Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (12 page)

Waco rubbed his jaw dubiously. “I could get into trouble. What’s in it for me?”

Duke looked injured. “For doing what? Sitting in another guy’s Pullman compartment? You can just say you got confused.”

“What’s in it for me?” repeated Waco.

Duke growled unhappily. “If you’re going to be that way, two hundred smackers.”

Waco returned a wise grin. “Three hundred, to make it worth my trouble.”

Duke Grogan didn’t hesitate. Removing a gold money clip from a pocket, he extracted three crisp new one hundred dollar bills and handed them over. The two men swapped tickets in silence.

As he passed Duke Grogan, Ed Waco gave the brim of his dark hat a tug in salute and said, “Nice runnin’ into you, Duke.”

“Same here, brother,” returned Grogan.

The two men moved on to their respective private compartments, took their seats, closed their doors, and awaited the departure hour, which was imminent.

Not long after that, there was a commotion.

A conductor came barreling down the aisle, looking for a specific compartment. One that was reserved in the name of Duquesne Grogan, which was Duke’s legal name.

This conductor had been shown the picture of Duke Grogan, as had other train employees, but since there was only one picture, it could not be carried around by all the searchers. So they were forced to rely on their memories.

When he arrived at the private department, the conductor didn’t bother to knock first. Instead, he threw the sliding door open, and barged in.

“You Mr. Grogan?” he barked.

“Not me. My name’s Ed Waco.”

“Then what are you doing in this private compartment reserved for Mr. Grogan?”

“Am I in the wrong spot?” asked Ed Waco, reaching over to his overcoat draped over the seat next to him.

“Don’t give me that malarkey,” snapped the ticket taker. “I seen your picture, and you are the spitting image of Grogan. No more backtalk. You come with me.”

“Hold the phone, you railroad bull. I got identification in my wallet that says I’m Ed Waco. Not any Duke Grogan.”

That last remark was a mistake. The conductor grinned and said, “Never said your first name, Duke.”

Ed Waco knew he was sunk then. But he had another ace up his sleeve. “My driver’s license will prove that I’m Ed Waco.”

“That may be so,” grunted the conductor. “But you’ll be doing your proving in the police room at the station. You’re getting off this train.”

Ed Waco did not like the sound of that. He decided to bolt.

Unfortunately for him, the only way out of the cramped compartment was through the one door. And the conductor had grown up in a tough section of Brooklyn.

ED WACO attempted to shove his way out, but the conductor uncorked a meaty fist that connected hard, then drove him backward. The crook’s backbone collided with the compartment table, over which he sprawled.

The conductor leaped in, took Waco by the coat lapels, jerking him to his feet.

A brief tussle ensued. Ed Waco was not any sort of lamb. He had fists and knew how to use them. Alas for Ed Waco’s immediate future, his first swing was wild and the conductor’s horny-knuckled response was decisive.

Waco went flying backward again, this time striking the back of his head against the table’s edge. That did for Ed Waco. He was out like a light. Pleased with this outcome, the conductor once again reached down. This time he threw Waco over his shoulder the way a fireman carries a helpless victim out of a burning building.

The railroad man made quite a spectacle as he carried Ed Waco off the train and down to the platform.

Duke Grogan, safely ensconced in Ed Waco’s private compartment, heard some of this altercation. Easing his sliding door open a trifle, he pasted one wary eyeball to the opening slit and peered out.

When he saw the unconscious Waco being borne off the train, he grimaced and said, “Looks like I made a smooth move. Too bad about Ed. But he wasn’t the brightest boy ever hatched.”

With that, Duke Grogan ran the sliding door shut, and settled back to await the rattling commotion that would signify the Twentieth Century Limited was leaving the station.

Word reached Doc Savage of the capture in the police room of Grand Central Station. The spot was where New York’s finest would bring various pickpockets and other malefactors, whom they collected in the course of policing the busy railroad depot, for questioning.

The burly conductor came in with an air of triumph and a great big grin rounding off his square features.

“Found him right away,” he announced to all. “He didn’t come that easy, but I persuaded him. Where do you want him?”

Doc Savage said, “The table will do.”

There was a long table that was used for interrogations, and the big conductor clucked, “With pleasure.”

