Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (35 page)

Doc Savage said, “This might be for the best, after all.”

“How’s that?” wondered Monk.

“No doubt Shine will go directly to his home. We will go there and return the favor.”

Ham blinked. “What favor?”

In recognition of the fact that Janet Falcon could hear every word spoken, the bronze man switched to speaking Mayan, the almost unknown language which they used amongst themselves when they did not wish to be understood by outsiders.

“The favor of kidnapping you and Monk,” replied Doc. “We are going to kidnap him ourselves and spirit Joe Shine to our college, where we intended to consign him in the first place.”

Monk grinned. “While we’re at it, we should look up that crooked judge and add him to the pile.”

“Time enough for that later. When Long Tom returns, we will go after Joe Shine.”

But when Long Tom Roberts showed up a minute later, he was as excited as a human spark plug.

“Doc! Take a look at this headline. It’s about Malcolm McLean.”

“They found his body?” suggested Ham.

“Body? According to this, he’s not even dead!”

Chapter XXXIV

DEAD MAN ALIVE

THE HEADLINE TOOK their breath away:

MEDICO RESTORES DEAD MAN TO LIFE!

Word of a medical miracle rocked Chicago this morning when it was announced that Malcolm McLean, a chemist who was mysteriously struck down at the scientific exposition yesterday and transported to Mercy General Hospital, has been brought back to the world of the living.

The miracle man behind this modern medical wonder is the esteemed Dr. Warner Rockwell. Dr. Rockwell was one of the first on the scene when the corpse was discovered yesterday. The quick-witted medico requested that McLean’s body be taken to Mercy General rather than the morgue, as is custom when individuals are pronounced dead.

By all accounts, Malcolm McLean had lost his life. Arriving at Mercy General, the supposedly deceased man was subjected to a battery of medical tests, including a fluoroscopic examination which showed that his brain had been turned into a solid mass. It is at this writing unknown what had struck down McLean, but the agency was so malign that not only was McLean’s brain petrified, but his attached eyeballs had also taken on the appearance of stone.

“During my initial examination,” Rockwell told reporters this morning, “I had assumed that the patient’s brain had been petrified in some strange manner. Close examination revealed that it had actually been calcified, which is an entirely different matter. By whatever means, a deposit of calcium had built up very rapidly in the man’s brain and I reasoned that, if I acted swiftly, it might be possible to reverse the process. Since the patient no longer evinced a heartbeat or respiration, it seemed that there would be no compelling reason not to undertake the procedure I had in mind. The exact details I must keep to myself. Within hours, the process had begun to reverse itself. By early evening, Malcolm McLean had been restored to normalcy.”

The article went on to delineate the fact that the procedure had been so effectual that McLean had been released from the hospital by early evening, to all appearances perfectly normal and healthy once more. This was against the advice of Dr. Rockwell, but McLean appeared outwardly unaffected by his ordeal, and desired nothing more than to return to his home and hearth.

Dr. Warner Rockwell was being hailed as a hero. There was no doubt but that he had pulled off a Lazarusian resurrection against all odds.

There was passing mention that the noted scientist and surgeon known publicly as Doc Savage had also been present at the discovery of the stricken man, but had not contributed to the medical resurrection.

Long Tom had brought up several different Chicago newspapers and distributed them among the others. So each of Doc’s men had his own sheet to peruse.

Except for an understandable amount of sensationalism, every report agreed in the basic particulars. Malcolm McLean, who in life resembled a walking corpse, had been restored to life, still looking like a freakish animated cadaver, but no longer a victim of the uncanny power that petrified human brains.

Ham Brooks was the first to speak. “I don’t believe a word of this!”

Monk Mayfair was raging, “It can’t be done! You can’t calcify a man’s brain and then decalcify it, any more than you could leach the accumulated minerals out of a fossil and end up with a livin’ organism. It just ain’t possible.”

Doc Savage stated, “Every newspaper seems to agree that this has been done.”

Long Tom said disgustedly, “I’ll believe that Malcolm McLean is alive when I punch him in the snoot—which I intend to do at my earliest opportunity. I still owe him for braining me with that lamp.”

