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  Title: The Munitions Master

  Date of first publication: 1938

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

  Date first posted: Apr. 19, 2020

  Date last updated: Apr. 19, 2020

  Faded Page eBook #20200438

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

  DOC SAVAGE’S AMAZING CREW

  William Harper Littlejohn, the bespectacled scientist who was the world’s greatest living expert on geology and archaeology.

  Colonel John Renwick, “Renny,” his favorite sport was pounding his massive fists through heavy, paneled doors.

  Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, “Monk,” only a few inches over five feet tall, and yet over 260 pounds. His brutish exterior concealed the mind of a great scientist.

  Major Thomas J. Roberts, “Long Tom,” was the physical weakling of the crowd, but a genius at electricity.

  Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, slender and waspy, he was never without his ominous, black sword cane.

  WITH THEIR LEADER, THEY WOULD GO ANYWHERE, FIGHT ANYONE, DARE EVERYTHING—SEEKING EXCITEMENT AND PERILOUS ADVENTURE!

  Books by Kenneth Robeson

  THE MAN OF BRONZE THE FLAMING FALCONS

  THE THOUSAND-HEADED MAN THE ANNIHILIST

  METEOR MENACE THE SQUEAKING GOBLINS

  THE POLAR TREASURE MAD EYES

  BRAND OF THE WEREWOLF THE TERROR IN THE NAVY

  THE LOST OASIS DUST OF DEATH

  THE MONSTERS RESURRECTION DAY

  THE LAND OF TERROR HEX

  THE MYSTIC MULLAH RED SNOW

  THE PHANTOM CITY WORLD’S FAIR GOBLIN

  FEAR CAY THE DAGGER IN THE SKY

  QUEST OF QUI MERCHANTS OF DISASTER

  LAND OF ALWAYS-NIGHT THE GOLD OGRE

  FANTASTIC ISLAND THE MAN WHO SHOOK THE EARTH

  MURDER MELODY THE SEA MAGICIAN

  THE SPOOK LEGION THE MAN WHO SMILED NO MORE

  THE RED SKULL THE MIDAS MAN

  THE SARGASSO OGRE LAND OF LONG JUJU

  PIRATE OF THE PACIFIC THE FEATHERED OCTOPUS

  THE SECRET IN THE SKY THE SEA ANGEL

  COLD DEATH DEVIL ON THE MOON

  THE CZAR OF FEAR HAUNTED OCEAN

  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE THE VANISHER

  THE GREEN EAGLE THE MENTAL WIZARD

  THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND HE COULD STOP THE WORLD

  DEATH IN SILVER THE GOLDEN PERIL

  THE MYSTERY UNDER THE SEA THE GIGGLING GHOSTS

  THE DEADLY DWARF POISON ISLAND

  THE OTHER WORLD THE MUNITIONS MASTER

  THE

  MUNITIONS

  MASTER

  A DOC SAVAGE ADVENTURE

  BY KENNETH ROBESON

  THE MUNITIONS MASTER

  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine August 1938

  Copyright 1938 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter Page

  I PUPPETS FALL 1

  II A MOB’S FURY 7

  III THE WORLD IS WARNED 13

  IV “SHOOT TO KILL!” 19

  V TRAPPED! 24

  VI DEATH ROARS 31

  VII AN UNBELIEVER CONVINCED 37

  VIII AN ESCAPE ACT 44

  IX LONG TOM FALLS 51

  X LIVING DEAD 58

  XI AN OPERATION ORDERED 66

  XII VISITORS ARRIVE 76

  XIII AN INTERCEPTED MESSAGE 82

  XIV A WORLD INFLAMED 90

  XV A RESURRECTION 96

  XVI AN EXECUTION 103

  XVII A MESSAGE SENT 111

  XVIII CHECKMATE! 118

  XIX THEATER OF DEATH 125

  XX PEACE 131

  THE

  MUNITIONS

  MASTER

  Chapter I

  PUPPETS FALL

  The little man did not look dangerous. Certainly those about him had no suspicion of the part he was to play in the almost unbelievable horror that within a few minutes would transform a gay, merry-making throng into a panic-stricken, fear-crazed mob.

  He was a small man, with a thin face and wide mouth. His features were sullen, his cap pulled low over his head. He appeared insignificant.

  And if he did not appear worthy of a second glance, neither did the burden he carried.

  He was having difficulty getting that burden through the crowd. It consisted of three loaves of French bread, three or four feet long. The staff of life, not the symbol of horror and death.

  In some countries it would have been uncommon to see bread carried in such a manner. In Paris, such a burden was taken for granted. Long loaves of bread are carried through the streets as a matter of course.

  The little man twisted from side to side. His sole desire seemed to be to protect the bread. He apparently paid little attention otherwise to the crowds.

  But to protect the bread was a hard enough task. Paris was in a holiday mood. The gay tricolor of France hung from almost every window. Gay throngs packed the tables of the sidewalk cafés. The stirring sound of martial music came from the distance. Troops would soon march in review.

