Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (18 page)

Leander Tucker was a little slow on the uptake, but he suddenly got it.

“My word! Are you two thinking what
I’m
thinking?”

Ham said slowly, “If you are thinking that Doc Savage has requested us to spirit Seaman Goines down into the brig to take his place, that is exactly what Doc Savage just requested.”

“It can’t be done!” blurted Tucker.

“No, it cannot,” agreed Ham. “But it will be. Mark my words. When I can, I will find a way.”

“Well,” said Tuck, edging back toward the door in order to make his escape, “leave me the heck out of it. You two fellows may be headed for the brig, and you don’t need any more company than you will have when you get there.”

“Tell no one,” admonished Ham.

“Not even Don?”

The lawyer hesitated. “If it becomes necessary. Use your own judgment. But for the moment, the fewer who know of this plan, the better.”

“You might be right,” admitted Tucker. “Don is as straight an arrow as they fly. If he learns of this, his conscience would rebel. He might even go running to the Old Man and tell the plain truth. And you can bet that Captain McCullum might just hang Doc Savage on general principles. But if you two get caught, nobody’s going to be sprung.”

With that, Leander Tucker thrust his head out the partially open cabin door, looked both ways twice, and slipped through, looking as guilty as all get out.

Chapter XVIII

DOUBLETALK

CAPTAIN McCULLUM WAS not a nervous man. Yet he had every right to be nervous, as nervous as a seasoned seaman could possibly be.

The Skipper was about to make a run across the middle of the Atlantic in a vessel so large it would be a natural target for a Nazi raider.

It had been customary since the beginning of the war, when the wolf packs came out in full force, to cross the Atlantic at the higher latitudes. Departing from Newfoundland or Nova Scotia, and thereby making the shortest possible run to the British Isles. Captain McCullum had made a few of those runs, too, invariably in convoys.

This time there would be no convoy. He could not afford to loiter until his scheduled departure hour for convoy rendezvous. He would have to go on ahead. His new orders were to cross the middle of the Atlantic alone. The days in which the enemy U-boats had free rein in the Atlantic were about done. The enemy submarines, which had taken such a horrific toll on Allied shipping, had in turn been sunk in overwhelming numbers. Some still lurked out there, in the cold depths of the ocean. But very few compared to even a year ago.

Simply because it was comparatively safer to make a solo dash across the Atlantic Ocean did not mean it was safe. Not at all. Then there was the added complication of the matter of the Doc Savage crowd being permitted on board to keep an eye on a group of foreign sailors who might not be what they seem.

If it had been up to Carson McCullum, the suspect passengers would have been thrown into the brig and clapped in irons. It was not up to him. No. Instead, he was stuck with watching over an unknown number of passengers who were suspected of having dark intentions, and the problem of Doc Savage having the run of the ship, and there was little he could say about it. It rankled him.

As he paced his bridge, looking out at the strange stillness that overlay Nassau’s colonial waterfront, each silvery palm tree looking as if they were painted on glass in the pre-storm light, Captain McCullum decided that he had run out of patience.

Unlike other men, who would exceed their patience and react accordingly, McCullum made the calculated decision that he had no more patience left. His store of it had been exhausted. He was that way. Disciplined even in his emotions.

Turning to his Chief Warrant Officer, he barked, “Mr. Greer. Find Doc Savage and tell him I wish to speak with him immediately.”

“Yes, Captain.”

The C.W.O. started down the companionway steps. Captain McCullum called after him, “And don’t come back until you relay that message.”

Chief Warrant Officer Greer went directly to Doc Savage’s cabin, knocked once.

Monk Mayfair’s squeaky voice demanded, “Whatcha want?”

“The Captain requests Doc Savage’s presence on the bridge.”

“Doc ain’t here.”

“Where is he, then?” demanded Greer, banging on the door again. “And why don’t you have the decency to open the door when you speak to me?”

The suave voice of Ham Brooks inserted itself and said, “Stand aside, Monk. Let me handle this.”

The door opened a crack and Ham showed his sharp-featured face. He was no longer wearing the van Dyke beard. In fact, he was no longer the imaginary Dutchman, Brom van Bummel. Believing his disguise had been penetrated, he had darkened his hair, donned a monocle and pencil mustache, and was planning to pass himself off as one of the British dignitaries who had boarded in Nassau, Lord Ronald Hathaway by name. There was no such person.

