Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) (55 page)

“Through a fluke,” explained Doc. “McLean had developed an infatuation with Miss Falcon, and did not wish harm to come to her. Also, it was not definitely known to the conspirators if Myer Sim had confided in the woman in her capacity as his private secretary.”

“But why did Miss Falcon hold back the truth?”

Ham Brooks answered that one. “In the beginning, because she received death threats if she talked. Later in the affair, she feared being charged with Duke Grogan’s killing. She was a very frightened and confused young woman.”

The police official cleared his throat. “Not so frightened that she couldn’t gun down Grogan when she had the opportunity. But she needn’t have worried. It was self-defense. So where does Duke Grogan fit into this?”

Doc replied to that. “Dr. Rockwell knew that if he were to institute a wave of brain-calcifying deaths, and then step forward as the one man in the world who could bring the victims back to life, he might need a scapegoat at some future point. Allying himself secretly with Duke Grogan but concealing his identity by masquerading as the Medusa figure, he enticed Grogan to slay Ned Gamble before the latter could divulge the truth. In that, Grogan succeeded and, after attempting to scare us off, returned to Chicago.”

“So was Grogan one of the original Gorgons, or not?”

Doc shook his head. “Grogan was Rockwell’s agent during the New York phase of the affair. He was armed with Gorgonite grenades and the means by which to imprint the frightful Medusa silhouettes at will, as well as a photophone apparatus to project his voice in warning. All of this was to build up an atmosphere of horror. This is conjecture, but it is likely that Dr. Rockwell plucked Duke Grogan out of the Chicago underworld because of the similarity of his last name to the Gorgons of legend. This would make it easier, when the time came, for the Medusa slayings to be pinned on Grogan and his gang.”

“Which backfired when Janet Falcon shot Grogan down,” suggested the official.

Strange lights played in Doc Savage’s aureate orbs. “No one—least of all Warner Rockwell—could have anticipated that Miss Falcon would take the slaying of her fiancé so hard. She took to carrying a small-caliber automatic tied up in her hair for her personal safety and, when she fell into Grogan’s clutches, she shot him down at her earliest opportunity.”

The Superintendent slapped his palms on his desktop. “I might as well tell you that our ballistics boys confirmed that the bullets taken out of Duke Grogan’s body match the gun discovered with Miss Falcon’s body. So that part of it ties up in a nice neat bow.”

Doc Savage continued, “It is not necessary to recount in detail the fact that Miss Falcon’s suicide triggered Malcolm McLean’s turning against Marvin Lucian Linden and then ending his own life when he realized that he had inadvertently brought about the chain of circumstances that led to the death of the woman he cared for very deeply.” Doc’s unusually vibrant voice grew dark. “I had hoped to coerce a confession out of McLean by convincing him of his responsibility for her death. I should have foreseen that he had become so distraught that he might also take his own life.”

Ham Brooks broke in, saying, “I would like to state for the record that my client is not materially nor morally responsible for Malcolm McLean’s unfortunate and unpreventable suicide. The man was criminally deranged.”

“No one has suggested otherwise,” returned the police official hastily. “What about that submarine car that was stolen from the exposition?”

“In plotting the reign of terror,” Doc Savage related, “the three conspirators knew that they would need to cover their tracks. They had learned that Myer Sim had invented an amphibious machine that they believed might prove valuable as an escape vehicle should one of them need to disappear by water after doing evil. Malcolm McLean inveigled his cousin Doane to take his place at the exposition while McLean himself stole the vehicle. This had been arranged in advance so that McLean would not only have an alibi, which might normally be sufficient, but he would also become the first prominent Chicago victim of the Medusa, thereby ensuring that no criminal suspicion would attach itself to him.”

“So how did this cousin come to be dumped at the coal mine impoundment, where you discovered his body?”

“The cousin was a pawn in a grisly game. Before Malcolm McLean abandoned the amphibious car after it became mired in the river mud, the decision had been made to do away with the cousin, lest he divulge the truth under police questioning. The body of the cousin was spirited out of Mercy Hospital and McLean took his place in order to make it appear that Dr. Rockwell had restored him to life. No doubt the Grogan gang transported the deceased dupe to the coal-slurry impoundment for secret disposal.

