Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (45 page)

“I’m going to have a talk with the editor of this rag,” promised the police official. “All this will do is frighten Chicago blind. Aren’t our citizens scared enough?”

During this exchange, Monk wondered, “Who was that bozo?”

The investigating detective offered, “That’s Raymond ‘Shivering’ Ellis. A local torpedo. They call him ‘Shivering’ because he’s a hophead. He’s always got the shakes. Looks like that headline set him off. Oh well, another stiff for the Black Maria. No one’s going to miss that piece of human wreckage.”

Having composed himself, Doc Savage discovered that he needn’t bother accosting the reporters gathered up the street; they were rushing in his direction.

Monk, Ham and Long Tom formed a cordon around the bronze giant to fend off the overeager scribes. But the trio could not fend off their shouted insistent questions.

“Savage, what do you know about the Medusa murders?”

“Are you the Medusa?”

“If you aren’t, who is?”

“Why is it everywhere you go, criminals disappear mysteriously?”

This last question came uncomfortably close to one of the bronze man’s deepest secrets, so he deflected it with a response.

“The investigation is continuing, but the master brain behind it has yet to be unearthed.”

This brought another rash of questions, and Doc Savage suddenly strode forward, grabbed hold of the reporter named Jack Swangle, and took him aside.

“You witnessed the delivery of coal last night? Did you notice the features of the delivery man?”

“What does that have to do with the price of beer?” Swangle whined.

“Answer the question,” said Doc firmly.

“A tall fella, kind of pale, wore a cap over his head. Not much about him stood out. I barely paid attention. I was too busy jawing with Big Spots.”

“What did the truck legend say?”

“Vermilion Coal,” replied the puzzled scribe.

That was the concern which regularly delivered to the Bender household. This meant that the person delivering the coal knew the routine of the house. The bronze man had noticed that the coal in the bin stood heaping full, indicating an excess of heating supply.

Extracting a sheet of paper from a pocket and unfolding it, Doc showed the reporter the sketch he had made of the mystery man who resembled Malcolm McLean, asking, “Is this the man in question?”

Swangle said instantly, “Yeah, that’s the fella.”

Doc Savage released the fellow, saying, “Thank you.”

Returning to the police official, he imparted, “My men and I will be going now. We will keep you apprised of any progress in our investigation.”

The Superintendent nodded gratefully. “And we will do the same. Don’t you worry about these scare headlines. You have our full confidence.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, climbing behind the wheel of the sedan.

They had not driven far when Ham Brooks burst forth with an opinion.

“Everything so far has pointed to Malcolm McLean. His family history in coal mines, his friendship with Janet Falcon, not to mention the fact that he is a chemist prone to doing strange experiments. Yet indications are that McLean is no more.”

“I never trusted that gray-faced ghoul,” added Long Tom.

For a change, Monk Mayfair was the voice of reason, possibly because by habit he was disinclined to agree with Ham Brooks.

“I say we don’t jump to any conclusions until all the facts are in.”

“How much more evidence do you need?” demanded Ham.

Monk’s pig eyes narrowed. His brain worked fast.

“Motive. We need a motive.”

“Motive? Why it’s—”

The elegant attorney fell silent. His jaw snapped shut—a certain indication that he was stumped. Producing a silken handkerchief, he fell to polishing the rich ebony sheen of his cane.

“What
is
the motive?” grumbled Long Tom. “It sure beats me to work one out.”

Doc drove on, offering no comment, his bronze mask of a face resolute.

Chapter XLII

THREE GORGONS?

HAM BROOKS, MONK MAYFAIR and Long Tom Roberts were still arguing over the mystery of the Medusa murders when they entered Doc Savage’s hotel suite.

Long Tom was complaining querulously, “Maybe there isn’t a motive. Maybe McLean was just crazy in the head. Going through life looking like a walking cadaver might do that to a man.”

“Makes sense,” Monk said, taking out his portable chemical laboratory and setting it up on a table.

“Nonsense!” sniffed Ham. “All criminal activities require motives. This one is too sophisticated to be merely the work of an insane person. McLean, if he was the Medusa, must have a hidden motivation.”

“None of it makes sense,” complained Long Tom. “The victims have ranged from Ned Gamble to assorted hoodlums and other riffraff. How does it all tie in?”

