Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (18 page)

Both men exchanged quick glances, as if to see who wished to reply first.

Dr. Rockwell did. “Malcolm McLean,” he began, “is from a good family here in Chicago. His background is impeccable and his work, while not well known, is showing great promise.”

“Along what lines is McLean working?” queried the bronze man.

Marvin Lucian Linden answered that one. “McLean was interested in rare minerals and elements, their properties and applications. His father owned several coal mines south of here. Consequently, he has always been keen to explore what minerals have been dug out—outside of common coal, naturally.”

Steady-eyed Warner Rockwell laughed explosively. “If I did not know McLean suffered from chemical poisoning, I would suspect his gray complexion was the result of spending too much time in the family mines.”

Doc Savage absorbed this information without a flicker disturbing the continuous whirling of the golden flakes in his eyes.

“We were speaking with McLean earlier,” he advised, “and he is believed to have come here. Have either of you seen him recently?”

Both men shook their heads firmly.

“I have not,” snapped Linden.

“Nor have I,” echoed Dr. Rockwell.

“What is your interest in McLean, if I may inquire?” wondered Marvin Lucian Linden.

“We are interested in anyone who might know anything about Myer Sim’s last hours,” replied Doc.

“I imagine the police are already investigating this,” said Dr. Rockwell.

“Our investigation is running parallel with theirs,” stated Doc. “Are either of you acquainted with Myer Sim’s personal secretary, Janet Falcon?”

The two men attempted to reply at once, and their words blurred together.

Marvin Lucian Linden nodded in Dr. Rockwell’s direction deferentially.

The medical man allowed, “Only in passing.”

“The same is true with me,” said Linden. “I have encountered Miss Falcon without forming any close association.”

The line of questioning did not seem to be getting anywhere. Monk and Ham became fidgety, having nothing to contribute.

Noticing this, Doc directed, “Endeavor to locate McLean. No doubt he is among the crowd.”

“Righto, Doc,” said Ham, snapping up his sword cane.

Monk added, “I’ll look for him in the chemistry section; he’s probably there.”

The two aides departed, going their separate ways.

Doc Savage resumed his interrogation. “The persons in charge of this exposition may have something important to reveal,” he stated.

Dr. Rockwell and Marvin Lucian Linden looked momentarily blank.

Doc explained, “In order to arrange for his new invention to be displayed, prior accommodations must have been made. The persons in charge of the exposition may know some of the details.”

Dr. Rockwell said, “That is sound thinking, Savage.” His steady regard never left Doc Savage’s face.

“In that case,” Linden offered, “you will want to speak with Mr. Lubeck. He is the exhibition organizer.”

“Thank you,” said Doc. “I may have more questions for you later.”

With that, the bronze man took an abrupt departure.

Melting into the push of people like a hot knife through butter, Doc Savage shouldered his way through the crowded hall, his great presence causing people to step aside as he approached, while simultaneously arresting their attention. It was an uncanny sight. Normally, celebrity-seekers are drawn toward the object of their interest. Crowds typically gather, inhibiting progress.

The human Hercules in bronze captured the attention of all who beheld him. There was something awe-inspiring about his gigantic presence which caused people to press closer, yet also maintain a respectful distance.

Thus, no one asked for Doc’s autograph as he moved purposefully through the busy assemblage.

Doc Savage made quiet inquiries and was directed to a small office where Mr. Lubeck held forth. He was a roly-poly fellow with damp blond hair.

Lubeck was only too eager to accommodate the bronze man.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “Poor Myer Sim’s invention was trucked here two days ago, in anticipation of being put on display. Of course, we could not undertake that, since the man has passed on. Especially now, having no instructions to the contrary.”

“Where is this invention?” asked Doc.

“It was taken off the truck and stored in the garage. I can show it to you.”

“Please do so,” invited Doc.

The two men took a handy elevator to the basement garage, and walked through the ranks of parked machines. The bronze man noticed that most of the empty parking spaces were now occupied. Visitors were continually arriving for the scientific exposition.

One section of the garage was reserved for hotel employees and managers. Thus it was safe from prying eyes. Lubeck was waddling toward that quadrant.

