The Sea Angel: A Doc Savage Adventure Read online

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  Title: The Sea Angel

  Date of first publication: 1937

  Author: Lester Dent (as Kenneth Robeson) (1904-1959)

  Date first posted: Apr. 4, 2020

  Date last updated: Apr. 4, 2020

  Faded Page eBook #20200402

  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 DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND

  THE THOUSAND-HEADED MAN DEATH IN SILVER

  METEOR MENACE THE MYSTERY UNDER THE SEA

  THE POLAR TREASURE THE DEADLY DWARF

  BRAND OF THE WEREWOLF THE OTHER WORLD

  THE LOST OASIS THE FLAMING FALCONS

  THE MONSTERS THE ANNIHILIST

  THE LAND OF TERROR THE SQUEAKING GOBLINS

  THE MYSTIC MULLAH MAD EYES

  THE PHANTOM CITY THE TERROR IN THE NAVY

  FEAR CAY DUST OF DEATH

  QUEST OF QUI RESURRECTION DAY

  LAND OF ALWAYS-NIGHT HEX

  FANTASTIC ISLAND RED SNOW

  MURDER MELODY WORLD’S FAIR GOBLIN

  THE SPOOK LEGION THE DAGGER IN THE SKY

  THE RED SKULL MERCHANTS OF DISASTER

  THE SARGASSO OGRE THE GOLD OGRE

  PIRATE OF THE PACIFIC THE MAN WHO SHOOK THE EARTH

  THE SECRET IN THE SKY THE SEA MAGICIAN

  COLD DEATH THE MAN WHO SMILED NO MORE

  THE CZAR OF FEAR THE MIDAS MAN

  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE LAND OF LONG JUJU

  THE GREEN EAGLE THE FEATHERED OCTOPUS

  THE SEA ANGEL

  THE

  SEA ANGEL

  A DOC SAVAGE ADVENTURE

  BY KENNETH ROBESON

  THE SEA ANGEL

  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine November 1937

  Copyright © 1937 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter Page

  I THE AMAZING REDSKINS 1

  II THE SEA ANGEL 5

  III THE THREE LETTERS 10

  IV GRABBERS AND THE GRABBED 17

  V THE NICE YOUNG MAN 22

  VI THE WALK-OUT 25

  VII SCHEMERS 29

  VIII THE WARNED MAN 34

  IX THE TRAP 38

  X BODIES THAT BURN 41

  XI DEVIL’S DERELICT 45

  XII THE SCHEME 51

  XIII ISLAND TRAIL 55

  XIV COOLINS GETS A CLUE 60

  XV THE “FLYING DUTCHMAN” 63

  XVI THE “PATIENT” 71

  XVII THE GUARDIAN ANGEL 78

  XVIII THE ANGELS LAIR 82

  XIX DEATH—RENDEZVOUS 91

  XX H. O. G. 97

  XXI TRAPPED BELOW 107

  XXII FAST 113

  XXIII THE ANGEL ON THE CLIFF 116

  THE SEA ANGEL

  Chapter I

  THE AMAZING REDSKINS

  He was a peaceful old gentleman who was scared out of his wits. Peaceful-looking, that is. His hair was white, and his skin was as soft and pink as a baby’s even if it did have wrinkles in it.

  He was frightened. As terrified and as full of cold, horrible suspense as a man watching a black widow spider crawl down his arm.

  The scared old man was getting out of an automobile in front of the main entrance to the Museum of Natural History. The automobile was one equipped with armor plate and special glass. Another automobile had driven up to the museum entrance ahead of it. Still another had followed behind. These two escort cars were full of gentlemen with guns in their pockets, suspicion in their eyes, and detective badges—private and police—on their clothing.

  Before the old gentleman stirred from his car, the guards scattered over the sidewalk and into the museum, looking around, then signaled discreetly that it was safe.

  Having observed nobody suspicious inside the museum, the burly man in charge of the guards came out to report to the old gentleman.

  “Coast looks clear,” he said. “But, Mr. Quietman, it would make it a lot simpler if we had some idea of just who is threatening you. Who is this Sea Angel?”

  The old gentleman—Leander L. Quietman, philanthropist, patron of arts, beloved old gentleman who gave dollar bills to poor newsboys, according to the newspapers—shrugged and looked exasperated.

  “I’ve told you I do not know!” he said. “It—the thing—your job is to protect me from anything. Anything! Now, I am going in to have a look at the exhibit of the Calhugi Indians which I am presenting to the museum.”

  As he entered the museum, Quietman looked just a bit more scared than any man should be who does not know what he is scared of, except that it was a telephone voice calling itself the “Sea Angel.”

  The Calhugi Indian exhibit was located in an alcove off the enormous third-floor hall which contained exhibits of other tribes of American, Canadian and Alaskan Indians. There was not a single visitor or spectator in the room. The reason for this was simple: It was seven o’clock in the morning, and the museum was not yet open to visitors.