  The man with the bread was not as unconcerned as he appeared. Occasionally he would dart his head around, peer over his shoulder, as if fearful that he was being trailed.

  Intelligence officers were in the crowd, but they were paying no attention to the little man. In fact, they did not know just what they feared, just what they were to watch for.

  But there had been rumors. Strange rumors. Tenseness pervaded the foreign departments of several governments. Orders had been given to be constantly on the alert whenever crowds gathered.

  Certain statesmen might have been forewarned. There had been queer activities in certain parts of the world. In fact, the horror had struck twice before.

  The first time was in China. But the story was not believed—so many strange stories come out of China. The second time was in Russia. The world did not hear of that. The report was suppressed.

  Once more the little man’s head jerked around. He swung his bread out of the way of an overenthusiastic celebrator, swore at him fiercely, while the palms of his hands were damp suddenly.

  No one paid any attention. That is, no one human did.

  The peculiar-appearing creature could hardly have been called human, even if it was clad conventionally. Its hairy face indicated it was of simian, not human descent.

  A tall hat was perched grotesquely on the creature’s head. Long arms, half crooked, fell below the knees. It moved erect, but with a gliding motion.

  It saw the bread, and its tiny eyes lighted. It slid resolutely after the thin man. A long arm reached out. A paw opened.

  The little man’s head turned. He saw, just in time. He gave a frightened scream, snatched the bread away.

  There was a sudden commotion. Two figures plowed through
the crowd.

  “Chemistry!” shouted one. “Daggonit, ain’t you got better sense than to try and steal food?”

  The little man’s eyes goggled. His head jerked forward like a turtle’s. And from around him came a roar of good-natured amusement. The little man’s amazement was justified.

  For the man who had called out startlingly resembled the ape who had reached for the bread. He was a little thicker, but he was also wearing a tall hat. His arms, likewise, fell below the knees. And his eyes appeared buried in gristle until they were as tiny as those of the ape.

  Behind him, a tall, slender man, immaculately dressed, doubled up in laughter.

  “He thinks he’s seeing double!” he roared. “And I don’t blame him!”

  A gasp of recognition came from the crowd. “Les assistants de Doc Savage!” came an incredulous whisper. “Doc Savage’s men!”

  The little man heard. He seemed to shrink back; his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hate.

  The two men facing him did not notice. The tall, fashionplate appearing man was apologizing in his best French. The other, who looked like an ape himself, was holding onto the simian, complaining plaintively.

  “Daggonit, Ham,” he bleated, “I told you to leave this ape at the hotel.”

  “Ham,” otherwise known as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, Harvard’s gift to the legal profession, snickered delightedly.

  “And deprive Parisians of the pleasure of seeing twins, Monk?” he asked, with exaggerated politeness.

  “Monk,” known to the scientific world as Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, an outstanding chemist, swallowed hard.

  Ham had dressed Chemistry, his pet ape, to resemble Monk as nearly as possible. And for once, in good-natured ribbing that had been going on for years, Monk knew Ham had the edge. And as Habeas Corpus, Monk’s pet pig, was homesick, the hairy chemist, worried, was behind in his digs.

  The little man with the bread disappeared in the throng. Neither Monk nor Ham saw him go.

  In an office on the third floor of the building across the street, a man was removing binoculars from his eyes. He had witnessed the little man’s narrow escape at losing part of one loaf of bread.

  A sign on the office door said, “Carloff Traniv, Avocat.” But the office was a queer one for a lawyer to use. And the man himself did not appear to fall into that category.

  Carloff Traniv stood almost six feet four. His frame was that of a soldier, more than an attorney. His shoulders were squared, his stomach lean. His morning clothes fitted him as if he had been poured into them, but he gave them the effect of a military uniform, not a civilian dress.

  But his face was his most compelling feature. It had an air of command. His jaw was square, his eyes hard under long, thick black eyelashes. Heavy, almost curly black hair bushed forward over his forehead.

  “Doc Savage,” he sneered. “The master adventurer. The man who always blocks evil.”

  Two men slid close to him, peered out the window. “Almost time, boss?” one asked. He spoke with a Brooklyn accent, which was peculiar. For both he and his companion were dressed in the blue uniforms of French gendarmes.

  The big man nodded. There was a sudden roar from the crowd outside. The sound of martial music was very loud sounds of cheering reëchoed.

  “Go!” Traniv rasped. “You have your instructions. Do not fail! If you do——”

  A quick rippling of nerves passed over the two men in gendarme uniforms. Their eyes darted fearfully over strange, weird-appearing appliances about the office. Then they sped for the door.

  Across the street in an alleyway, the little man wet dry lips with a nervous tongue. His eyes were burning feverishly.

  Attention was centered on a reviewing stand, almost directly below Traniv’s office.

  “Doc Savage!” came the roar. “Doc Savage!”