Dropping Waco on the table, he all but slammed the body on its back.

Doc Savage, Monk Mayfair and Ham Brooks gathered around the exposed face.

Doc took one look and pronounced, “This is not Duke Grogan.”

“Well, he was squatting in Grogan’s private compartment. Who else would he be if he’s not Duke?”

Doc studied the face briefly and said, “This is Ed Waco, a notorious police character.”

The conductor scratched his head and muttered, “He was the only mug in the Pullman.”

Doc Savage said, “There are only two possibilities here. Grogan convinced Ed Waco to take the train to Chicago to throw us off the scent. Or the two exchanged compartments.”

The Grand Central Terminal station master held a list of the passengers who had booked tickets and private compartments. He went down the list. “There is a Mr. Edward Waco on this list.”

“In that case,” Doc said quickly, “Duke Grogan may yet be on the train.”

The station master eyed the clock on the wall, which was approaching the top of the hour. With a distinct click, the minute hand touched the numeral 12.

“If that’s so, he’s pulling out of the station now,” he moaned.

The station master looked aghast. One could tell from his slack expression that he would rather lose a pint of blood than to have to stop the train, whose reputation for punctuality was unrivaled.

Doc Savage looked thoughtful for a minute.

“Duke Grogan’s clever substitution may indicate that he knows we are on his trail, but it hardly seems likely. Perhaps it would be the wisest course of action to let him take the train all the way to Chicago.”

The station master looked relieved, but he was responsible enough to ask, “How is that wiser than stopping the train?”

“If the train is halted, Duke may do something rash. And a gun fray on a crowded passenger train is not a pleasant prospect.”

“You can say that again!” snapped the station master.

Doc continued, “If the train is allowed to proceed all the way to its destination, Grogan will be convinced that he is in the clear. He will not expect us to be waiting for him when the train pulls into LaSalle Street Station.”

“How are you going to beat the train? It’s one of the fastest in the nation.”

“By private aircraft,” stated the bronze man.

Ham Brooks asked, “Do we have time to question this man when he wakes up?”

Doc shook his head, saying, “Not if we merely wait.”

He removed from a pocket a flat case which contained a hypodermic needle and a small vial. He selected the syringe, charged it from the vial.

Rolling up one of Waco’s sleeves, Doc Savage introduced the contents of the syringe, saying, “This stimulant should bring him around quickly.”

It did. Waco was soon snapping his eyes, flapping his hands. Abruptly, he pushed himself up into a seated position.

The first person Ed Waco laid eyes upon was the unfamiliar station master. The face meant nothing to him. Then he saw Ham Brooks and Monk Mayfair, and a vague light of recognition leapt into his uneasy orbs.

Doc Savage spoke up, asking, “We are interested in knowing what you were doing in Duke Grogan’s private compartment?”

Ed Waco’s eyes veered to the speaker, and drank in the imposing form of Doc Savage. He recognized the big bronze man. Every crook knew him. And feared him, if they were smart.

“I ain’t done nothin’!” he bleated.

“We did not say that you did,” replied Doc calmly, his flake-gold eyes steady, like the penetrating orbs of a bird of prey.

There was something about the fixed expression of the bronze man, combined with his impassive voice, which unnerved the small-time crook. Waco had heard stories of companions in perfidy who had run afoul of Doc Savage, and had never been seen again. All the underworld heard such stories. No one could explain them.

For a second time, Ed Waco decided to bolt.

Sizing up the men surrounding him, he took sartorially foppish Ham Brooks to be the easiest to bowl over. He was correct in that assumption.

Ed Waco shot off the table top and drove one shoulder into Ham Brooks’ immaculate chest.

The dapper attorney went sprawling, and Waco dashed past him.

Growling, Monk Mayfair unlimbered his supermachine pistol from his underarm holster.

Ed Waco lunged for the door, seized the knob, and wrenched at it. That was as far as he got.

Squeezing one eye shut, Monk lined up the lean snout, and fired two shots.

The slugs struck Ed Waco in one calf.

Normally, the effect of being felled by a supermachine pistol was to bring about instant unconsciousness.