“Actually, neither of us have seen Doc Savage since yesterday,” Ham said calmly.

The Chief Warrant Officer grunted. “A man like Doc Savage would be noticed moving about the ship, even at night. Where do I find him?”

Ham hesitated, a slightly guilty look on his face.

Chief Warrant Officer Greer had had enough by that time. He shouldered his way in, nudging Ham aside. After barging in, he saw the large sheeted figure lying on the bunk. The unmoving form was covered from head to toe.

“What the hell is this?” he yelled. Before anyone could stop him, he lunged for the bunk, whipped the sheets off the sheet gear, half expecting to find a corpse.

Greer stared, stupefied, his eyes batting in his baffled confusion.

“What the hell is this?” he repeated, turning slowly toward Monk and Ham.

Monk Mayfair stood there with his blocky jaw askew, trying to form an intelligent response. Instead, he burbled something inarticulate.

Possessing more presence of mind, Ham Brooks said, “That is Doc Savage.”

“It is not!” bellowed the Chief Warrant Officer. “I know Jury Goines when I see him.”

Ham’s composure grew grave. “No doubt you’re aware that Seaman Goines was remanded to the brig two nights ago, for the infraction of dereliction of his duties.”

“I am well aware of that!”

“Since he was out of action,” Ham explained, “Doc Savage decided to impersonate him as a way of keeping an eye on our mysterious passengers without them suspecting his presence.”

“Do you mean to tell me that is Doc Savage laying there?”

Monk Mayfair had recovered his usually nimble wits. “Yeah, that’s Doc, all right. He’s just asleep, is all.”

Chief Warrant Officer Greer looked at the prostrate man and said, “If he was asleep, why did you have him covered up like he was about to be given sea burial?”

Monk had no answer to that, so he looked to Ham Brooks hopefully.

The dapper lawyer came through like a champion. “As it happened, Doc was overcome by the same strange dizzy spell that apparently overtook Seaman Goines. Fortunately, we found him and conveyed him back here, inasmuch as the presence of another unconscious sailor would have been difficult to explain away.”

“Difficult! It’s impossible. Preposterous!” thundered the officer. “How could Doc Savage sneak around the ship disguised as a man known to be in the brig without arousing the suspicions of the crew?”

“The big fellow is quite adept in the art of stealth, and shadowing people,” explained Ham.

“Sure,” added Monk, beaming sheepishly. “Did you get any reports Seaman Goines was on the loose last night?”

The troubled look on the officer’s stern face told plainly that he had not. That look, and the way his eyes kept going to the slumbering figure, told that Chief Warrant Officer Greer had not fully bought Ham’s cock-and-bull story.

Still, he was not certain, so he asked, “How long has he been out like that?”

“Since about four a.m.,” said Ham, picking an hour that sounded plausible.

The officer went over to the bunk, and with intent, searching eyes, studied the recumbent figure lying there. Clear signs of respiration brought relief to his expression.

“Well, he looks just like Seaman Goines,” he commented suspiciously.

“If you popped over to the brig, you’ll find another man who looks exactly like Seaman Goines,” remarked Ham. “That resemblance will also be remarkable.”

“In that case, how will I know which one is the real one?”

“Obviously,” Ham reassured him, “the one confined to the brig is the genuine article.”

“Yeah,” laughed Monk, “unless you think Doc Savage let himself be confined to the brig for some goofy reason.”

Ham’s sharp elbow drove into Monk’s barrel-stave ribs in remonstrance.

Straightening, the Chief Warrant Officer turned and said darkly, “I will have to report this to the Captain, of course.”

“Of course,” returned Ham smoothly.

“Natch,” seconded Monk.

Greer started to stride out, stopped, turned smartly in place, and stood staring at the figure on the bunk intently.

“First, I will check in at the brig.”

“By all means,” encouraged Ham. “Satisfy yourself on that score.”

“Yeah,” added Monk. “You do that very thing.”

