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  Title: The Living Fire Menace: A Doc Savage Adventure

  Date of first publication: 1938

  Author: Harold A. Davis (as Kenneth Robeson) (1903-1955)

  Date first posted: Oct. 13, 2019

  Date last updated: Oct. 13, 2019

  Faded Page eBook #20191036

  This eBook was produced by: Al Haines, Cindy Beyer & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net

  THE FLAME WITHIN

  “I’ve got to make it! I’ve got to make it! I’ve got to get word out—get word to Doc Savage!”

  * * *

  The man’s heart pounded as he thought of the secret he carried—a secret he must reveal at once if he were to prevent untold calamity.

  * * *

  “The living fire! The death that cannot be avoided. The fire that spurts from within, that burns and destroys!”

  * * *

  Doc Savage and his amazing crew in a searing encounter with a phenomenon that renders even them helpless!

  Books by Kenneth Robeson

  THE MAN OF BRONZE THE SQUEAKING GOBLINS

  THE THOUSAND-HEADED MAN MAD EYES

  METEOR MENACE THE TERROR IN THE NAVY

  THE POLAR TREASURE DUST OF DEATH

  BRAND OF THE WEREWOLF RESURRECTION DAY

  THE LOST OASIS HEX

  THE MONSTERS RED SNOW

  THE LAND OF TERROR WORLD’S FAIR GOBLIN

  THE MYSTIC MULLAH THE DAGGER IN THE SKY

  THE PHANTOM CITY MERCHANTS OF DISASTER

  FEAR CAY THE GOLD OGRE

  QUEST OF QUI THE MAN WHO SHOOK THE EARTH

  LAND OF ALWAYS-NIGHT THE SEA MAGICIAN

  THE FANTASTIC ISLAND THE MEN WHO SMILED NO MORE

  MURDER MELODY THE MIDAS MAN

  THE SPOOK LEGION LAND OF LONG JUJU

  THE RED SKULL THE FEATHERED OCTOPUS

  THE SARGASSO OGRE THE SEA ANGEL

  PIRATE OF THE PACIFIC DEVIL ON THE MOON

  THE SECRET IN THE SKY HAUNTED OCEAN

  COLD DEATH THE VANISHER

  THE CZAR OF FEAR THE MENTAL WIZARD

  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE HE COULD STOP THE WORLD

  THE GREEN EAGLE THE GOLDEN PERIL

  THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND THE GIGGLING GHOSTS

  DEATH IN SILVER POISON ISLAND

  THE MYSTERY UNDER THE SEA THE MUNITIONS MASTER

  THE DEADLY DWARF THE YELLOW CLOUD

  THE OTHER WORLD THE MAJII

  THE FLAMING FALCONS THE LIVING FIRE MENACE

  THE ANNIHILIST

  THE LIVING

  FIRE MENACE

  A DOC SAVAGE ADVENTURE

  BY KENNETH ROBESON

  THE LIVING FIRE MENACE

  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine January 1938

  Copyright © 1937 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  I A STRANGE WARNING 1

  II ATTACKERS STRIKE 4

  III A GIRL CALLS 13

  IV STINGER STRIKES 19

  V A CALL TO THE MORGUE 26

  VI A CHALLENGE ACCEPTED 32

  VII A WILD DRIVER 37

  VIII A GUNMAN SPEAKS 42

  IX THE TRAP CLOSES 48

  X MEN OF FIRE 54

  XI A MIRACLE NEEDED 59

  XII SANDS OF DEATH 65

  XIII THE LIVING FIRE STRIKES 72

  XIV A PROFESSOR PLAYS TRICKS 77

  XV KILLERS CLASH 83

  XVI A MOB AMUCK 90

  XVII BETWEEN TWO FIRES 93

  XVIII A FLIGHT FOR LIFE 102

  XIX THE SUB AFIRE 108

  XX JOURNEY’S END 114

  THE LIVING FIRE MENACE

  Chapter I

  A STRANGE WARNING

  The man reeled as he tried to run. His breath came in short gasps. Time after time his head twisted to dart quick, fearful looks behind him.

