Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (20 page)

TOGETHER, DOC, MONK and Ham made for the corridor. Monk hammered a tattoo on the elevator call button with his thumb. It seemed as if the cage would never arrive, but at last there came a
whirr
and a
click
and the door slid back.

The trio stepped aboard and waited in silence while the lift climbed.

Monk and Ham were uncharacteristically silent. The presence of the elevator operator might have had something to do with that.

Just as the cage toiled to the level of the sixth floor, up the elevator shaft rattled a racket that seemed out of place in the genteel hostelry.

Monk made a face. “Sounds like—!”

“Gunfire!” rapped out Doc Savage.

Just then the cage came to a halt, and the elevator boy threw it open.

Doc Savage stepped off, turned, and instructed his aides, “Go directly to the lobby and investigate this. I will check on Miss Falcon.”

The white-faced elevator operator grabbed the control and sent the cage whining downward.

Doc Savage moved to the left, glided up the hallway, seeking Janet Falcon’s room. It was not fear for his own safety that caused him to send his men down into the fray below. Rather, it was the concern that the gunfire had something to do with the woman. Better to check on her while he was on the same floor, than to have to turn back if gunmen were now rushing up the stairs.

Doc did not expect to be long. He went directly to the door, and applied his knuckles to the panel.

The hotel room door proved to be unlocked; it jarred open. This was immediately suspicious.

Cautiously, Doc Savage retreated and stepped off to one side.

From an inner pocket of his vest, he took a small folding grappling hook which he habitually carried. This was attached to a coil of silken line. At the bottom portion, the thin line had been tied into an open loop. The bronze man widened the loop somewhat, drew back further, and made an expert toss.

The miniature lasso caught the doorknob, and Doc gave the line a hard tug. This brought the door slamming shut again. It elicited another reaction, too.

Suddenly, splinters started flying from the door as large caliber bullets punched jagged holes in the thick wood.

Back of the door came a staccato rattle, one instantly recognizable to anyone who had dwelled in Chicago over the last decade or so. It was a Tommy gun in violent operation.

The sound it made resembled that of a riveting gun, and the so-called Chicago typewriter continued spewing lead until the entire door was perforated with splinter-edged holes.

It was not possible to count the number of shots being fired, but Doc Savage was familiar with the Thompson submachine gun. The sub-gun emptied its hundred-round drum in approximately ten seconds.

Doc counted the seconds. He did not bother with his watch. His sense of time was superb.

When the Thompson fell silent, the bronze man hit the door. There was not much left of the panel. His shoulder, striking in the center, caused the wood to come apart like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Biting gunsmoke wafted out.

The gunman attempting to remove the ammunition drum from his Thompson submachine gun looked up, and took in the awesome sight of the metallic human juggernaut charging at him. That was all he registered. His jaw fell open, the cigarette dangling from his lower lip hung precariously for a moment, then fell to the carpet.

A bronze fist struck him square in the center of the forehead. The knuckles actually left four deep indentations that were still present an hour later when the underworld torpedo was carried out on a stretcher.

Doc Savage had no time for the man, knowing he would be out for a considerable period of time. Instead, he flung from room to room, looking for any signs of Janet Falcon. He found none.

There was a sprinkling of blood drops here and there, suggesting recent violence. But they led in no particular direction.

Plunging back into the hallway, the bronze man sped for the elevator bank, saw by the indicator dials that they were all on different floors, and ran for the fire stairs.

Possibly no other man living could flash down the winding staircase faster than an elevator could climb its shaft and collect him. But that is what Doc Savage did.

When he reached the lobby, it was a mess.

Flowerpots had been shot to pieces, and the front desk man was cowering behind the desk, clutching his lapel gardenia as if it were a protective talisman.

“What year is this?” he moaned, an apparent reference to the era not long in the past when wild bullets flew in Chicago on a daily basis.

There was a man lying sprawled in an overstuffed chair where he had been reading the morning newspaper.

