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

Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon

A Doc Savage Adventure

by Will Murray & Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson

cover by Joe DeVito

Altus Press • 2016

Glare of the Gorgon copyright © 2016 by Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

© 2016 Condé Nast. The Doc Savage character is © Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. d/b/a Condé Nast. “Doc Savage” is a registered trademark of Advance Magazine Publishers Inc. This book is published under license from Advance Magazine Publishers Inc.

Front cover image copyright © 2016 Joe DeVito. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration commissioned by Dave Smith.

No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by Matthew Moring/
Altus Press

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The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage

James Bama, Jerry Birenz, Gary A. Buckingham, Condé Nast, Jeff Deischer, Norma Dent, Dafydd Neal Dyar, Elizabeth Engel, Steve Holland, Dave McDonnell, Matthew Moring, Ray Riethmeier, Art Sippo, Doug Ellis, Howard Wright, The State Historical Society of Missouri, and last but not least, the Heirs of Norma Dent—James Valbracht, John Valbracht, Wayne Valbracht, Shirley Dungan and Doris Leimkuehler.

For Harold A. Davis,

Who came close to writing a version of this story back in 1936….

Chapter I

SHADOW OF THE GORGON

THE INDIVIDUAL WHO stepped off the Twentieth Century Limited and into the noisy din of Grand Central Terminal was trying to look inconspicuous.

He was doing a poor job of it. For one thing, he was bundled up in an ulster overcoat and gloves despite the mildness of the afternoon. His hat sat low on his broad skull and was squashed down hard, making him slightly lop-eared. This squashed effect was to conceal the man’s hair, which was a flaming red. The snap brim was also pulled low, throwing his features into shifting shadow.

Conceivably, there existed men in the world whose hair was redder than the man who pushed his way through the disembarking throng with the impatient air of one who was in a brisk rush. But they would be hard to find. For the traveler was no mere carrot top. His hair—as much as was visible at the back of his head between hat and upturned collar—burned like coppery fire. It was vivid.

No doubt the passing years would dim that fiery luster if the man lived into old age. But he was not destined to live. Not for very long.

Taking the passenger-choked stairs upward, the remarkable redhead glanced about often, looking over his shoulder from time to time. Not frequently enough to be obvious that he was seeking to determine if he were being shadowed. But that was what he was doing. The casual way he went about it made it look as if he was marveling at the magnificent modern cathedral that was Grand Central Station.

The man appeared to be under thirty years of age. What could be seen of his face showed that it was clean-shaven, indicating that he had availed himself of a barber aboard the overnight train. His eyes were a somber and serious blue.

Exiting the station, he found a taxicab and flung his only article of luggage—a Gladstone bag—into the back and then threw his athletic form in after it.

Clapping the door shut, the redhead rapped out his destination to the driver.

“Hotel Paramount.”

The driver was one of those who was good at recognizing accents.

“From Chicago?” he asked.

“Born on the West Side.”

“Got a cousin in Cicero. Sit tight. I’ll get you to your hotel in a jiffy.”

With a whine of machinery, the cab pulled into afternoon traffic.

“You’ll want to shuck the overcoat, buddy,” suggested the driver. “It’s not as cold here as it’s been back in the Windy City.”

Gaze shifting from window to window, the red-haired passenger seemed not to hear.

Piloting his hack, the driver surreptitiously observed his lost-in-thought fare. Studying passing scenery was typical of tourists new to Manhattan. But when the man twice flopped about in his seat to stare out the back window, the savvy cabbie understood that his passenger was watching to see if he was being followed.

The heavy ulster, upturned collar and downturned hat brim took on added significance. But the driver said nothing. It was not his business. Wrenching his curious eyes from the rear-vision mirror, he turned his full attention to navigating downtown traffic.

From time to time, he, too, looked about to see it they were being followed. He did not think so. So the hackman put that matter out of his mind.

Before long, the driver pulled in front of the Hotel Paramount, a bustling establishment catering to business travelers.

Eyeing his taximeter, the driver turned and said, “That’ll be one-fifty. And if it will ease your mind any, we weren’t followed here.”

In the act of producing his wallet, the passenger started.

“Was I that obvious?” he croaked.

“Nah, you weren’t. But I got eyes, and you look worried as hell.”

Handing over two greenbacks, the passenger said curtly, “Keep the change.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” grinned the cabbie. “Enjoy your stay.”

Slamming the car door behind him, the passenger disappeared into the hotel lobby without another word. The hackman flung his steed back into traffic and put the worried man out of his mind. If he had known what was to soon befall his close-mouthed fare, he would have doubled back and flung him bodily into the back seat and conveyed the redhead back to Grand Central, there to personally place him on the next train back to Chicago.

But the red-haired young man was destined never to see the Windy City again.

STRIDING up to the front desk, the redhead accosted a thin-featured clerk and announced himself. “Dobe Castle. I wired ahead for a room.”

The clerk consulted a book. Only after finding the name did he offer his welcoming smile.

“Yes, Mr. Castle. Please sign in.”

While the new arrival was signing the guest book, the clerk turned to the rabbit warren of cubbyholes where messages reposed until called for. Fishing around, he produced an envelope and laid it and a heavy brass room key on the counter as the guest was returning the fountain pen to its onyx holder.

“What’s this?” grunted the man who had signed his name, Dobe Castle.

People new to the big city were often ignorant of its modern ways. The clerk made a mistake; he thought the man was referring to the big brass key. He was not.

“It’s your room key, sir.”

“I don’t mean that. What’s this envelope?”