“It was McLean who was disguised as the Medusa when I first laid eyes on him in the abandoned coal mine three nights ago. In the aftermath of the collapse, McLean was able to escape via a hidden tunnel that allowed him to come and go at will in order to extract Gorgonite as needed. Apparently, this ingenious regalia had been used by each of the conspirators in turn whenever they were issuing orders to the Grogan gang.”

The Superintendent interrupted with an objection. “I refuse to believe that a smooth operator like Duke Grogan would fall for such an preposterous disguise.”

“It is doubtful that Grogan ever did,” admitted Doc. “The cousin’s corpse was left in the impoundment water on the theory it would never be discovered. But it was discovered. All credit for the identification of this body goes to the Chicago Police, who did the necessary work involved, and who learned that Doane had worked with McLean during the period the latter accidentally poisoned both men through careless experimenting with silver.”

The Superintendent made an approving mouth. “You say that all this time McLean was moving about the city in disguise?”

Doc nodded. “This was done because the newspapers were eager to interview him, and he had work to do. Work that he wished to execute clandestinely, inasmuch as the Grogan gang were no more. There is little doubt that McLean was the one who delivered the coal containing a sample of the deadly Gorgonite to the home of Big Spots Bender. Doubtless McLean also planted the tobacco leaves that were laced with the lethal stuff that led to the deaths of Joe Shine and his attorney. This, incidentally, was part of Rockwell’s devil’s bargain with Duke Grogan.

“In return for the gangster’s help, Rockwell promised to do away with his chief rival, Joe Shine, thereby paving the way for Grogan’s eventual dominance of the Chicago underworld. Ironically, Grogan’s unexpected death did not deter Malcolm McLean from going ahead and eliminating Shine, for it fit into their revised scheme to topple gangland crime figures as a ruse to point the finger of suspicion in my direction.”

The Superintendent of Police gave a slight shudder as he reflected upon the number of corpses who had been discovered with their brains turned to stone.

“These malefactors may have been up to no good,” he vouchsafed, “but they sure cleaned up the city’s underworld. I’ll give them that. The one thing I don’t get is how Dr. Rockwell thought he could fool the city since he was only able to resurrect one dead man?”

“No doubt Rockwell planned to pretend to do the same with others, probably Marvin Lucian Linden, but my investigation caused him to panic. We may never learn who some of the original victims were going to be, but Rockwell and his cohorts found it prudent to kill off members of the Chicago underworld instead, as a kind of smokescreen against their true motives.”

In his best lawyerly tone, Ham Brooks inserted, “This, of course, led to the development that caused suspicion to fall upon Doc Savage, who had only weeks ago been exonerated in the deaths of numerous members of the New York underworld.”

The official shook his head in disbelief. “Damned clever, that Rockwell. He had us going, too.”

“The scientific exposition, where so many men of science were gathered,” said Doc, “must also have played a central part in the scheme. All the participants intended to show off their latest inventions. Since Rockwell slew Myer Sim, and thus set the stage for McLean to make off with his snorkel car, perhaps others would have succumbed to a similar fate, their inventions stolen from them, and the credit for those inventions reassigned to one of the conspirators. We may never know for certain, since events distracted the conspirators from their original plan. Doubtless the snorkel car would have one day resurfaced as the purported invention of Marvin Lucian Linden.”

The Superintendent of Police began dry-washing his features. “Even after you explain it,” he said slowly, “it’s enough to make a man’s head spin clear off his shoulders.”

Monk Mayfair grunted, “That’s about how I feel about it, too.”

“Add me to that list,” murmured Long Tom sourly.

Ham Brooks suddenly stood up and declared, “I take it that my client, having made these truthful representations to you, is now free to go.”

The Superintendent of Police said, “I don’t know how much of this can be proved in court, and I don’t know how the hell we’re going to explain this tangled mess to the army of reporters that are clamoring for your head, but Doc Savage, you have my parole and my admiration. Yes, you are free to go. No charges will be brought against you. The matter appears to be settled, except for burying the dead and ensuring the city that the terror trust of the three Gorgons has been shattered and broken.”