Lubeck was saying, “We concealed it from view with a tarpaulin, so that it appeared to be simply another motor vehicle parked in an out-of-the-way spot.”

“Myer Sim’s invention was an automobile?” asked Doc.

“Not exactly. But you will soon see for yourself.”

That statement was, on the face of it, an honest one. But very swiftly it proved to be overly optimistic.

The garage lights were arrayed in banks nestled among the concrete ceiling joists. As the two men walked toward the far reaches of the garage, these lamps went out.

This did not bring utter darkness. But it did create a moment in which all was rather dim. The garage lacked windows, but there were far doors that were open and some light bled downward.

Somewhere in the near distance, a powerful engine roared into life.

Then something shiny as aluminum came hurtling through the twilight dimness in their direction.

The thing showed no headlights, but suddenly a single ray of light snapped into life.

Lubeck was immediately blinded by the blazing illumination. Doc Savage, throwing one hand before his face, managed to fend the worst of it.

Whatever the thing was, it came hurtling in their direction, like a low-slung cyclops running on all fours.

There was no question that the juggernaut was bearing down upon them.

Lubeck stood, momentarily paralyzed, directly in its path.

Doc Savage moved like a bronze flash, seizing the plump man and carrying him out of harm’s way.

The metal monster screeched around the corner, and went leaping for the ramp that led up to the street.

Doc sat Lubeck down on the hood of a nearby auto and demanded, “Was that Sim’s invention?”

Lubeck had a handkerchief out and was mopping his suddenly moist features, “Yes, yes, it was. Someone appears to have stolen it! This is terrible.”

“Alert the police. I will attempt pursuit.”

Without another word, the bronze giant flashed for his rented sedan.

Getting behind the wheel, he urged the motor into life.

Immediately, Doc Savage was charging up the ramp, his metallic features determined.

Chapter XVII

ANOTHER STONE BRAIN

DOC SAVAGE HAD selected his rental sedan for its efficiency of engine, as well as its inconspicuousness. It was not by any means the equal of his personal autos with their supercharged motors, but it was a sound stock car, one of the best on the market.

Easing up onto the ramp, the bronze giant twisted the steering wheel and spun into traffic. His foot depressed the gas-feed. The car shot ahead, lunging. The motor gave forth roaring horsepower.

Through a typical Chicago congestion of automobile traffic and winding streetcars, Doc could see the fleeing vehicle darting into scrambling motor traffic.

The automobile—or whatever it was—was remarkably narrow, and wove in between dodging autos. Drivers, startled by the strange thing slipping and sliding between them, careened in the slushy sleet.

One machine went up on a curb and knocked over a mailbox. Another lunged into a cigar stand with predictable results.

Doc leaned on his horn in an effort to part traffic before him. In that, he was only partially successful.

The vehicle was the burnished silver of a duralumin aircraft. It had some of the qualities of a Bluebird racer in that it was low-slung and not very wide. Vanes resembling stubby wings were visible on either side of the careening bullet of a car. They seemed to run the length of the streamlined vehicle.

Seen from behind, there seemed room for no more than a single driver in the careening car.

Jockeying through traffic expertly, Doc Savage began to overhaul the lean machine.

A taxicab, coming up a side street, cut in front of him, forcing the bronze man to brake and slew his machine.

This cost him some time.

Working around the scattered taxi, Doc got his sedan straightened out, and picked up speed again.

At that point, the chase was truly on. The strange vehicle had the advantage of being narrow and nimble, being not much wider than a motorcycle sidecar.

For his part, Doc Savage was handicapped by his snow chains. While they improved the traction of his tires, they hardly aided in the sedan’s performance as the speedometer crept higher and higher.

Still, by dint of blasting his car horn, and expert manipulation of the heavy machine, the bronze man once again began to overhaul the strange bullet car.

The driver did not appear to have a rear-vision mirror of any sort. In fact, the back window was circular, rather resembling a porthole.

More than once, the driver turned his head to look out that circular pane, and no doubt became aware of the pursuing sedan.