  Perspiration was streaming from his body. His face was a queer cherry-red, the lips puffed and scarlet bright. His feet kicked up small clouds of sand.

  Overhead, the sun was beating down relentlessly. On either side were cactus and sage. And ahead, not far now, were the scattered buildings of the desert town of Sandrit.

  Mumbled words came from between the puffed lips.

  “I’ve got to make it! I’ve got to make it! I’ve got to get word out—get word to Doc Savage!”

  At Palm Springs, only a few short miles away, beautiful movie stars were lounging around in shorts. Cooling drinks were near at hand. The thermometer was well over a hundred.

  But the running man was dressed as if for a zero winter day.

  Strange wrappings on his feet accounted for part of his reeling gait. Strips from an old inner tube had been bound about those feet. The strips had cut into the flesh until blood drops marked the trail, but the man did not pause.

  His body seemed sheathed in many clothes. And about those clothes other strips of rubber had been bound. On his hands were heavy rubber gloves.

  But it was the man’s eyes that held attention. Fear blazed from sunken orbs—deadly, unhealthy fear.

  Some might have doubted that the reeling man was sane. And the words he babbled sounded like those of a man in the grip of a nightmare:

  “The living fire! The death that cannot be avoided! The fire that spurts from within, that burns and destroys! A hell-fire! And it’ll get me! I cannot escape!”

  The man’s heart pounded as he thought of the secret he carried—a secret he must reveal at once if he were to prevent untold calamity.

  Once again his head twisted so that he looked behind him. A faint cloud of dust showed on the road over which he had just come. A big car came into view.

  Frantically the man tried to run faster, his cherry-red face twisting with renewed anguish, his eyes popping.

  “I’ve got to go on!” he gritted. “I’ve got to get word to Doc Savage!”

  The girl in the big car did not look dangerous. She looked as if she might be one of the movie stars visiting at Palm Springs.

  Long black curls framed a face that was almost perfection. Only a stub nose broke the faultless symmetry of her features. Her eyes were dark pools of bewitching enchantry. Shorts and a halter did little to hide the seductiveness of her form.

  But as the girl caught sight of the reeling man ahead, her face changed subtly. An expression almost of craftiness flashed in her dark eyes; her soft lips tightened.

  The man had almost reached the filling-station. The girl braked the big car, slowing it instantly until it was barely moving.

  The girl glanced behind her. Something like a sigh escaped her lips as she saw the road was clear.

  She reached into a side pocket of the car, even as she brought the machine to a stop at the edge of the road.

  Then she had opened the door, had slid to the ground, was moving rapidly toward the filling-station where the reeling man had vanished. The sunlight flickered
wickedly on the small, deadly automatic she carried in her hand.

  The filling-station attendant did not see her. He was gazing open-mouthed at the strange apparition that had materialized before him.

  The queerly dressed man seemed oblivious of the attendant. With glazed eyes, he rushed toward the old-fashioned-type telephone in one corner of the room.

  “I’ve got to tell them! There she is! I’ve got to get word to Doc Savage—”

  Hands awkward in their heavy gloves, the man spun desperately on the crank to signal the telephone operator.

  “Number, please,” came a cool, crisp voice.

  The frightened man’s words tore from his swollen lips.

  “Get me Doc Savage’s office, in New York!” he half screamed. “Tell him this is Z-2 calling. Get Doc Savage! Get him!”

  * * *

  The filling-station attendant’s mouth dropped open even farther. His eyes tried to jump from his head.

  “Doc Savage!” he repeated, and his voice held a note of awe.

  There was frenzied fear in the stranger’s face, in the queer, pinched lines about his eyes as he waited for his call.