  Leander L. Quietman, after having a guard go ahead to make sure the place was empty of human presence, said, “You men may wait for me outside if you wish. I prefer to admire this alone.”

  Then he walked toward the exhibit which he was donating.

  The bodyguards loafed outside the door and indulged in their favorite pastime of trying to figure out who or what was menacing Leander L. Quietman.

  Meanwhile, Leander L. Quietman was walking toward his Calhugi Indian exhibit, which was at the far end of the hall. The Calhugi Indians were probably as little-known aborigines as ever chased a buffalo or paddled a birch-bark canoe.

  Quietman drew a breath of admiration when he saw his exhibit, only just completed by the finest restoration artists in the business. Experts in working with wax.

  It consisted of a sod house shaped like a beehive. At one side of the house stood a small herd of six shaggy ponies. On one of these ponies sat a squat, enormously thick and broad Indian.

  This Indian had an amazing set of muscles, which was probably fortunate, because he did not look as if he
could possibly have many brains. Other Calhugi savages were seated, cross-legged, around a camp fire, along with their squaws. They were engaged in arrow-making and other pursuits.

  Quietman heaved another sigh of admiration. He stepped under the velvet rope surrounding the exhibit and advanced for a closer look at a wax Calhugi Indian, who was making a tomahawk.

  “A marvelous work of art!” gasped Leander L. Quietman, after a close look. “A beautiful specimen of the human race!”

  “My mother always thought so, too,” said the Calhugi brave, who was supposed to be made of wax.

  The next instant, he had Quietman by the throat and had lifted his tomahawk.

  “One peep,” he said, “and I’ll tomahawk you plenty!”

  Poor old Leander L. Quietman became pale, and began to shake.

  The Calhugi Indian sitting on the wax pony got off. His legs were stiff, and he staggered about ludicrously.

  “Damn this razorback horse!” he groaned.

  Several more of the supposedly wax redskins now got up, and two came out of the sod beehive. One of these carried a rope ladder.

  The squat, muscular fellow who had been on the horse—he had an enormous stomach of the type commonly called pot-belly—now took charge.

  “The window,” he said. “And no more wise cracks. Them bodyguards may hear us.”

  “O. K., Boscoe,” the fake Indians agreed, and grabbed Leander L. Quietman.

  “W-what does this m-mean?” Quietman gulped.

  “It means,” said the tubby “Boscoe,” “that we had to try this crazy gag to get our hands on you. You didn’t think that because you walked around in a swarm of cops and bodyguards we wouldn’t get you, did you? Grabbing you is the only way to save you from the Sea Angel.”

  Quietman choked, “S-saving me f-from the Sea Angel?”

  “Believe it or not, and strange as it seems,” Boscoe agreed.

  Quietman moaned, “Y-you are m-making a mistake!”

  “The hell we are!” Boscoe grinned.

  The men proceeded with their saving. They taped Quietman’s lips, fastened his wrists with wider tape, then led him to a window. One opened the window. Tying Quietman to an end of the rope ladder, they lowered him.

  During this operation, Boscoe went back to the Calhugi Indian exhibit and pilfered. He stuffed his pockets with stone knives, flint arrowheads and several pairs of moccasins.

  Boscoe seemed to forget everything else in his absorption with the looting. He grabbed two or three bows, two tomahawks, then began to tuck arrows under an arm. He added a long spear. Indeed, he seemed bent on taking everything in sight.

  Several of the men were now down the ladder, and they had untied old Leander L. Quietman and were holding him. The others descended. Boscoe was last.

  Boscoe’s descent was something of burlesque comedy. He had stuffed his Indian garments with everything they would hold, and had both arms full, which left no hands free to handle the rope ladder.

  It was with the greatest reluctance that he surrendered an armload of his loot, and climbed down.

  “Whatcha gonna do with that stuff?” a man gritted.

  “Oh, I dunno,” Boscoe said vaguely. “I’ll think of something.”

  The Museum of Natural History originally started with one building, and others were added. There are alleyways and courts between these structures. The men had descended into one of the courts, from which an alley led to a side street.

  They got in motion, two of them guiding Leander L. Quietman.

  Boscoe had his difficulties. He dropped an arrow, stooped to pick it up, and lost two moccasins. He progressed in this fashion, bobbing along after the others, but leaving a trail of erstwhile Calhugi belongings. He groaned in agony as he saw his loot dwindling.

  This obviously tickled his companions. They grinned widely.

  Then their grins faded.

  A most remarkable-looking man had appeared in front of them.

  Chapter II

  THE SEA ANGEL

  Standing on pedestals here and there inside that part of the museum devoted to sculpture were a number of bronze statues of ancient athletes who had legendary strength.

  This stranger was like that. He might as readily have been one of the statues come to life, as the other men had lately been Calhugi Indians. He was, however, attired in a neat, brown civilian suit, and there was no make-up on his skin to make it resemble bronze, whereas the others had their hides painted a coppery red.