Perforations showed in the newspaper. Equivalent holes stood behind them in the man’s vest. These latter holes were leaking crimson. A cigar had fallen out of the unfortunate’s mouth, and was smoldering in his lap. The man did not seem to mind. The glassy stare in his open eyes indicated that he was beyond all earthly concerns.

Doc saw from a badge visible on his vest that this was the hotel detective. Whatever had happened, the unfortunate man had been caught unawares.

Doc flashed outside—just in time to see figures piling into a pair of matching touring cars. These machines were curtained.

Into the lead car being bundled by force was Janet Falcon. Someone had her by a knot of long hair and was trying to force the woman into the back seat. Seeing Doc Savage, her mouth flew open.

“Mr. Savage! This is about—”

A hand leapt up, seized her mouth and wrung it closed. But the green-eyed brunette was having none of that. She bit the kidnapper’s thumb.

The hand withdrew, and she tried again.

“Gorgoni—”
she shrilled.

The stubby barrel of a .38 revolver struck her a glancing blow on the head, and she collapsed into the back of the car.

Doc Savage had cleared half the distance between the lobby entrance and the first touring car when one of the kidnappers pulled a dark object out of his trim overcoat, then bit off a steel ring before tossing it in Doc Savage’s direction.

The bronze man did not need acute vision to know what that was. Doc had had hand grenades tossed at him more than once in the past.

Although he wore a bulletproof undergarment, it was not proof against grenade shrapnel, he knew.

Veering to the right, the bronze giant flung himself onto the hood of a waiting taxicab and continued on, to land hard on the other side, where he crouched behind a fendered front wheel.

The grenade let go with a bang and a flash—and the immediate vicinity was suddenly filled with flying objects battering themselves into whatever stood in their way. Glass broke, the side of the hotel was altered in many respects, but no one was injured.

Both touring cars charged off as Doc Savage leaped to his feet, flinging himself behind the wheel of the taxicab.

The driver was not present. The key was in the ignition. Doc gave it a twist. He got the motor going, endeavored to wrench the wheel around.

Turning mushily, the machine moaned away from the curb and refused to pick up much speed.

Doc Savage did not need to exit the vehicle and look to confirm that more than one tire had been punctured by shrapnel. But when he did step out, a quick examination told him that all four tires were beyond repair.

Doc looked around; there was not another vehicle at hand. So he began running.

He was soon following behind the second touring car. Through the rear window glass, he could see Monk and Ham’s faces turning toward him.

Monk tried to mouth something. It was so big that Doc Savage could easily lip-read his outcry.

“Call us dunces!” Monk was saying. “We walked right into it.”

Doc continued running, and was actually doing fairly well, given that the slushy streets inhibited the touring cars from making the best headway.

Then one of the car doors flung open and a man in a dark overcoat and olive green Trilby hat stepped out onto the running board, cradling a Thompson submachine gun.

The Tommy gunner was either very brave or very foolhardy. For he used both hands to manage the weapon, leaving no way to hold onto the careening vehicle. Perhaps he saw the same reckless stunt done in a gangster movie and thought he could do as well.

Grimacing, he squeezed down on the firing lever and the mechanism began chattering.

Once again, Doc Savage was forced to leap for cover. He barely made it. If he had worn a hat, it would certainly have been knocked off his head. As it was, the whistle and snap of bullets around his ears came uncomfortably close.

In mid-leap, Doc was suddenly sent into a somersault not of his making. Knocked off course, he fell against a fire plug, and lay there a moment, stunned.

The bronze man had not struck his head. But at least one slug had caught him in the back. The chain-mail undergarment he habitually wore had prevented the lead from biting into his flesh, but offered no protection against the stunning force of impact.

Doc lay on the slushy sidewalk, trying to get his breath organized.

TEARING up the street and turning the corner, the reckless Tommy-gun jockey got the last laugh, and swung back into the tonneau of the touring car.

His face was beaming under the downturned brim of his rather rakish Trilby hat.

As he sank into the cushions, he chortled, “I smoked him good, Patches.”

“That you did, Duke,” snickered the driver. “Doc Savage is bound for the morgue.”

In back, Monk and Ham gave out two very different groans.

