pocket case.

Doc worked at the lock with his metal probe. He threw the tumblers, but the door still resisted. It must be barred on the inside.

Doc moved to a window, lifted it, poked his head out and surveyed the surroundings. He was under no delusions. Death was aprowl somewhere in this fantastic place, for all of the quietness in the air.

Doc saw no one. He clambered outside and, circling, he examined the wing of the house which was like a great box. At the end he found ponderous doors, closed tightly. Nowhere was there a crack to permit inspection of whatever was inside.

Doc tried his giant muscles against the panels. The wood only groaned.

The sun was low. The huge copper net overhead made a barred shadow pattern on the concrete walls, and on the sides and roof of the house.

Inside the house, Habeas Corpus began squealing terribly.