As seen through the safety glass, the features of the driver were indistinct, but they confirmed what Doc Savage had already suspected. The weird motorcar carried a solitary passenger in a single seat. Otherwise, the driver’s face would not be centered in the round rear window.

Doc Savage managed to keep the odd automobile in sight, but soon discovered that the drag of his clanking tire chains were not going to permit him to overhaul his quarry.

The fleeing driver did not seem to appreciate that fact. For, abruptly, perhaps thinking he was not going to escape, he wrenched his steering mechanism hard to the left, and suddenly flung himself into opposing traffic, cutting in front of a clanging streetcar.

As the queer automobile veered away, Doc Savage got a better glimpse of the driver.

It was corpse-faced Malcolm McLean!

Doc Savage was forced to continue along until he encountered a cut-through. Then, as luck would have it, a motorcycle policeman came popping into view.

Abruptly, Doc reversed course, and cut the officer off.

The bluecoat dismounted his steel steed with his face turning crimson and his teeth baring in something that was definitely not a smile.

“What’s the idea!” he roared.

Doc Savage stepped out, and immediately the full extent of his height as well as the metallic bronze of his features became apparent.

The cop was saying, “I’m gonna run you in for that,” when he suddenly swallowed his words. One leather-gloved hand popped a quick salute.

“If you aren’t Doc Savage, I’m the Queen of Spain.”

Doc strode over and said, “Pursuing a suspicious person. I will need to borrow your motorcycle. You may take my rental sedan.”

Even in Chicago, it was a highly irregular request, but the motorcycle officer took only a moment to absorb it. He politely waved Doc onto the motorcycle’s worn leather seat, offering his goggles.

“Please take the sedan to the Hotel Chicago,” requested the bronze man.

The kick-starter banged into life, and Doc went charging off.

There were two reasons for this switch. He did not wish to drive a full-sized automobile against traffic, which would tempt catastrophe. Free of his snow chains, the bronze giant could now make better time.

Two, the nimbleness of the motorcycle was certain to match, if not outperform, that of the peculiar bullet machine.

Doc went chasing after the thing, veering and sliding around oncoming traffic. To a great degree, the queer machine cleared the way for him. All Doc had to do was shoot between separating cars, some of which were sliding out of control as they frantically dodged the hurtling aluminum juggernaut.

Weaving in and out again, the silver car took dangerous risks, and once swapped ends, but managed to get itself oriented again and resumed its mad, reckless path.

The chase soon approached the waterfront, and the cold-looking waters of Lake Michigan.

Doc Savage’s flake-gold eyes, protected by the officer’s borrowed goggles continued to scan the way ahead as if to somehow divine the destination of the careening torpedo of a thing.

Passing before an imposing lakefront hostelry named the Drake, the machine continued along. Without warning, the driver wrenched the wheel hard, and was suddenly crashing across oncoming traffic, heading for a sandy beach. There was a sidewalk fronting the beach, and the weird wheeled contraption vaulted this to plop onto the sand. Narrow tires dug in, gaining traction. The thing lurched forward, toward the lapping lake waters.

It seemed as if the beach sand would inevitably drag the driver’s progress to a halt.

Instead, the laboring vehicle moaned along the beach, charging for open water. As Doc Savage watched, a peculiar extension began to rise from the narrow roof. This proved to be a pipe. The tube was bent at the top, the bend angling forward.

The contrivance looked for all the world like a periscope.

So it was that Doc Savage was not greatly surprised when the narrow silver vehicle plunged into the frigid water and kept going.

The bronze man followed, wrestling the motorcycle in its wake, but was forced to brake to a halt when he hit beach sand.

Dismounting, Doc plunged after the thing, which, seen from the rear, possessed some of the qualities of a silver fish.

Miraculously, the car kept going; water closed over the aluminum hull and diving vanes, and the periscope pipe continued to lift upward, as if being cranked higher the deeper the vehicle proceeded.

A wave created by the fleeing machine spread out as the body of the car began to submerge. A disturbance churned the water at the thing’s stern, and it shot ahead. Quickly, the roofline was awash. It vanished and the periscope-like pipe was all that was visible.