Doc Savage was silent as he moved about the room; he was searching for signs that the suite had been invaded again. After a single turn around the suite, he concluded that it had remained unmolested.

Joining Monk, the bronze man began working with the portable chemical laboratory, saying, “First, we will examine the burnt coal and ashes scooped from Big Spots Bender’s furnace, then the smoky residue on his walls. Finally, we will test the tobacco leaves Long Tom collected at Joe Shine’s residence.”

They settled down to work. Since Ham and Long Tom were not versed in chemical matters, they took their argument into the adjoining room. It had not been an argument at the start, but the fussy lawyer managed to turn it into one.

“I have just realized that Malcolm McLean cannot possibly be the culprit,” Ham snapped.

“That was your opinion at the start!” returned Long Tom peevishly.

“McLean could not have struck down the elevator boy, for he was already dead. Doc found his body in the impoundment at the coal mine. For I am now convinced that the gray cadaver was he.”

“Then who delivered the bad coal?” Long Tom retorted.

Ham twirled his elegant stick while he considered the question.

“There appear to be two identical or nearly identical Malcolm McLeans. Perhaps he has a twin brother.”

“Aw, you’ve been watching too many murder mystery movies. That gag doesn’t happen in real life.”

In the other room, test tubes clinked and chemicals bubbled and sizzled as Doc and Monk subjected the various items of evidence to a succession of scientific tests.

The apish chemist could be heard muttering, “Tough break we don’t have your full laboratory set-up here, Doc. We’d get to the bottom of this much quicker.”

“We will have to work with what we have,” advised Doc. “We are not so severely handicapped that we cannot find answers.”

They continued working while Long Tom and Ham batted theories back-and-forth as if playing tennis at high speed.

“Perhaps,” Ham Brooks was saying, “Duke Grogan was the Medusa.”

“You know that can’t be!” Long Tom said harshly. “Grogan was killed by Janet Falcon, we think. The killings continued long after that.”

“Perhaps after Duke’s death, one of his surviving gang, or some other party, continued carrying on his reign of terror in his stead.”

Long Tom threw up his hands. “What’s the motive? There’s got to be a motive. It’s not money. Nobody is demanding ransom or tribute. It seems to be terror.”

Ham was silent for a pause. “Doc revealed that he saw a creature resembling Medusa in the coal mine before it collapsed. Perhaps there really is a surviving Gorgon. Were there not three Gorgons? Only Medusa was slain. Perhaps one of the others survived into the modern day. It sounds far-fetched, but what if such a creature had been discovered in the coal mine and brought under control by criminals?”

That suggestion seemed to flummox the slender electrical expert. He was momentarily stunned into silence.

Finally, he growled, “Medusa is a fairy tale. That’s out. Try floating another one. I’ll shoot it down with my magnetic gun.”

From the other room, Doc Savage’s voice resounded.

“Consider the possibility that there is more than one master brain.”

It was unusual for the bronze man to broach a theory too far in advance of his ability to prove it, so all parties gathered in the room where Doc and Monk were toiling.

Monk was grumbling aloud, “These clinkers don’t seem to be much more than ordinary burnt coal, although I’m gettin’ some peculiar reactions from the reagents.”

“What does that mean, you hairy ape?” Ham demanded.

“It means,” Monk admitted, “there’s something funny about these ashes, but I can’t tell exactly what it is. The same with the smoke residue I took off the walls. It wasn’t carbon monoxide that killed Big Spots and his bodyguard, but I’ll be daggone if I know what it was, chemically speaking.”

Ham addressed Doc Savage. “What do you mean by saying there might be more than one master brain?”

“You will remember that the voice of the Medusa kept speaking in the royal ‘we.’ And that the message left by the body of Malcolm McLean read:
‘Gorgones omnia
vincit’—
Gorgons
conquer all.’ ”

“This would not be the first time an egotistical master criminal employed the majestic plural,” Ham pointed out.

“True enough,” admitted Doc. “But recall the signature on the letter sent to the Chicago newspapers. Medusa S. Euryale. The name comprised those of all three of the Gorgon sisters. This suggests a triumvirate.”

