Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (11 page)

The Count frowned. “No. He will be useful.”

Pippel’s face twisted. “We cannot—”

A gloved hand was raised. “Silence. He sticks out like a sore thumb. He will provide good American company on the voyage south.”

Pippel nodded. He was beginning to comprehend the trend of things. His expression told that he did not like it, but he understood his leader.

“Yes,
mein Herr Graf,”
he said crisply, his back stiffening as if in salute.

Chapter XI

CAY BOUND

THE ARISTOCRAT CALLED the Count advanced to meet Gloomy Starr upon his return. The landing was not smooth. Pancaking, the float plane hit hard, all but dipped a wingtip into the choppy waters of Long Island Sound. The hapless pilot, in attempting to taxi toward shore, managed to stub the craft’s pontoons against a group of half-submerged rocks.

The final result was that the hulking man was forced to abandon the stricken seaplane and swim back toward land.

The Count asked coolly, “It went well?”

“You saw how well with your own eyes,” replied Gloomy laconically. “Sorry about your ship. I was always better at take-offs than landings.”

“You mean that your piloting skills did not, in truth, include seaplanes,” clucked the Count.

“Now that you mention it, yeah,” admitted Gloomy sheepishly.

“No matter, the plane was a rental, and we are done here. I was referring to the disposal operation, by the way.”

Gloomy shrugged gigantically. “You saw that, too.” From his dull expression, cold-blooded murder was neither a new experience, nor especially nerve-jarring.

The Count smiled unreservedly. “I did, indeed. By the way, my name is Rumpler. Now we must be off.”

Turning, he gave orders in a guttural language.

The speed with which the men gathered up their fallen was remarkable. They were carried into the house, which was plainly rented for the purpose of sheltering the group.

Instantly, clothes were packed and suitcases thrown into the trunk of the waiting vehicle. Another car—a sedan—was wheeled out of the attached garage.

“Where to?” asked Gloomy Starr.

“Steamship docks,” he was told.

“And after that?”

“You will be told at the appropriate time.”

Gloomy Starr went over to the blonde who was very subdued.

“And who might you be?”

“None of your business,” snapped the woman.

Gloomy scrutinized her with intensely dark eyes.

“Have we met before?”

“I doubt it,” the blonde said frostily.

“I didn’t think so,” Gloomy muttered.

“I normally keep better company,” she added sarcastically.

The Count spoke up. “Miss Hale presents a special problem.”

Gloomy pursed thick lips. “She does, does she?”

“We can’t kill her, much as we would prefer to.”

Gloomy cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “No? Why not?”

“It is a long, tedious story, but your job will be to get her out of the country.”

“A kidnap job, eh?”

“If you want to call it that. We wish you to take the young lady to the South Street docks, book passage for the two of you on the packet steamer
Matador.
” The Count favored Gloomy with a speculative eye. “Have you got that?”

“Matador,
right. Bound where?”

“Brazil. That is as far south as the
Matador
travels. That should be good enough.”

“And when I get her there?”

“Check into the Alhambra Hotel and wait there until you hear from us.”

“Sounds simple enough.”

“It
is
simple. And it will pay a cool three grand. Collectable at the Brazilian end.”

Gloomy grinned. “I’m game, gents.”

“And so there are no untoward complications, we will escort you to the docks and see you off,” explained the Count.

“Right kind of you,” Gloomy Starr returned.

“Nothing kind about it,” returned the Count. “We have no margin for failure.”

Glints of interest came into Gloomy Starr’s scar-surrounded eyes.

“And where are you gents gonna be in the meanwhile?” he asked.

“We have a destination of our own in mind.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. One not found on any map.”

Curiously, Gloomy Starr looked like he wanted to ask another question. But a problem came up that prevented the asking of it.

“Count,” a man said. “Pippel is not feeling right.”

“Let me attend to him.”

Gloomy followed the noble into another room where the Count went over to a man on a couch. It was that man who wore a rust-colored overcoat, the one called Pippel. He looked ill. His face was pale and his breathing labored. He grimaced with each intake of breath.

“What is wrong, my Ernst?” asked the Count in a solicitous tone.