  A tall, bronze giant was making his way toward a seat directly in the center of the reviewing stand. Despite his size, the symmetry of his development was such that it was difficult for the crowd to realize his true stature. His features were regular, almost classic. Now he was smiling slightly in acknowledgment of the applause.

  His straight hair was a slightly darker bronze than that of his skin. His eyes were like hypnotic pools of flake gold, compelling, attractive eyes. Muscles rippled smoothly.

  Monk and Ham chuckled delightedly. They knew part of the enthusiasm was due to newspaper reports of Doc’s errand in France.

  For Doc Savage, known formally as Clark Savage, Jr., was one of the world’s foremost medical authorities, even as he was an outstanding leader in such widely separated subjects as astronomy, undersea navigation and electrical research.

  The newspapers had hailed the bronze man widely. Doc Savage had discovered a new type of cell development that led him to believe it might be possible to restore the health of many war cripples, might even restore the sight of many thought hopelessly blind. He had come to Paris to work with French specialists.

  Doc lifted one hand, then took his seat. The lifting of that hand quieted the crowd. It showed in what reverence the bronze man was held.

  At that moment, two men in gendarme uniforms ducked out an entrance of the Metro, or Paris subway, moved until they were close to the reviewing stand.

  Across the street, the small, thin man with his loaves of bread, suddenly pushed his way to the front of the crowd.

  A band blared. Those in the reviewing stand rose to their feet. The military men saluted. There was a moment of silence as long ranks of young, tanned, physically perfect appearing soldiers started to march by.

  Then it happened!

  There was an unbelieving gasp. Then came the terrible, almost animal-sounding screams. The screams came from the soldiers.

  But only for a moment. Then noise burst from the crowd. Panic seized the multitude. The crowd became a seething mass of motion in which men fought blindly in wild panic, in which women were trampled underfoot. Those at the rear fought to get near the street to learn what had happened.

  In the street itself there was a strange sight. The ranks of soldiers had disappeared. In their place were rows of fallen figures that twisted and squirmed, and from which groans and horrible noises came constantly.

  A youth who had been at the edge of the sidewalk suddenly turned, fought to get away.

  “I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” he shrieked. “They were marching along! Then their legs melted! They can’t march without legs!”

  Chapter II

  A MOB’S FURY

  Doc Savage leaped from the reviewing stand and fought his way to the stricken figures in the street. He did not seem to use much force, but he eased through the crowd where another would have found progress impossible.

  Several hundred soldiers had fallen. They lay huddled, still in some semblance of the straight, well-ordered lines in which they had been marching.

  But they would never march again. They had been crippled forever, had been left with shattered bodies.

  It was as if their legs had been melted away, halfway to their knees. Their feet and the lower part of their legs had disappeared. There was a peculiar, sickening smell in the air.

  Doc Savage dropped beside the body of the closest soldier, an officer.

  A low, strange sound came suddenly. It was a trilling sound that apparently came from everywhere, but yet from no particular point. It was a sound the bronze man always made either when he was surprised or when he was warning of danger.

  And he was surprised now.

  There was nothing to indicate how the soldiers had been crippled. The stubs of their legs were seared as if from white-hot fire. That alone kept the men from bleeding to death. Had a sheet of intensely strong flame swept the street, it would have produced such a result; but there had been no such sheet of flame.

  It was easy to understand, though, why the soldiers were silent. They were suffering from shock, dazed and half unconscious from pain.

  Th
ere was excited calls from gendarmes. Ambulances were trying to force their way through the mob, and having little success.

  The soldiers were in danger of being trampled to death beneath the feet of their crazed countrymen. A troop of cavalry was trying to take care of that problem, officers leading their men directly into the twisting, swirling mass.

  The mob was fighting back, senselessly. The situation was tense, filled with danger.

  Doc Savage alone was cool.

  The bronze man came to his feet. His face did not change expression, but his gold-flecked eyes swept the swarming mob with calm deliberation.

  Monk and Ham, with Chemistry, had also fought their way toward the stricken soldiers. They realized, as quickly as did Doc, that there was nothing to be done.

  The soldiers were crippled. Their wounds had been cauterized. A majority would live, but for many it would mean lives as crippled as their bodies.

  “But if there ain’t no war, what caused it?” Monk wailed ungrammatically.

  Ham did not answer. The lawyer’s features were set; he was peering over the heads of the crowd, trying to locate Doc.

  The bronze man’s eyes flashed. They had found what they were seeking.

  A small, thin-faced man was boring furtively through the crowd. No longer was he carrying loaves of bread under his arm.

  Doc’s aids knew the bronze man had a photographic mind. He could see and remember small incidents that others would have overlooked.

  Just before the horror struck, the little man with the bread had been at the curb, along the line of march. As the soldiers had reached a spot in front of the reviewing stand, he had done a strange thing.

  He had reached out, had knocked off the ends of each of the loaves of bread he carried. Then he had dropped the bread.

  Doc dived forward.

  The thin-faced man saw him. He gave a startled cheep, and was engulfed in a wave of struggling forms. He was not far from Monk and Ham.