Turning to the others, Doc Savage said, “This changes our plans. Monk, you will accompany me to the hospital. Ham, you and Long Tom go to Joe Shine’s residence, and seize him if you can. Bring him to the airport and lock him in our plane until we can make arrangements for his transportation.”

They held their conference in a room apart from Janet Falcon, and now Doc Savage went out to her and said, “You may repair to your hotel room. But be advised that you should remain there until you receive permission to return home.”

“Why am I being held prisoner like this?”

“Because your life is clearly in danger. And it is my duty to protect you.”

That seemed to mollify the anxious woman. Without another word, she took her departure. The fact that she did not slam the door behind her indicated that she was in a better humor than previously.

After the door shut, Ham Brooks remarked, “Her behavior is sometimes reasonable, but more often not.”

“You can’t trust a dame!” observed Long Tom. This was not considered to be an objective opinion, for Long Tom Roberts was no fan of the fairer sex. “Besides, wasn’t Medusa a woman?”

All eyes went to Doc Savage.

Doc said, “Miss Falcon’s responses to our questions have not been satisfactory. Her story has holes. At the mine, she definitely stated that the escaping gasses were not ordinary. Nor was she forthcoming about her cryptic reference to Gorgoni.”

Ham asked, “You suspect her, then?”

“When we return,” stated the bronze man firmly, “we will see how her story holds up under truth serum.”

For the first time, Doc revealed the vision he had encountered in the coal mine, before the tremendous cave-in.

“For the love of Mike!” yelled Monk. “A livin’ Medusa in the modern age!”

Ham marveled, “That sounds positively unreal.”

“By all appearances,” said Doc, “it
was
unreal. Regrettably, that apparition appears to have perished in the mine collapse, along with the last of Duke Grogan’s gang.”

“Sounds like this Gorgon problem is about wrapped up,” remarked Monk.

Doc shook his head somberly. “Hardly. For I spied something in the slurry impoundment pool that greatly resembled the body of Malcolm McLean.”

Ham frowned. “If you discovered McLean’s body, then that man has died a second time.”

“So it appears,” said Doc cryptically. “But appearances, as you know, are often deceiving.”

With that, the bronze man led them out of the hotel suite and down to the street, where they claimed separate machines. Ham took the rental sedan while Doc hailed a taxicab. The vehicles promptly whirled them off in different directions.

THERE was a police cordon around Mercy General Hospital when the hack deposited Doc Savage and Monk Mayfair a block away.

“I can’t let you off any closer,” apologized the cabbie, “on account of the cops.”

“We understand,” said the bronze man, paying the driver.

Doc and Monk approached on foot, and Doc Savage, towering over the crowd, soon saw the reason for the commotion.

Fully all of Chicago’s Fourth Estate were clamoring to get into the hospital lobby, and the reason was evident from their excited shouting.

“We just wanna talk to Dr. Rockwell!” one yelled.

The police sergeant retorted hotly, “He’s already given the press a statement. There will be no more interviews for today. Now kindly be on your way.”

The assembled Chicago reporters were having none of it. They looked as if they were prepared to lay siege to the hospital building until they got their way.

Looking around for another way in, one of their number spotted Doc Savage’s metallic features looming over all.

“Hey!” he shouted. “That sure looks like Doc Savage. Maybe he’ll give us a statement.”

The press was soon surging in the bronze man’s direction, and the police could do nothing about it, since their efforts were concentrated on keeping the reporters out of the hospital.

Growling a warning, Monk Mayfair stepped before the bronze man, looking like a football player preparing to block the opposing team by dint of might and menace.

Doc Savage stated quietly, “If we are to enter that hospital, the press cannot be avoided.”

“I don’t mind knocking a few blocks off,” returned the apish chemist, “just so we don’t get tied up all day.”

Instead of replying, the bronze giant stepped around his aide, and stood for questions. They came in a wordy flurry.

“Mr. Savage, what do you think of Dr. Rockwell’s miracle cure?”

“Until there is an opportunity to confer with Dr. Rockwell,” stated Doc, “comment on that subject would be inadvisable.”