“I—I think my ribs were stove in by that
verdammt
ape.”

“That is too bad. You cannot be moved. And if you cannot be moved, you cannot come with us to the cay.”

Gloomy Starr perked up. “Cay?”

He was ignored.

“I would be safe on the cay,” grunted Pippel with effort.

“But we will be safer with you out of the picture. I am sorry, Ernst.” And with those words still on his tongue, the Count drew his double-barreled derringer from a vest pocket and shot Pippel through the skull. The double report was muffled. The pillow on which the dead man’s head had been resting slowly changed color.

Gloomy Starr said angrily, “Was that necessary?”

“Very,” said the Count, pocketing the smoking pistol. “You object, Mr. Starr?”

“You’re kinda free with your lead slugs and your men’s lives,” Gloomy pointed out. “Since I’m one of them, that kinda gives me an itch I wanna scratch right now.”

The Count smiled bleakly. “Since you will be going to Brazil on our behalf, I think you will be perfectly safe there, Mr. Starr. So long as you do not return before instructed to.” The suave man smiled in a friendly manner. “You see?”

Having dismissed the concern, the Count turned to address the others, who had looked on with stiff, unemotional faces. “Now, it is high time that we departed. Yes?”

The men gathered up their things, and one of them took rubbing alcohol and a chamois and began going over the doorknobs, light switches, and other smooth surfaces.

“Clean everything up that could have been touched, rough or smooth,” directed the Count. “That iodine-vapor method the American police use will bring out fingerprints on almost everything.”

The men fell to work at once. They were very efficient, as if they had covered their tracks in this organized manner many times before.

Watching them, an interested gleam came into the eyes of the pugilist who called himself Gloomy Starr. The pugilist paid special attention to the supervising aristocrat, as if trying to place him in his memory. If he succeeded in this mental inventory, the results were not written upon his horsey features.

Those chores accomplished, the wonderfully efficient men exited, locking all doors. They drove off in the two machines, heading toward Manhattan.

Gloomy Starr was packed into the town car with the blonde. She looked unhappy. Miserable might capture her mood most descriptively.

She was dabbing her red eyes with a handkerchief, obviously fighting back tears.

“She seems kinda upset all of a sudden,” commented Gloomy.

The Count replied, “I have just broken to her the regrettable news about poor Pippel.”

The blonde woman squeezed her eyes shut. Pain was evident on her pale features. Taking the tear-moistened handkerchief in her trembling hands, she twisted it in her silent agony. In that way, she seemed to get a firm grip on her composure.

Gloomy regarded her with something akin to sympathy. “What got you into this mess, Missy?” he asked.

“I made the mistake of trying to reach Doc Savage,” she returned stiffly.

“Doc Savage,” said Gloomy Starr, as if tasting the name. “Think I’ve heard of him.”

“Many have,” the blonde said vaguely.

“What be your first name?”

“Honoria.”

“Nice name,” said Gloomy, and left off the conversation. He seemed to drift off into thought as the vehicles made their determined way toward the city.

THE
MATADOR
was scheduled to depart the Manhattan steamship docks at four in the afternoon, stopping at Havana, Curacao, and points south until reaching Sao Paulo, Brazil. It was as popular run and had become even more so since the frantic day two years before when, with the outbreak of war in Europe, passenger liner companies had called back to their home ports all trans-Atlantic vessels. Once the frantic scramble had been completed, the steamship companies had been forced to look south, passenger travel to Europe being out of the question for the foreseeable future.

It was not much of a vessel, but she looked shipshape—if one overlooked the scabs of rust distributed here and there over her dark hull.

Preparations were well under way for departure. There was a lot of scurrying on deck and the gangplank was already unchained and accepting passengers.

The aristocratic Count purchased one ticket from the steamship agent and handed the brown envelope to Gloomy Starr.

“Once you smuggle her on board,” he said out of earshot of the girl, “you will hear from a man named Burch. Karl Jon Burch.”

“Who is he?” asked Gloomy.

