Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (50 page)

Monk said, “Doc said a lot of it was explained by Janet Falcon’s last letter. Maybe he can figure it out.”

Ham seized the dial, and set the plane radio to the wavelength they used for private communications. Picking up the microphone, he chanted, “Ham Brooks calling Doc Savage. Ham Brooks calling Doc Savage. Come in, Doc Savage.”

Again, only static sizzled through the loudspeaker.

After several futile minutes of this, it was decided to investigate the coal mine.

“Doc knows where we are,” piped up Monk. “If he’s on his way, we should have this joint cracked open by the time he gets here.”

With that, the three men disembarked from the speed plane, locking the cabin door behind them.

Trudging through the woods, their feet made mushy sounds in Fall leaves soaked by the rains that had not entirely departed the state. They soon put the aircraft behind them. The tilted roof of the coal-washing plant peeped over the tree tops.

None of the group heard the radio loudspeaker when it commenced reproducing the distinctive tones of Doc Savage’s voice.

“Calling Monk. Doc Savage calling Monk.”

There was a static-laden pause, and the voice resumed speaking once more.

“If you can hear my voice, proceed with extreme caution into the coal mine. If my calculations are correct, the true author of these hideous slayings may be en route to the place. Await my arrival.”

The static resumed, and the voice of Doc Savage was heard no more.

Chapter XLVII

THE GLARING GARGOYLE

EMPLOYING THEIR INEXHAUSTIBLE spring-generator flashlights to pick the way forward, Monk Mayfair, Ham Brooks and Long Tom Roberts filtered between stands of leafless trees, and crossed the seldom-used roadway to the old abandoned coal mine.

“Spooky joint,” grunted Monk.

No one contradicted him.

A quarter moon was coming up in the sky. This added to the illumination, throwing stark shadows in the lee of the great coal-washing plant. A single broken window pane in the lopsided structure was reminiscent of a square eye reflecting cold moonlight with a baleful but blank opacity.

They walked around the dirty waters of the slurry impoundment, where only two nights before a body had been fished out by Doc Savage.

This sight caused Ham to remark, “Taken in its entirety, this has been a maddening affair. Dead men are brought back to life, discovered to be dead after all, then coming to life again, only to perish once more.”

Long Tom barked, “Shut up! Such crazy talk is making my head hurt. We have work to do.”

Purpling in the moonlight, Ham firmly clamped his wide, mobile mouth shut. His legal mind was struggling with the complexities of the case, but now was not the time for such cogitations. They had to penetrate the mine, if they could.

Coming upon the entrance set in the brow of a hillock, they directed their blindingly-white flash beams inside. The ingenious torches could be manipulated by an adjustable ring set around the lens so that they sprayed fanning illumination, or the light could be tightened to the diameter of a string, proportionally increasing the brilliance and penetration of the slender cobweb of light.

Ham widened his beam while Long Tom collapsed his to a thread. Taking care not to step inside, they directed their varied rays about, seeking to discern how obstructed the tunnel might be.

The mouth was not obstructed at all, so they entered cautiously, feeling their way in, stepping carefully. Monk toted his case of ammunition drums which rattled with every step.

Presently, they ran into a formidable blockage of boulders and stony, dirt-choked debris. Scrutinizing this, Long Tom complained, “This will take all night to dig out.”

“We ain’t got all night,” growled Monk. “Everybody clear out of this dump. I’ll handle this.”

“What are you going to do, you fool ape?” demanded Ham, a trace of concern flavoring his cultured tones.

“Don’t worry none. I’m not about to get myself in a jam. I’ll be with you in two shakes.”

Everyone retreated, and Monk called back, “Better put on your gas masks. Afterdamp fumes could be tough.”

Afterdamp was the name given to poisonous carbon monoxide gases often present in old mines after methane explosions, which are known as firedamp.

They did this, Monk included.

Voice muffled, the apish chemist fished out from his pockets a number of the small hand grenades of the type Doc and his men sometimes carried. These could be actuated through a timer.

Monk warned, “Get clear around to the other side of the bluff. I’m gonna pitch some of these babies in. When they let go, that should clear the tunnel.”

“What if it collapses the entire mine?” demanded Ham.