Composing himself, Ham Brooks warned, “You will not be the first gangster to think he got the better of Doc Savage, only to learn differently.”

Duke Grogan began disassembling the smoking Tommy gun, placing the large sections into an open bass violin case at his feet. “Maybe,” he murmured. “Maybe not. But I don’t see him following me anymore. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”

Ham subsided. Then he asked, “The police were alerted by Doc Savage to meet your train and take you into custody. How did you elude them?”

“My boys telegraphed me that Doc Savage had blown into town. I put two and two together. So I got off in Albany, and chartered a plane. I figured that the harness bulls might try to nab me at the railroad station, anyway.”

Monk Mayfair growled, “Pretty slick, Duke.”

“Thanks, you dish-faced ape,” drawled Duke.

“Where are you takin’ us?”

Duke Grogan grinned cruelly. “Nowhere. Nowhere at all. Just going for a little ride, all of us. Get me?”

Ham Brooks said, “I thought the underworld custom of ‘the ride’ was a thing of the past.”

Grogan laughed nastily. “You’re thinking it went out of style, along with the speakeasy. But I’m a traditional sort of fella. I’m thinking we’ll keep it, strictly for old time’s sake. Now settle down. We got a ways to go before we get to nowhere.”

The gangster’s chuckle was maliciously cruel.

Chapter XIX

DEAD ENDS

A POLICEMAN, STANDING in the street near the Hotel Chicago, a bewildered expression on his red face, gave Doc Savage the bad news.

“I called the snatch into the station house, Mr. Savage. We got cars in hot pursuit, but no luck so far.”

Doc nodded. “Did you witness any of it?”

“Just two guys fleeing the scene,” said the cop. “They dived into a car and drove off.”

“Describe them.”

“One was some kind of a mug with a heavy growth of beard. Didn’t see the other bird’s face. He was average size. Both wore the kind of flashy duds you associate with gangsters.”

The officer did not know it, but he was describing Blackie and Blue, the abductors of Long Tom Roberts.

The patrolman looked at Doc and shifted uncomfortably. He had recognized the bronze man. Not only did he know Doc’s reputation, but he was also aware of an order posted in the precinct station, signed by the police superintendent himself, which directed that Doc Savage was to receive every cooperation, and no questions asked.

“Sure sorry I didn’t get a good look at him, Mr. Savage,” mumbled the cop. “They were gone before I could do a thing. You see, I heard some shots, and was coming down the street to investigate.”

Doc Savage glanced up the street, saying nothing.

The cop began again, “I’m sure sorry—”

“Phone your precinct station,” Doc directed. “Have a general pick-up order issued for a gangster named Duke Grogan.”

Doc gave a rapid, accurate description of Grogan—a word picture that would have astounded Grogan, who thought Doc had not so much as seen his features.

“Also have a general search started for my associates, Monk Mayfair, Ham Brooks and Long Tom Roberts,” Doc instructed.

“What do they look like?”

“Your superior officer will have their descriptions on file.”

Doc slipped into the hotel building. The policeman departed for a run to the nearest departmental telephone. He would have preferred to remain, having heard much of the remarkable detective ability attributed to this bronze man.

Had the cop looked on, he would not have been disappointed.

Doc Savage crossed the hotel lobby, which was swarming with police officers lately arrived.

The unconscious body of the machine gunner the bronze giant had kayoed up in Janet Falcon’s room was being conveyed out of the establishment on a stretcher, the livid knuckle marks of Doc’s metallic fist plainly etched on his noticeably bruised forehead.

The desk clerk was giving a full account of the events that had all but wrecked his sumptuous lobby.

“These men stepped off the elevator, and they were hustling a green-eyed woman through the lobby,” the jittery clerk was saying. “Anyone looking at her face could tell that she was being abducted. The hotel detective was sitting in that chair over there, reading a newspaper, and I signaled to him. The gunmen must have seen me give the high sign. Because before the hotel dick could finish rising from his chair, they shot him in cold blood.”

The poor detective in question was still sprawled on the easy chair, staring vaguely into space. Someone had thrown water in his lap to put out the smoldering cigar.