“A contact on the boat. While you will be watching over Miss Hale, he will be watching over you. And we will loiter here to make absolutely certain that you board this rather rusty vessel.” Again the Count offered his charming Continental smile that conveyed superficial warmth and nothing of the genuine article.

“I getcha.”

The Count grew earnest. “Nothing must prevent Miss Hale from reaching Brazil safely. Is that fully understood?”

“Completely,” said Gloomy, collecting Miss Hale, then piloting her to the baggage area, where he intended to acquire a steamer trunk.

Miss Hale seemed to go along willingly, if reluctantly.

After they were gone, the Count left his men on watch and went to a pay telephone. There, he dropped a nickel in the slot. Reaching the operator, he asked briskly, “Yes, I would like to be connected to a long-distance party. Collect. Inform the other party that Count Rumpler is calling him.”

After providing the operator with the number, the suave gentleman waited patiently while the call was put through. He examined his walking stick, noted a nick in the fine wood, and frowned with unconcealed displeasure.

Eventually, the connection was made.

“This is
V-Mann-Fueher
Rumpler,” reported the Count, whose name was not really Rumpler. “The immediate problem has been resolved. Regrettably,
Haupt-V-Mann
Pippel had to be liquidated. We are preparing to steam for the staging area.”

“Pippel proved to be unreliable,” suggested the thickly-accented voice coming over the wire.

“For which he has paid the ultimate penalty,” the Count returned coldly. “On a more positive note,” he added. “I have just sent the Doc Savage aide named Renny Renwick to Brazil.”

“Excellent,” returned the other. “Are you certain it is he?”

“Absolutely certain. He is a long-faced hulk of a man with great scarred knuckles. His disguise is good, but not perfect. The truth dawned on me after I had undertaken to hire the brute. A man of
Herr
Renwick’s size and countenance should think twice before undertaking to pass himself off as anyone else. I have rather adroitly turned his attempt to infiltrate our little band into a wild goose chase, which we can employ to lure Doc Savage to South America, and so out of our way.”

“What about the girl?” the accented voice wanted to know.

“She went along willingly. She does not know the true identity of Gloomy Starr, as he calls himself.”

“Wunderbar.
Miss Honoria Hale will be taken care of. Arrangements will be made at once.”

“Very good,” said the Count crisply. “We will see you at the cay in another day, then,
Herr Kapitan.
”

The call was terminated.

The Count looked thoughtful as he returned to his waiting men.

“Matters are coming to a head, my friends,” he told the others.

They accepted this information with stony expressions, like men who have been told they were going to war the next morning. Then they turned their attention to the
Matador,
and watched silently as Gloomy Starr mounted the gangplank and gave the purser his ticket.

“Where is the girl?” wondered one. He had very black eyes in his sunburnt face, and had been the leader of the raid on Doc Savage’s warehouse hangar whom his underlings had called Kolb.

“Mr. Renwick has instructions to smuggle her on board, and since it is as important to him to convince us of his
bona fides
as it is that Miss Hale be spirited away to Brazil, I have every expectation that he has complied to the letter.”

“What about Doc Savage?”

“Thank you for reminding me,
Herr
Kolb,” said the Count, “I must get off a telegram to him at once. Perhaps I will dispatch
der bronzemann
to Buenos Aires.”

Kolb frowned. “Won’t Renwick wire Savage from the ship to meet him in Brazil?”

The Count shrugged negligently. “Brazil. Argentina. What does it matter?” he scoffed, tossing off a chopping salute in the direction of Gloomy Starr, who returned the farewell gesture with a broad equine smile and a hearty wave of his meaty hand. “Doc Savage will be out of our collective hair for the duration of the operation. After that, it will not matter.”

With that, the glum group turned away and sought their automobiles.

Chapter XII

THE SICK WOMAN TRICK

HONORIA HALE WAS being taken care of very thoroughly, just as the mysterious Herr Kapitan had boasted.

After making certain arrangements, Gloomy Starr had smuggled her on board in a steamer trunk purchased with her proportions in mind. When the trunk was delivered to the cabin on the B Deck of the
Matador,
Gloomy paid the longshoremen who had set it on the floor and tipped them lavishly.