Squirming about on the floor, Ham Brooks caught a glimpse of the man’s retreating feet, and expected him to go down. The fleeing crook did not. Waco kept going, possibly stimulated by fear of the bronze man of mystery.

He got out of the room, and flung himself into the crowd outside.

Ed Waco immediately began hopping on one foot. The hopping did not take him very far. He soon stumbled, falling to the ground, and grasped the calf that had been shot as if it were on fire.

“What the hell!” he cried. “What’s got into my leg?”

Monk grinned broadly. “It worked!”

Scrambling to his feet, Ham Brooks asked, “What do you mean? It clearly did
not
work. The mercy bullet should have knocked him out by now.”

“Oh, I didn’t hit ’im with a mercy slug,” returned Monk airily. “But with a new bullet of my own invention.”

Monk and Ham quickly surrounded Ed Waco, who was struggling to keep his left leg still. The limb seemed to be in intolerable agony.

“What was in that bullet?” demanded Ham. “Rattlesnake venom?”

“Naw,” beamed Monk. “It was a hollow shell with the chemical preparation that once it gets into a man’s muscles does a job on them. I call it my Charlie horse bullet.”

On the ground, Ed Waco squirmed and moaned. ”That’s what I got! A Charlie horse! A damn Charlie horse. Make it go away.”

Monk told him, “It’ll go away on its own. You just gotta wait it out.”

Doc Savage gathered up Ed Waco and brought him back into the interrogation room, this time planting him in a wooden chair. The bronze giant held him down with both hands pressing on the miserable crook’s shoulders.

“The story of you and Duke Grogan on the train, please,” requested Doc.

Between grimaces, Ed Waco, in the parlance of the underworld, spilled his guts.

“I happened to bump into Duke. He made me a deal. Swap rooms and I got three hundred simoleons in the bargain. That’s all. I hadn’t seen him in a couple years before I ran into him. I swear.”

The station master said, “We have nothing to hold him on, if that’s the truth.”

“Nonetheless,” advised Doc Savage. “I will take custody of this man.”

“Fine by me. I know you have the rank of inspector with the police.”

Ed Waco heard these words, and sheer terror gripped him. He began to tremble all over, not just in his afflicted leg.

“Look at that guy!” chortled the station master. “You just mention you’re taking him into custody, and he’s falling apart like he’s being sent to the electric chair.”

“This man has many crimes to his name,” said Ham Brooks. “Doc will make sure that he pays for them.”

Hearing that, Ed Waco simply fainted.

The train conductor looked thunderstruck. “Imagine that! A hard-boiled egg like him, fainting at the sound of justice.”

The man’s amazement could be understood and forgiven. He had no inkling that Doc Savage was not about to turn Ed Waco over to the police for commonplace justice. Doc Savage had other plans for Ed Waco.

For the bronze man maintained a secret institution hidden in upstate New York. To his private sanitorium, Doc consigned criminals who fell into his hands, and whom he did not wish to turn over to the police.

There, a trained staff subjected the captured crooks to the strangest rehabilitation regimen ever imagined. First, their memories were removed through delicate brain surgery. Then they were taught a useful trade and to hate crime in all forms.

Once this stringent moral and spiritual renovation was completed, the former felons matriculated into the normal world. As a graduation gift, they were provided new identities—hence they were termed “graduates” of Doc’s “crime college.”

Only Doc, his men and the staff—and Inspector Hardboiled Humbolt of the New York City Police—knew of the existence of the facility. It was too radical a solution to the problem of the career criminal to make public.

Within the hour, a private ambulance would convey Ed Waco to this facility.

Doc Savage and his men would not accompany the nervous crook; they had a different destination in mind.

Chapter XI

CHICAGO BOUND

MONK AND HAM were having an argument. As usual.

“A Charlie horse bullet!” sneered Ham. “Only a brainless anthropoid such as yourself could come up with such a harebrained idea.”

“There’s nothing harebrained about it,” growled Monk. “When a guy’s muscles get overtired, certain lactic acids build up, creatin’ that Charlie horse crampin’ that you sometimes get. I just whipped up a batch of sodium lactate, and poured some into our mercy-bullet capsules. It sure done the trick.”

“Nonsense!” jeered Ham. “It’s ridiculous. You’ll make a laughingstock of us yet.”