  “Hurry!” he yelled impotently. “Hurry! I’ve got to reach Doc Savage before it’s too late!”

  The telephone operator was hurrying. The name Doc Savage had done something to her, also. Her voice had an unusually excited timbre as she implored intervening stations for speed.

  “Doc Savage’s office. William Harper Littlejohn speaking,” came calm, measured tones from the other end of the wire.

  The telephone operator’s heart sank. “A call for Mr. Doc Savage,” she said hopefully.

  “Clark Savage, Jr., is absent for the nonce. I will hear the communication.”

  “Johnny! Johnny! Listen! This is Z-2!” the queerly dressed man shouted frantically into the telephone. “You’ve got to get word to Doc at once!”

  He paused, subconsciously stripped one heavy glove from a hand to wipe the perspiration from his face.

  “I’ve found something that’s unbelievable! The fate of the world is at stake. And there’s a plot aimed at Doc, at all of you! Listen. I’ll give you the low-down fast. I haven’t got long to live. There’s a living fire. It’s terrible! It’s—”

  A pretty face pressed close to a half-opened window of the filling-station. Dark eyes gleamed with sudden anticipation.

  Blam!

  There was a noise like two boards smacking together sharply. A queer, burned odor filled the air.

  At the other end of the wire, more than two thousand miles away, that sharp crack came clearly.

  But no more words came over that wire.

  Chapter II

  ATTACKERS STRIKE

  William Harper Littlejohn, better known as “Johnny,” seldom showed excitement. Lean, with a half-starved look, with glasses hiding his eyes, he appeared like just what he was: a studious scientist, one of the world’s greatest geologists and archaeologists.

  But he was excited now. With almost unseemly haste, for him, he signaled for the long-distance operator, barked with unaccustomed harshness:

  “Get that number back, operator. Get it back at once. This is Doc Savage’s office speaking!”

  Across the room a thin, lean man with yellow, unhealthy-appearing skin, lounged indolently in an easychair. He was pulling absently at an oversize ear.

  Major Thomas J. Roberts appeared a physical weakling. Appearances were deceitful, even as his slouching pose was now. He tried to seem nonchalant; actually, he was afire with curiosity.

  “What is it, Johnny, some nut?” he asked.

  “Nut, nothing!” Johnny rapped.

  Major Thomas J. Roberts, familiarly called “Long Tom,” sat up abruptly in his chair. The very fact that Johnny had failed to use his usual quota of big words was sufficient to tell him that something was in the air.

  “That was Z-2,” Johnny explained rapidly. “He’s an undercover agent for the Department of Justice. I once knew him well, was in the army with him. He’s tripped across something big.”

  Swiftly Johnny repeated the message the man known as Z-2 had given him.

  “I wish Doc were here,” Long Tom muttered.

  But Doc Savage was not near by. He was not even in the city, but was miles away, possibly thousands of miles away.

  The telephone rang sharply. Johnny grabbed for it.

  “I have your party back for you,” the operator said sweetly.

  “Z-2?” Johnny demanded breathlessly. “What happened? What was that noise—”

  “Naw,” came a half-frightened, choking voice. “T-this ain’t that guy who called himself Z-2. H-he ain’t here no more. H-he’s dead. T-this is Paul Smith, the filling-station attendant.”

  * * *

  Paul Smith’s pimply face was still white. He’d witnessed something he knew he’d remember until he died—something that had horrified, yet fascinated him.

  “This guy, see,” he explained, as Johnny demanded details swiftly. “This guy he came in here all funny dressed. Hot as it is, he even had gloves on and had inner tire tubing wrapped around his feet for shoes.”

  “Go on,” Johnny ordered crisply.

  “His face was a funny red color, and his hand, too, when he took one glove off. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I know now he was awful scared.”

  “I’ll take that for granted. What happened?” Johnny interrupted impatiently.