THE DOOR slammed behind the departing officer, and Ham whirled on Monk, hissing, “Did you have to put that thought into his head? The one about Doc Savage being in the brig?”

“I was just tryin’ to help embroider that web of lies you were feedin’ him,” said Monk defensively. “It’s called misdirection. It works every time.”

“That’s not misdirection!” exploded Ham. “That’s redirection.
I
was misdirecting him.”

“Well, let’s just hope he’s really confused right now.”

“Of what use will that be when Captain McCullum shows up?”

Monk’s face twisted into a number of expressions, some comic, others merely foolish. He always made faces when cogitating, and it was something that could have been filmed and shown as a short subject on a Saturday afternoon movie matinee, so amusing was it.

Finally, Monk shrugged two sloping shoulders and said, “Search me. This is the daggonedest mess I can remember bein’ in for the longest time.”

“Well, if this were the dead of night,” mused Ham, “I would attempt to swap this man for Doc Savage and be done with it.”

“Broad daylight ain’t the time to pull a stunt like that. Even after dark, that would be more than tricky.”

“We cannot wait until darkness. We’ll just have to try to bluff our way through it.”

“Ain’t that what we been doin’ all along?” Monk pointed out.

“I would much prefer to be making progress on this investigation,” ground out Ham. “Instead, we appear to be sinking into a quagmire of our own creation.”

Chapter XIX

COMPLICATIONS

DOC SAVAGE WAS pacing his cell, attempting to drain away the nervous energy that went with his confinement.

Not for the first time, the disguised bronze man was regretting his decision to acquiesce to being thrown in the brig. He did not wish to reveal his imposture, not even to the ship’s captain, for a great many reasons. Not the least of which was pride.

Neither did Doc want to look foolish by having to explain how he came to fall into such a ridiculous predicament. Too, the bronze man had not really expected to be confined for a full forty-eight hours.

The fact that he had subsisted on bread and water for six meals in a row was making his stomach growl and Doc was becoming irritable as a consequence.

But there was nothing he could do except wait for Leander Tucker to convey his secret message to Monk and Ham. Oh, they acted clownish at times, but when they teamed up, the two men could pull off a miracle an hour. If anyone could spirit Seaman Goines down into the brig so Doc Savage could escape, it would be those two.

The bronze man’s confidence was shaken when Chief Warrant Officer Paul Greer showed up unexpectedly.

Greer strode up to the round porthole of a window. Without saying a word, he peered through the glass pane and began studying Doc Savage in a way that the bronze man did not like at all.

Doc said nothing, shipboard regulations calling for a respectful silence.

Finally, Greer spoke. “Seaman Goines, tell me what happened the other night? What got you into this trouble?”

Doc made his voice deeper and less resonant. “Well, you see, sir, I was going about my usual business and I took a spell of some sort. When I woke up, I was in this here trouble.”

“Did you smell anything beforehand?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“So you cannot account for your dereliction of duty?”

Doc shook his head heavily. “Near as I can tell, sir, I had a fit. It was out of my hands.”

“Well, you’re not the only one to have a fit,” said Greer tightly.

“You don’t say?” said Doc.

“I just came from a cabin. There was a man lying on a bunk looks like your twin brother.”

Doc kept his voice unexcited. “I don’t have a brother, but if I did, he’s not on this boat.”

“His friends told me he had taken a spell exactly like the one that overcame you.”

“That makes me feel a little relieved,” offered Doc, although his private feelings were exactly the opposite. He had to suppress an urge to release his pent-up emotions through his quirk of trilling.

“It does?” prompted Greer.

“Yes, sir,” said Doc. “I don’t feel so bad about falling down on the job if it’s happened to another man.”

The Chief Warrant Officer stared at Doc Savage for the longest time without speaking further.

Turning on his heel, he stormed out, warning loudly, “I will get to the bottom of this one way or the other.”

The outer door slammed, and the Master at Arms looked at the man he thought was Seaman Goines and asked, “What the heck is going on?”

Doc lowered his voice. “I’m afraid to say,” he hissed.

“You know something?”

Doc shook his head solemnly. “No. But I sure do suspect things. Strange things, too.”

The job of guarding the brig was a boring and lonely one. The Master at Arms drifted up and said, “Tell me more, brother.”