DOC SAVAGE came to his feet and handshakes were offered all around. As a parting gesture, the official provided Doc Savage with a police escort to slip him out the back way, safely huddled in the rear of a windowless Black Maria.

The police machine took them directly to the airport, where Doc Savage reclaimed his speed plane. He and his men quickly got the great aircraft going.

“No sense in stickin’ around this burg,” said Monk. “We don’t have to deal with pesky reporters’ questions this way.”

Long Tom said, “I never did get to demonstrate my magnetic gun at the exposition.”

“You need to get some of the bugs worked out first,” suggested Monk.

“Is that a dig?” snapped Long Tom. “First, that Marvin Lucian Linden steals my insect eliminator idea, and now you’re making bug jokes.”

Monk’s grin collapsed, for he actually feared the ire of the puny electrical expert. When Long Tom got riled up, he would sometimes stay that way for days. The apish chemist had no interest in a prolonged disagreement. Long Tom could sock like nobody’s business.

Ham Brooks inserted, “It seems to me that neither of you men proved your point. Long Tom’s needle bullets did not faze the Medusa, but neither did Monk’s ridiculous ammunition.”

“Who are you calling ridiculous?” roared Monk, happy to change the subject and pick a fresh but familiar fight.

“I was referring to your absurd bullets, but you can take that label and paste it on your own forehead if you wish.”

“My scintillator bullets made that Medusa retreat, and the drying agent ammunition sure came in handy, didn’t it?”

“If any of those pellets had felled the enemy, you might be able to whistle a different tune,” said Ham in a lofty tone. “I, for one, am not impressed.”

The speed plane had turned out onto the tarmac at this point, and Doc Savage was blooping the motors as he lined up in preparation for take-off. The bronze man was anxious to leave Chicago and put behind him the bloody events of recent days. He was acutely aware, having been apprised by the Superintendent of Police, that the funerals of Ned Gamble and Janet Falcon were to be held later in the day. The distressing fact that the couple had sought the bronze man’s assistance, only to perish in the course of his investigation, weighed heavily on Doc Savage’s mind.

Soon the aircraft was bumping along, its tail lifted, and the yammering motors were clawing for altitude.

When Doc got the aircraft leveled off and pointed in an easterly direction, he said, “It does not appear that Long Tom’s magnetic gun is yet suitable for our purposes.”

Long Tom’s face fell. “I’m going to keep working on it,” he said tightly.

“As for Monk’s ammunition,” continued Doc, “some may have their uses. Possibly we can perfect even better versions for practical use, but for the foreseeable future, mercy bullets remain our best weapon for capturing criminals alive.”

Monk made a face. He did not always agree with Doc Savage’s policy of not taking human life, but a thought struck him.

“We kinda fell down on the capturing them alive part, didn’t we? For a while there we had a whole pile of crooks to ship off to our crime college.”

Ham nodded soberly, saying, “Once the Chicago Police took custody of Joe Shine’s mob, we could hardly have laid claim to them.”

Doc said, “This eventuality could not be helped. Given how matters worked out, it is unfortunate that so many perished, two by their own hand. We must endeavor to forget these tragic events, there being no present remedy for envy—or death, for that matter.”

That seemed to be the last word, for the cabin fell silent and remained that way for much of the long trip back to New York City. Although many who had died could be said to have deserved it, several did not and the fact that they could not have saved Ned Gamble, who had come to their doorstep for assistance, nor his fiancée, Janet Falcon, was an unpleasant reminder that no matter how skilled they were, there were circumstances that were beyond their power to control.

It was a lesson they intended to carry into their future endeavors.

About the Author: Lester Dent

LESTER DENT could be variously described as a westerner or a midwesterner, having been born in Missouri and raised in Wyoming and Oklahoma. A world traveler, he also lived in New York City, Miami, Florida and Paris, France, during his remarkable life, which ended where it began, in La Plata, Missouri, in 1959 at the relatively young age of 54.

He traveled to virtually every state in the union, which in his day consisted of just 48 contiguous states. Unquestionably, Lester visited Chicago more than once, since it was a stop on the old Santa Fe Railroad line he sometimes took to travel from his beloved La Plata home to the Street & Smith magazine editorial offices in New York City.