Blinking at the redhead’s apparent mental thickness, the clerk patiently explained. “It is the custom of this hotel to accept messages for expected guests.” He attempted not to sound condescending, and ended up coming across as annoyingly supercilious.

“I told no one that I was registering here,” he snapped impatiently. “As a matter of fact, I wired my reservation from the train en route.”

“The message is for Mr. Castle. That is you, is it not?”

As it later turned out, the name was an assumed one.

“Yes, of course,” replied the spurious Mr. Castle, taking key and envelope and stalking off to the elevator, broad shoulders hunched belligerently.

The elevator operator eyed his solitary passenger as he whisked him upward. There were several good reasons for this study. The first was the man’s heavy attire, and the fact that he continued to wear his hat indoors. The last was the brightness of the man’s hair. It was strikingly, memorably red.

Noticing the other’s eyes on him, the passenger grunted. “Do I fascinate you, or something?”

“No, sir,” returned the elevator boy. “I just never seen hair so red.”

“I’ve been hearing that refrain all my life,” grunted the redhead without pleasure.

The lift found the fifth floor and the operator threw the door open, whereupon the redhead stepped off in search of his room.

Finding it, he worked the lock with the brass key, and entered. The room was clean and presentable, not much more. Bright sunlight streaming through the high window made the bedclothes look newer than they actually were.

Tossing the Gladstone onto the bed, the supposed Dobe Castle stared at the envelope as if afraid to open it. When he did, he ripped the thing open at one end and shook out the message.

It was handwritten on hotel stationery. It said, “Call me. Urgent.”

The note was unsigned.

The hotel guest sat down and extracted a package of cigarettes. Lighting one slowly, he smoked in silence. Only after the cigarette had burned down to a nub did he pick up the telephone handset.

A pleasant female voice said, “Hotel operator.”

“This is Mr. Castle in Room Fifty-five,” he said gruffly. “I wish to place a long distance call to Chicago. Person to Person to Miss Janet Falcon.”

“Go ahead with the number, please.”

The number was given and the wait was not long.

“Your party is on the line. Go ahead.”

An anxious female voice asked, “Ned?”

“Listen closely, Janet. I just checked into the Hotel Paramount. There was a message waiting for me. It was unsigned, but it instructed me to call you.”

“Oh, Ned. I sent no message. You didn’t tell me where you would be staying.”

“Exactly,” the redhead bit out. “I made my decision on the train and wired ahead, thinking this precaution would protect me.”

“Oh! That can only mean—”

“—that someone on the train eavesdropped on me. Someone in the know.”

“Ned, they know where you are staying!”

“And if they know that, they may know that I’ve come to town to enlist—him!”

The woman’s voice grew pleading. “You mustn’t delay. You must reach Doc Savage. Tell him everything! But get him to come to Chicago.”

“If I have to knock Doc Savage out and carry him piggyback, I’ll get him to Chicago,” he grated out. “Count on that.”

“Ned, you can’t remain in that hotel! It’s not safe!”

“Don’t I know it? Listen, we’d better not stay on the line. Someone may be listening in. I’ll call you when I have Mr. Savage’s answer.”

“If anyone can untangle this frightful mess, he can,” the woman said. “Please be careful, Ned. Please come home safely.” Her voice was sobbing now.

“I will, Janet. I promise.”

Hanging up, the hotel guest sank into a chair and broke out another cigarette. He smoked furiously, lighting a fresh cigarette by applying the glowing tip of the one about to expire to its replacement.

Sunlight filling the room made the crisp hair atop his head resemble a steady bonfire. Catching sight of his crowning glory in a decorative wall mirror, the redhead frowned deeply.

“I’ve got to do something about this red flag I’m carrying around,” he bit out, the harsh words mingling with a long plume of tobacco smoke.

Reaching for his hat, the fire-haired one stood up to go.

In that moment, he froze.

For in the room, a nasty sound erupted.

At first, it did not seem like a human voice. A beast might have made the utterance.

Growling, the abrupt noise changed into a low, sibilant hiss. The hiss multiplied, becoming a frightful nest of noise, as of snakes fighting.

The awful sound seemed to untangle itself, and out of that miscellaneous agglomeration of nasal noises words began to form.

“Ned… Gamble….”

There seemed no source for the uncanny sound. No person or being who gave it voice.

“Ned… Gamble… your cause is known… your intentions clear. We hear you. We see you. You cannot escape us….”

“Who is speaking?” demanded the one so addressed.

“You will never reach Doc Savage, Ned Gamble….”

The weird voice wavered, became distorted. It possessed a peculiar quality that made it impossible to determine if a man or woman was speaking. Too, it evinced a disembodied quality, as if the vocalizations were emanating from a different sphere than mundane earth.

“Won’t I?” Cigarette smoke squirted out with those challenging words. “You don’t scare me, whoever you are.”

Flinging himself to the closet door, the man addressed as Ned Gamble threw it open. It proved to be empty.

There was a midget radio on the dresser. Thinking the voice might somehow be piped in through that receiver, Gamble tried turning it off. But it was already off. Angrily, he yanked on the power cord. A blue spark spat as the plug jumped loose from the wall socket.

The voice continued, unaffected.

“Return to Chicago, Gamble. Return at once!”

“Never!”

Eyes skating about the hotel room, Ned Gamble sought the source of that warning voice.

The inner hotel room door bulged at its upper half. Gamble remembered that the other side had an identical bulge. These were the two halves of a modern convenience for busy travelers. Hatches. Each hatch was hinged. By this means a guest could place his suit coat in the inner side for retrieval by a bellhop, who could open the outer hatch from the corridor, taking the article of clothing to be laundered overnight and returning it unobtrusively by morning.