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  Title: Poison Island

  Date of first publication: 1939

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

  Date first posted: July 28, 2020

  Date last updated: July 28, 2020

  Faded Page eBook #20200740

  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 OTHER WORLD

  THE THOUSAND-HEADED MAN THE FLAMING FALCONS

  METEOR MENACE THE ANNIHILIST

  THE POLAR TREASURE THE SQUEAKING GOBLINS

  BRAND OF THE WEREWOLF MAD EYES

  THE LOST OASIS THE TERROR IN THE NAVY

  THE MONSTERS DUST OF DEATH

  THE LAND OF TERROR RESURRECTION DAY

  THE MYSTIC MULLAH HEX

  THE PHANTOM CITY RED SNOW

  FEAR CAY WORLD’S FAIR GOBLIN

  QUEST OF QUI THE DAGGER IN THE SKY

  LAND OF ALWAYS-NIGHT MERCHANTS OF DISASTER

  FANTASTIC ISLAND THE GOLD OGRE

  MURDER MELODY THE MAN WHO SHOOK THE EARTH

  THE SPOOK LEGION THE SEA MAGICIAN

  THE RED SKULL THE MAN WHO SMILED NO MORE

  THE SARGASSO OGRE THE MIDAS MAN

  PIRATE OF THE PACIFIC LAND OF LONG JUJU

  THE SECRET IN THE SKY THE FEATHERED OCTOPUS

  COLD DEATH THE SEA ANGEL

  THE CZAR OF FEAR DEVIL ON THE MOON

  FORTRESS OF SOLITUDE HAUNTED OCEAN

  THE GREEN EAGLE THE VANISHER

  THE DEVIL’S PLAYGROUND THE MENTAL WIZARD

  DEATH IN SILVER HE COULD STOP THE WORLD

  THE MYSTERY UNDER THE SEA THE GOLDEN PERIL

  THE DEADLY DWARF THE GIGGLING GHOSTS

  POISON ISLAND

  POISON

  ISLAND

  A DOC SAVAGE ADVENTURE

  BY KENNETH ROBESON

  POISON ISLAND

  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine September 1939

  Copyright © 1939 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter Page

  1 THE HINDU SAID 1

  2 THE EYE ON THE MAST 5

  3 INTERRUPTED RADIO 12

  4 SOMETHING TO WONDER ABOUT 16

  5 DEATH AT SEA 19

  6 THE WATCHERS 26

  7 SIX ARGUMENTS 32

  8 THE DECEIVERS 36

  9 THE WATCHMEN 43

  10 THE KARL MAXIMUS 49

  11 FIVE KICKING MULES 55

  12 THE NO-TALK MEDICINE 60

  13 EUROPE’S ANGRY MAN 66

  14 PARACHUTES 70

  15 IS A GIRL BAD? 73

  16 A MYSTERY CREEPING 77

  17 STRANGE ISLAND 83

  18 THE COVE OF WRECKS 90

  19 MUTINY 97

  20 DEATH RAN AND YELLED 101

  21 THE NABOB OF POISON ISLAND 107

  22 THE BOW-AND-ARROW ROUTE 112

  POISON ISLAND

  Chapter 1

  THE HINDU SAID

  On the morning of September 4th, the American newspapers carried a small item. It read:

  BLANCO GRANDE, Hidalgo—An attempted revolution against the established government of this Central American republic was smashed at its very outset today, according to officials. About a dozen persons were killed. Police are searching for the revolutionists, who have taken to hiding.

  That night—fortunately it was very dark—a large, sunburned young man, Herb March by name, climbed down out of the tree in which he had been sitting all day. The tree grew beside the Avenue Prado, which was a street that followed the water front of the town that was the principal and practically the only seaport of Hidalgo, the Central American republic where the revolution had stubbed its toe. It was a tree with a lot of leaves, and had been an excellent temporary refuge.

  Herb March left the tree reluctantly. He peered about, hoping he wouldn’t see any uniformed Hidalgoans with rifles. He made a mental note—no more revolutions.

  If they caught him, he was sure there would be no more revolutions for Herb March. There would be adobe wall with some fresh bullet pocks in it, and a six-foot-long mound of new-tamped earth on the hill, which the jungle would soon cover.

  And all because two hundred dollars a week for flying a plane and dropping a few bombs had looked like easy money to a young man tramping the tropics in search of adventure. The only bomb that had been dropped had been dropped by the government aviators—on the plane Herb had been hired to fly. And now they were looking for him.

  It was a glorious tropical night, although there weren’t any stars; there wasn’t even a moon, in fact, and the breeze was hot and steamy enough to be coming out of a tea kettle. It was glorious because it wasn’t raining. Usually it rained.

  Along the water front, and tied up to the piers, were boats. A motley assortment of seagoing wreckage, those boats; Herb March had peered out of the tree at them a few times during the day, and wondered why they didn’t sink at their moorings.