Monk grunted, “That’s smart thinkin’. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Long Tom fell into a fresh argument. “Let’s see,” he said, “if there were three gorgons, Malcolm McLean is one, Duke Grogan is another, but who’s the third member of this terror trust?”

“Janet Falcon!” Ham exploded. “She has yet to tell the complete story of why she sent Ned Gamble to New York.”

Long Tom made a rude snorting noise. “Why would she send for help from Doc Savage if she was part of the plot?”

“Because she sent her fiancé deliberately to his death. She is a murderess. There is no escaping that conclusion.”

Everyone looked to Doc Savage for confirmation of that theory.

Instead, the bronze man continued working on the tobacco leaves taken from the Joe Shine residence. The green leaves had been used to roll home-made cigars, and it was Doc Savage’s working theory that doctored tobacco had killed both Shine and his attorney, Gale Michaels, as it had Ned Gamble in New York.

Doc said, “It will be difficult to tell if these leaves have been treated with any dangerous substance without burning them. If we do, we will subject ourselves to the deadly fumes.”

Long Tom suggested, “We can wear gas masks.”

Monk Mayfair let out a braying laugh and said, “If we wear gas masks, what is that gonna tell us? We only know if the smoke is dangerous if someone’s brain turns to stone. Maybe you want to volunteer to be the guinea pig.”

“That’s not funny!” snapped Long Tom.

Bright sunlight was streaming through the hotel windows as they worked. The rain of the previous day had given way to a glorious afternoon. Dust motes danced in the solar rays, and it felt warm despite the season. A steam radiator hissed and knocked, adding a pleasant humidity.

While Doc Savage was examining the green tobacco leaves, a voice was suddenly heard in the room, hissing, venomous.

“Doc Savage! It has become too hot for you in Chicago! It is time to leave town, lest you be arrested for the slaughter of the city’s criminal element.”

“Blazes!” blurted out Monk, bullet head swiveling around, seeking the source of the sound. “There’s that blamed Medusa voice again!”

Ham Brooks unsheathed his sword cane, and attacked the drapes, plucking them aside, stabbing them, checking closets, looking under the bed. The smallest of them all, Long Tom Roberts, crawled under the bed, seeking the source of the disembodied voice.

Doc Savage began acting strangely. Moving about the room, he swept his great hands about, as if attempting to capture the sunbeams streaming in through the window.

“This is your final warning!”
the voice of the Medusa resounded.
“Go at—”

The uncanny voice broke up into an unintelligible garbling which only added to its mystery. Doc froze, moved his hands quickly, clutching at empty air.

It looked for all the world as if the bronze giant had somehow captured the weird, disembodied voice in mid-sentence, for it was heard no more.

Attention elsewhere, his men failed to notice this. They left off their searching, satisfied that no present mortal had uttered those words.

Doc Savage went to the window, and searched the rooftops across the street, as he had done in New York City. His flake-gold eyes were ranging the rooftops and the windows of the buildings across the busy avenue.

Seemingly discovering nothing, he turned his back and said, “Long Tom, go to Miss Falcon’s room and bring her here. It is time that she made a full confession.”

“Confession!” blurted Ham.

“Ham, I want you to call the patent office in Washington, District of Columbia, and look into any recent patents filed by Malcolm McLean and Marvin Lucian Linden.”

Ham’s dark eyes glowed with keen interest. “Do you suspect Linden in this conspiracy?”

Doc only said, “We have too many suspects to overlook possibilities. Of the parties involved, only McLean and Linden are capable of patenting inventions of their own.”

“I’ll get right on it,” snapped Ham, retreating into the adjoining room.

As Long Tom exited the hotel suite, Doc and Monk finished their chemical work, and the expression on the hairy chemist’s anthropoid features was one of utter disappointment.

“Goose eggs!” he grunted. “That’s all we collected for our pains. Goose eggs.”

Doc Savage nodded slightly. He began putting away the accumulated evidence for possible later study. A trace of disappointment showed on his metallic features, also a vague air of worry.

Long Tom Roberts was not gone long. When he returned, he was alone, and the look on his thin features was white and shocked.

“Doc! Better come quick!”

Monk grumbled, “Don’t tell me Janet Falcon got kidnapped again.”