  “W-why, this guy, he called for Doc Savage,” Paul Smith explained. “Somebody answered. He started to talk.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “He was awfully hot. He was wiping sweat off his face as he talked. And he really was shouting. He seemed awful worked up.”

  “I know.” Johnny’s voice became very resigned. “But tell me in words of one syllable, what happened?”

  Paul Smith wet dry lips with the tip of his tongue.

  “He—he blew up!” he shouted. “H-he just became a sheet of fire!”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “How did it happen?” Johnny asked softly.

  “I—I don’t know.” Paul Smith was frankly sobbing now. “It—it was just as if a sheet of lightning hit him, or something. He—he just became one big flash of fire, like I said. He—he shriveled and burned, and the odor of his flesh, it—ah—”

  “And there was nothing near him, no one close but you?”

  “N-no one,” Paul Smith whimpered. “It—it just happened. I—I couldn’t’a’ done it. No one could. I-it seemed as if the flame came from within, not from outside him anywhere. No one but I was near him, anyway.”

  Paul Smith thought he told the truth. He never had seen the beautiful face of the girl that had been near the half-opened window.

  Long Tom was an electrical genius. He shook his head when Johnny suggested there might have been something about the telephone that caused a short circuit or electrical discharge that could have killed Z-2.

  “Impossible,” he said flatly. “That could not have happened under any circumstances.”

  “But something did,” Johnny reflected softly.

  “What could a government man have been doing in a small desert town like Sandrit?” Long Tom puzzled aloud. “It had to be something big, but whoever heard of a living fire? And what was he trying to warn us about? How could we be in danger?”

  Johnny shook his head. He was equally puzzled.

  * * *

  Long Tom and Johnny would have been even more puzzled just then if they could have heard and seen what was going on in a lavish suite at a big hotel not many blocks away.

  Three men were there. One was pacing nervously up and down the room. He was a tall man, and very thin. He looked almost like a scarecrow. His face was a peculiar cherry-red. Petrod Yardoff was not well known in the United States. In some European countries he was too well known. Many strange stories had been linked with his name.

  Lounging across from Yardoff was a long, husky man, with the steely, unblinking eyes o
f a snake. Those eyes and the gun he always carried had earned him the nickname “Stinger.” Stinger Salvatore was well known in the United States. Many strange tales had been linked with his name, too, but none had ever been proved in court.

  The third of the group watched his companions with cynical amusement. Clement Hoskins was known to very few. He intended to remain that way. Huge, with a barrel-shaped body that was as big around as he was tall, Hoskins nevertheless gave the impression of rough, vicious strength.

  “You have done good work so far, Stinger,” Petrod Yardoff said softly. “But one job remains. A tough job.”

  Stinger shrugged slightly. He pulled a handkerchief from one sleeve, wiped his hands. “Spill it,” he said laconically.

  “Would you like to cut in on a game that will pay off in millions?” Clement Hoskins queried sardonically.

  Stinger Salvatore’s lounging frame came erect suddenly. “Millions?” he repeated slowly. “The job you’ve got for me must be a tough one!”

  “A tough job, but worth it—if you consider the millions,” Hoskins grated. “But I wonder—I wonder if you’ve got nerve enough to tackle it?”

  Stinger’s face reddened. “Spill it!” he snapped.

  “We want six men—just six,” Clement Hoskins breathed.

  The gangleader snorted contemptuously. “And I thought it was a tough job. How do you want ’em? Alive or—”

  “Those six men,” Petrod Yardoff said gently, “are Doc Savage and his five aids.”

  * * *

  There was sudden silence in the room. Stinger’s face turned the shade of paste. “Doc Savage,” he muttered.

  Stinger’s features became sober. “Friends of mine have tried to buck that bronze devil,” he said. “They’ve never been seen again. He’s poison.”

  “Are you afraid?” Yardoff sneered.

  The gangster looked at him with unwinking eyes. “Afraid? No,” he said softly. “Just careful.”