  One boat was an exception. It was a schooner, three-master, with a clipper-type bow and good freeboard. The schooner was a solid-looking vessel, obviously well rigged and manned by fellows who looked as if they took a bath occasionally. The boat had a neat, yachty quality about her, but she didn’t have enough mahogany and brass to be a yacht. Most wonderful of all, the schooner flew the United States flag. The craft was named Patricia.

  “Schooner,” said Herb March, “you’re going to acquire a stowaway.”

  Of course, there was the girl, too. Herb March had seen her from the tree. She had looked very interesting. She was a long girl with remarkable bronze hair. She seemed to be captain of the schooner.

  “Bronze-haired girl,” said Herb March, “I hope you’re as nice as you look.”

  While he was prowling around seeking a way to get aboard the schooner unobserved, he met the Hindu.

  Herb March nearly took the Hindu by the throat and choked him. Surprise almost caused him to do this. Astonishment at finding the Hindu unexpectedly at his side.

  “Er—good eve
ning,” said Herb March, having swallowed twice, and put his large hands back in his pockets.

  The Hindu pointed at the schooner.

  “I have had a vision as I slept,” said the Hindu. “And in the vision, I saw that boat, and the eye of evil upon it. There is no question about the eye of evil, for I saw it very clearly, and so the cargo of that boat shall be naught but death and mystery.”

  The brand of English language which the Hindu spoke was very clear. But his meaning wasn’t.

  “Come again,” Herb March suggested.

  “Do not stow away on that boat,” said the Hindu.

  “How did you—Hm-m-m. You read my mind, or something?”

  “I read your mind—yes.”

  “That,” said Herb March, “is a bit of hokum. Pure hokum.”

  Herb took his large hands out of his pockets. It was in his mind that he might have to choke this Hindu yet. Let that fellow read that!

  “It would do you no good,” said the Hindu, “because I am a lowly fellow who is not trying to harm you, but only to do you a favor.”

  “What would do me no good?”

  “Choking me. You are thinking of doing so.”

  Herb March began to get the creeps.

  “Now look,” he said. “What the blazes is this? Who are you?”

  “I am Mahatma Rhi, an humble student of the mind who is wandering over the world observing, I regret to say, the shallow layer of brains which seems to coat the inside of men’s skulls. Not, you understand, that I am trying to say that other races have mice minds, in comparison to my own. You get only what you labor toward, whether in India, or in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

  “I’m from Tulsa, Oklahoma,” said Herb March. “So be careful.”

  “Yes,” said the Hindu. “You lived on South Boulder, and you sold advertising for the Tulsa World, a morning newspaper.”

  Herb March’s creeps became large ones. He goggled at the Hindu, but the light was none too good, since it came from a street lamp half a block away, and he could distinguish nothing alarming about the other, except that the fellow seemed to be a Hindu. He wore voluminous robes, somewhat like Mahatma Ghandi. Herb had presumed most Hindus were scrawny specimens composed mostly of bones. This one was a husky-looking lad, however.

  Herb March was entirely positive he had never seen the Hindu before. Which made the mind-reading strictly hair-raising stuff.

  “What else about me?” Herb asked, after clearing his throat nervously.

  “The local officials,” said the Hindu, “would like very much to catch you and shoot you for taking part in a very recent revolution.”

  “And—”

  “It would be very sad,” advised the Hindu, “if you should stow away on that schooner, as you are thinking of doing.”

  “Sad, eh?”

  “I have shown you my powers of the mind,” continued the Hindu, “in order to convince you that I know what I am talking about. If you are not convinced, it is unfortunate. Incidentally, I am merely doing this because I—ah—well, I like those who love adventure as you do. I am an adventurer myself—of the mind.”

  Herb March rubbed his jaw; it was, incidentally, a large jaw.

  “You know,” he said, “I think I’ll take the advice.”

  “Good. Have you money?”

  “I have forgotten what the word money means.”

  The Hindu fumbled under the complicated sheet of a garment which he wore.

  “Here,” he said, “is food for the body and poison for the mind.”

  It was a sheaf of five of Uncle Sam’s perfectly good ten-dollar bills. Fifty dollars. Down here, you could have the president assassinated for money like that.

  “Hey, what do I do with this?” Herb gasped.

  “Roll cigarettes out of it, if you wish,” said the Hindu. “But if I were you, I would hire a native as a guide north to the border. Safety does not lie by the sea. The federal government of Hidalgo has several new Coast Guard patrol boats which they are very anxious to try out.”

  “Thank you,” said Herb March. “Thank you very much.”

  “Good-by,” the Hindu said.

  “So long.”

  Herb March walked away from the water front rapidly until he had penetrated some two hundred yards into the jungle. Then he sat down and drew a letter from his pocket, and began adding a postscript.