“We’ll cross that timber when we come to it,” said Monk, setting the timers.

There was no dissuading the homely chemist. He was intent upon destruction. Ham and Long Tom retreated around the corner while Monk wound up like a baseball pitcher, and let fly three times.

Grabbing up his ammunition case, Monk followed the others around to shelter.

The timers had been set to let go only seconds apart, and this they did.

The noise produced was a species of muffled thunder, and the ground shook alarmingly. Ham stuck his manicured fingers into his ears to protect the eardrums. Quickly, Long Tom and Monk copied that precaution.

Out of the mouth of the mine came a violent upheaval of smoking dust and expelled gases.

Monk next did a strange thing. Clutching a supermachine pistol, he rushed around to the mine’s fulminating mouth, and fired wildly into the onrush of smoke.

The mechanical bawling sounded like a small, ineffectual thing after the great triple detonation. It moaned on until the drum ran empty. Whereupon Monk slipped a second drum into the feed jaws and resumed firing.

When he returned, his twinkling eyes were amused. “That oughta do the trick.”

Ham eyed him dubiously, asked, “What trick, you miscreant?”

Monk’s grin could not be seen through his protective mask, but it could be heard in his squeaky voice.

“Them slugs are loaded with anhydrous calcium chloride. It’s a dryin’ agent, sometimes used to disperse fogs. It should dry up a lotta that afterdamp and make it harmless.”

Long Tom demanded, “Are you sure about that?”

The apish chemist shrugged sloping shoulders. “Naw. But it was worth a try. I developed those bullets for times when we might run into mustard gas or stuff like that. I haven’t had time to test it out to see if it exactly works the way it should.”

Monk was slapping another drum of bullets into the receiver, and barked, “Come on, brothers. Let’s explore!”

They moved cautiously, knowing that the explosion likely weakened the mine at the place of the detonation, prepared any moment to beat a hasty retreat if supporting timbers or rock ceiling showed themselves to be unsafe.

Spring-generator flashlights sprayed illumination haphazardly as they worked over tumbles of broken rock and scree, but surprisingly little in the way of dusty air or afterdamp.

Long Tom grumbled, “Sure wish Renny was on this trip. He could tell us how dangerous this place is now.”

“Plenty dangerous,” admitted Monk. “But we gotta get to the bottom of this. Doc said he saw someone who looked like old Medusa in this works before it blew up. I’m itchin’ to see who that was.”

“As long as it is not the actual Medusa,” breathed Ham. “You all remember the legend. Her gaze was so horrible that men froze into literal stone statues.”

Both Monk and Long Tom snorted at the notion. It was plain that they did not put any stock into such a creature—despite all they had encountered over the last few days.

It was a difficult winding path they trod through bent and twisted rail and cross ties over which the hopper cars had once run. They paused every few steps to shine lights on the ceiling and trickle them over the ancient timbers. They detected nothing especially alarming. So they pressed forward.

When at last they came to the great ballroom-sized gallery where the diggings had ceased, they were impressed by the size of the area. A locomotive and caboose could fit with room to spare, were it not for the piles of debris that had come loose in the aftermath of the recent explosion. Several of the supporting pillars of unmined coal had collapsed, making the ceiling a dangerous weight over their heads.

They advanced with caution. The air was dusty, but likely breathable for short invervals. They soon came to a scorched wall that gleamed blackly of anthracite.

Monk grunted, “Looks like this is where they stopped diggin’ after that mine accident a few years back.”

Ham nodded. “No doubt this is the area where Doc found Duke Grogan’s men excavating. Let us see what they were doing.”

Long Tom found the spot first; it was an exposed seam of coal.

Studying this, Monk said to Ham, “Lemme see that overgrown pig sticker of yours.”

Ham made a disagreeable face. He was reluctant to let his prized sword cane out of his hands, much less place it into his rival’s hirsute paws. After some hesitation, he withdrew the blade, and presented it to Monk.

“Be careful with that, you clumsy oaf,” he warned.

Monk took the blade, and used it to poke at the seam of coal, which gleamed darkly under their flashlight beams.

“Bituminous coal,” he pronounced. “That means it’s the soft stuff good for makin’ coke for heatin’ home furnaces and the like.”