  Nothing happened for some moments. The fake redskins looked at the man they had met.

  Boscoe said quickly, “Watch it, guys, watch it! Daniel in the lion’s den didn’t have anything on us!”

  “One side, bronze guy!” a man snarled. “Or we’ll take you plenty!”

  “You apes!” Boscoe growled. “Do you know who this guy——”

  Boscoe did not finish. The action started. A man pointed his pistol at the bronze giant. There was blurred motion, and the bronze giant was not where he had been; and two men were flat on their backs, kicking their legs like flies and trying to figure out just what had happened.

  Poor old Leander L. Quietman had been dropped on the hard cement alley pavement. The men who had held him leaped to the attack.

  A man drew a gun. “Get ’em up!”

  “Nix!” Boscoe barked anxiously.

  The next instant, as if by some miraculous legerdemain, the bronze man had secured the gun. He pointed it at the sky, pulled the trigger. A mousetrap would have made more noise. The pistol was not loaded.

  Boscoe groaned, “Now he knows our guns are empty!”

  If the fact that a gang of men staging a kidnaping carried unloaded guns amazed the bronze giant, he did not show emotion about it.

  The fight continued. It became obvious the unbelievable was going to happen. The mountain was coming to Mahomet, water would run uphill. One amazing bronze man was going to whip the whole gang!

  Then, and the very suddenness of it was incredibly weird, men seemed to freeze where they stood. They had been jumping about wildly, striking, trying to get clear of their Nemesis. They stiffened. It was as if they were a movie which had been stopped at one scene. They seemed scarcely to breathe, until finally, Boscoe lifted a thick arm slowly and pointed.

  “The Sea Angel!” he croaked.

  The bronze man—Doc Savage—whirled and saw it.

  Fantastic thing. An incredible thing. Had it been night, the thing might have been a bit more believable.

  Eight feet might be the height of the incredible creature. That, though, was a guess. It was frilly around the edges. It was half as wide as high. It had a thick part for a body. It had triangular wings, two of them, and these ran to a point; and from these dangled black ropelike arms, eight or ten feet long. Each arm terminated in a black ball a little smaller than a baseball.

  Silver was the creature’s color. The slick silver of a fish. But there were black markings—the edges of the thing, and the arms.

  As it stood there, it did bear some resemblance to an angel.

  It had a mouth. This was evident when the mouth opened and showed a jet-black gullet. The mouth was large enough to take a beer keg, with only a little stretching.

  Boscoe croaked, “Boys, we’re in a predicament now!”

  Doc Savage lunged for the silver monstrosity. He was lightning on his feet.

  But the Sea Angel was lightning doubled. One of the black arms whipped forward, and the long, black rope came around like a blacksnake whip.

  Doc dodged, and the dark ball barely touched him. But the touch had an incredible effect: He felt it from head to foot. Not pain. Something else. Shock. Agony.

  The bronze man stumbled back, was clear when the other arm struck. He kept moving, reached old Leander Quietman, scooped him up.

  It became evident that there was no way out of the alley and court. But in a corner was a small brick box of a building, the door open, a key in the lock. Tools, lawn mowers, were inside.

  Do
c whipped to the shed, popped Leander Quietman inside, and closed the door. He turned the key in the lock, then took the key out.

  Doc got close to the brick wall. He shoved the key into a cranny between the bricks, twisted, and broke it so that it would never open the little tool cubicle again.

  The strange creature, the Sea Angel, glided to the tool house, fluttered about it a moment. It could not get in. It made no sound.

  Boscoe and his men ran. They ran as if getting away from there was the nicest thing they had ever been able to do.

  The Sea Angel advanced on Doc Savage. The bronze man dipped into his clothing and brought out a small gas grenade. He hurled it. The thing broke against the monster, poured out tear gas.

  The tear gas had absolutely no effect, except that it made it necessary for the bronze man to get away immediately. He managed to do it by a wild rush.

  Doc got out of the alley and onto a side street.

  Boscoe and his men were in two cars, leaving rapidly.

  A young woman stood on the sidewalk. An unusually tall and attractive young woman, who was staring in wonder at the goings-on.

  Suddenly she screamed, whirled, ran.

  She had seen, of course, the Sea Angel. The thing was following Doc Savage.

  Doc ran swiftly. Construction work was being done on a near-by street, under the elevated railway. The bronze man made for the loose bricks, and when he reached them, he picked one up, and let fly.

  The brick struck squarely. And the monster wavered for an instant, driven off balance. Doc picked up more bricks. The incredible apparition retreated swiftly.

  A taxicab came cruising around the corner, and the daydreaming driver saw the silver-and-black creature. He gave a violent start and hung his amazed face out a window.

  One of the monster’s strange, black feelers snaked out and barely touched the driver’s elbow. The hackman shrieked. Screeched as if he had lost the arm. And he fed his cab gears and gas.