  The letter was to Glendara Smith, who was Herb’s girl friend, and who was employed by an oil company in the United States. Herb had written the letter with difficulty while sitting in the tree that day, and it contained a recital of his troubles.

  In the postscript, Herb stated that he was sailing north on the three-masted schooner named Patricia. He neglected to mention the bronze-haired girl, because you just don’t mention such things.

  Herb managed to creep close to a mailbox and post the letter. Fortunately, he’d had enough stamps in his billfold.

  In returning to the water front, Herb was very cautious. A redskin stalking a paleface scalp would not have been more silent.

  Twenty minutes later, Herb was aboard the three-masted schooner, hidden in a lifeboat which had a canvas cover. He leaned back and relaxed, pleasantly sure that no one had seen him come board.

  It had occurred to Herb that the Hindu had been a trifle too anxious for him not to sail on the schooner.

  Chapter 2

  THE EYE ON THE MAST

  It was not exactly a surprise to Herb March when the schooner Patricia sailed at midnight, since he had noticed the gear had been made fast before sundown, as if in preparation for putting to sea, and in addition, the tide started going out about midnight and a sailing boat would naturally catch a favorable tide.

  Furthermore, a long procession of half-naked jungle savages had filed aboard the schooner in the later afternoon, and each aborigine had carried a wooden case which he had deposited aboard the craft. The half-naked natives had then filed back into the jungle, passing near Herb’s tree, and infrequently speaking to each other in a dialect which Herb was sure he had never before heard. The savages had doubtless brought the schooner whatever cargo she had come for.

  “Cast off the fore and aft springlines,” called a voice. “Stand by to hoist heads’ls.”

  It was the bronze-haired girl’s voice. Herb March grinned and leaned back and wished he had a cigarette. After they were a few hours at sea, and he’d had a nap, he would step out and introduce himself. All of his troubles were practically over. He closed his eyes and decided he could sleep with bliss. Unfortunately, the lifeboat floorboards were hard.

  There was a pile of canvas in the other end of the lifeboat, evidently a sail which someone had stowed in the craft, then forgotten. It would make a good bed. Herb March crawled to the canvas, grasped it and started to yank it into the shape of a pallet, and then hard fingers were around his neck, squeezing.

  The arms came out of the canvas and took his throat with total unexpectedness. Furthermore, the hands attached to the arms seemed experienced at strangling. The fingertips dug in under Herb’s ears. The thumbs crushed his windpipe, shut every vestige of air out of his lungs.

  Herb tried to put a thumb in the other’s eyes. A thumb in the eye is good for almost any close emergency. But the foe doubled up, wrapped legs around Herb, and trapped his arms in a scissors hold. The opponent exhibited the ability of a boa constrictor.

  They lay there. Herb’s lungs felt like a toy balloon being stepped on. About to burst. He tried the old wrestler’s trick of throwing himself up and away, but the canvas over the boat prevented that from being effective.

  Changing his tactics, Herb began to tremble as if he was losing consciousness. He wrenched his head about madly. That way, he distracted attention from his feet until he had them planted firmly against the boat ribs.

  Herb lunged. His opponent’s head banged a boat rib. The foe went limp.

  Lying still and pumping air in and out of himself, Herb March concluded the fracas had not been heard. At least, no one came t
o investigate. Herb struck a match and examined his unconscious partner in the late hostilities.

  The other stowaway was the mind-reading Hindu.

  Herb searched the Hindu, doing a very thorough job.

  “Tsk, tsk,” he remarked. “I always thought they wore something under their bed sheets.”

  The Hindu regained his senses soon enough to indicate that he was made of tough material. He stirred about, brought both hands to his head, then lay motionless. His breathing became regular enough to show that his mind had cleared.

  “I searched you,” Herb remarked in a low voice, “and you didn’t have a thing on you.”

  “So—” said the Hindu thoughtfully. “You did not take my advice. I had no idea it was you, a moment ago.”

  “I better give you back the fifty dollars, maybe. You seem to be broke.”

  “I carry my wealth in my head,” said the Hindu.

  Herb March felt in his pocket, suddenly wondering if the fifty had been a hypnotic trick. If it was, the trick still functioned, because the sheaf of bills was in his pocket. He had an impulse to return the money, but restrained it. What the heck! He hadn’t made any promises when he took the fifty.

  “I think we’re about ten miles out from shore,” Herb advised. “Can you swim that far?”

  “Not,” said the Hindu, “if I can avoid it.”

  “Then tell me why you stowed away aboard.”

  “I was fascinated.”

  “Fascinated?”

  “Yes, I know that something fantastic is going to happen to this vessel, and I knew I should not come aboard, but my curiosity compelled me to do so anyway. I wished to learn of the infinity of evil, and one must have experience to learn, so I am aboard.”

  “Those,” said Herb March, “are just words. They don’t make sense, and they don’t make truth. If you don’t want me to throw you overboard, you’ll have to do better than that.”