Switching his flashlight around, the apish chemist came to a scarred portion where there had been recent cutting and digging, into which a hole had been gouged. It was not very great in size, but what was found there was not the black of coal, but a greenish-gray mineral that proved harder than the surrounding coal.

“This ain’t coal,” he mumbled.

Ham and Long Tom drew closer, fingering the outcropping.

“I don’t recognize this stuff,” murmured Long Tom, bathing the seam in his flash glow.

“Nor do I,” said Ham, who was not qualified to comment either way.

Monk found a discarded pick ax, cut off a chunk, took it in hand, and tried squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. It was a mineral, much harder than bituminous coal.

“Whatever the stuff is,” he squeaked, “it’s hard as anthracite.”

“I wonder if Johnny would be familiar with it?” asked Long Tom.

“Search me,” grunted Monk. “He’s a whiz at geology, but that don’t mean he knows every rock and mineral there is.”

Johnny was William Harper Littlejohn, the other missing member of Doc Savage’s band of adventurers. A noted archeologist and geologist, Johnny was at present temporarily occupying the natural science research chair—a position he once held regularly—at a renowned college due to the illness of a colleague.

At that moment, Ham Brooks’ questing flashlight fell upon something not far away.

“What is that?” he said aloud.

Monk and Long Tom directed their flash rays and illuminated the object of interest.

It was a body. Redirecting their lights revealed other bodies. These were partially buried by loose rock that had fallen from the shattered ceiling.

Not squeamish in the least, Monk Mayfair pushed the others aside and ambled over to investigate.

There were four bodies in all, and the hairy chemist used his big feet to kick rock clutter aside, exposing faces that were blackened by coal dust, but also discolored by putrefaction.

“This here looks like Patches Cordovan,” decided Monk. “He’s one of Duke Grogan’s boys. So’s the rest of these mugs.”

Joining him, Ham nodded somberly. “According to Doc, some of the Grogan gang were caught in the mine collapse. Therefore, we can rule those men out. None could have been responsible for the most recent series of Medusa murders.”

Long Tom nodded. “Not one of the Grogan gang has shown their face in the last day or so. This kind of proves they’re all out of the picture.”

Monk said, “Well, if these stiffs are still here, then the Medusa that Doc saw must be around somewhere. Let’s go find that body, and see what’s what.”

The three men separated, their flashlight beams ranging high and low. They concentrated on the ground around their feet, and the litter of rock and bituminous coal bits that had naturally accumulated over the years.

Ten minutes of cautious searching led to an unavoidable conclusion. Ham Brooks voiced it.

“There is no body present—other than the ones we have already discovered.”

“Maybe one of them was the Medusa, tricked up in a masquerade costume,” suggested Long Tom.

They went back to the remains of the Grogan gang, carefully looked them over for any sign of a damaged or discarded disguise.

“Nothin’,” Monk decided at last.

Ham declared, “Nonsense! Doc Savage saw the Medusa standing here, so the body must be around somewhere.” He redirected his flashlight up to the great vaulted ceiling as if expecting to find it there. There was nothing. Not even roosting bats.

“Bodies do not evaporate,” suggested Long Tom. “We’re just not looking in the right places.”

The pallid electrical wizard, being smaller in stature than the other two, started rooting around in the dim corners of the rock chamber.

He soon found a flat stone that seemed out of place. Kneeling, he bathed it in electric light, then called out, “Found something interesting.”

The others rushed up just in time to see the puny electrical expert muscle the flat stone aside, disclosing a vertical shaft that led deeper into the earth.

“Secret tunnel,” rumbled Monk. “Maybe the dang Medusa escaped that way.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” murmured Long Tom, directing his flashlight downward. The beam disclosed a rickety wooden ladder, and the fact that the shaft was only about a dozen feet deep before going off in a horizontal direction.

“We should investigate it,” suggested Ham.

“You first,” prodded Monk.

Ham looked uneasy, and said, “Long Tom is the smallest. He would do the best job of mimicking a mole.”

The slender electrical wizard seemed on the point of objecting, realized reluctantly that this was the truth, and said, “Hold my light. I’m going down.”