Another demanded, “What do you think is petrifying all these people’s brains?”

“That is unknown,” replied Doc.

“Is that why you came to Chicago?”

“We do not speak publicly about our investigations,” Doc told the man.

Reporters were swiftly scribbling in their notepads, and a few flashbulbs popped, capturing perfect likenesses of Doc Savage’s impassive features.

The bronze man disliked publicity, and did not care to have his photograph taken. Under the circumstances, there was nothing he could do about it—if he intended to enter the hospital.

“What about that scrape you got into with Duke Grogan’s gang yesterday,” one scribe pressed. “What can you tell us about that?”

“The police will no doubt be offering an official statement later today,” Doc related.

Monk Mayfair spoke up in his squeaky voice, saying, “That’s enough for today. Make way, you dog-eared mutts. Doc Savage has business in that hospital.”

The reporters were stubborn, and they pressed forward with more questions. One was Jack Swangle, the reporter who had broadcast Doc’s arrival in Chicago, resulting in unnecessary complications.

“Looks like Dr. Rockwell stole a march on you, Savage,” he suggested meaningly.

That was not a question, but it was cleverly calculated to elicit a quotable reply.

The bronze man said nothing, however. Monk began using his long arms to pry open a hole in the press of reporters through which the bronze giant could navigate.

Hats began falling off heads and smoldering cigarettes dropped out of slack mouths.

“Hey!” a scribe shouted. “Watch who you’re shoving there!”

“Make a hole,” Monk growled. “We’re comin’ through if I have to step on faces.”

The burly chemist’s unusually long arms began flinging reporters about, and he took care to step on such toes as strayed near him.

Between pushing, shoving and stepping on tender corns, Monk created a passage through which Doc Savage moved easily.

The police stepped in at that point and started using their nightsticks to prod close-pressing reporters into giving the bronze giant a wide berth.

In this way, Doc Savage and Monk finally reached the hospital entrance and entered the lobby, which was at the moment forbidden to all reporters, regardless of their standing.

At the nurse’s station, Doc Savage asked, “Where is Dr. Rockwell at this moment?”

“In his office,” the bronze man was told.

“And the patient, Malcolm McLean?”

“The patient was released last night, at his own insistence.”

“That is rather unusual for a man who came close to death, is it not?” queried Doc.

“Very unusual,” the nurse agreed. “But Dr. Rockwell gave him a clean bill of health, and there was no medical reason to keep him overnight.”

Ham made a skeptical noise in his throat, but said nothing.

Dr. Rockwell’s office was on the fourth floor, the helpful nurse imparted to Doc Savage.

“Thank you,” said the bronze man, moving in the direction of the elevators.

Neither he nor Monk spoke until the elevator closed. It was a modern elevator, having its own push-button and no operator.

“A guy who had his brains turned to stone doesn’t just up and walk out of the hospital after treatment,” commented the apish chemist.

Doc Savage said nothing. His flake-gold eyes flickered speculatively.

The elevator soon let them off and they found their way to Dr. Rockwell’s office.

“Who is it?” asked Rockwell gruffly, after Doc knocked twice.

“Doc Savage. May we enter?”

Dr. Rockwell appeared at the door, throwing it open. He regarded the bronze man and Monk with his unnerving eyes, which seemed never to blink.

Mouth warping with humor, the medico remarked dryly, “I imagine you’ve received word of McLean’s rather miraculous revival.”

“We are interested in your findings,” stated Doc.

Rockwell stepped aside to allow his visitors to enter and gestured toward two empty seats arrayed before his desk.

Taking the chair behind his own desk, Rockwell steepled his fingers and said in a measured tone, “I do not know what I am prepared to share with you, Dr. Savage. The significance of what I’ve accomplished is only just now sinking in.”

Doc said, “You yourself pronounced McLean dead less than twenty-four hours ago.”

Rockwell nodded. “So he appeared. But I had a hunch. I do not have to tell you, Savage, about rare conditions such as catalepsy, or suspended animation.”

Doc nodded. “In unusual cases, persons have been revived after being immersed in frozen ponds, or even have come alive on the autopsy table, after having been pronounced expired.”