The Secret in the Sky: A Doc Savage Adventure Read online

  “Well, sink me!” Stunted snorted.

  Doc Savage, listening, made a mental note that some one of considerable scientific ability was involved with the gang. Such an alarm system as had been described was feasible, but required high technical knowledge to construct.

  The bronze man crawled away through the tall grass.

  * * *

  Doc did not go far, however. A score of yards, and he stopped. He spent a moment or two tensing his throat muscles, striving for a certain effect.

  “Hands up, you fellows!” he said loudly, using his own natural voice.

  A split of a second later, he shouted again. This time, his tone was a splendid imitation of a man greatly frightened.

  “It’s Doc Savage!” he shrilled. “Give us a hand over here, somebody!”

  Results were instant and noisy. Men howled irately and made a great clatter in the marsh grass, charging for the spot. They were completely deceived.

  Doc Savage moved swiftly, not in flight but circling back toward the oyster shell mound near which he had made his attack. He wanted the bundle of clothes.

  He reached the shell pile, paused, listened. Men were making angry sounds, but not close by. Some one had dropped a flashlight in the excitement. Its beam did not play directly on the spot where the garments lay, but the backglow disclosed the parcel. It was hardly more than thirty feet away. It lay in the open.

  Doc continued listening. His ears were remarkable, for he had trained them from childhood with a sonic device calculated to develop the utmost in sensitivity. He evidently caught some small sound, for he produced from inside his clothing a coil of thin silken cord to which was affixed a folding grapple hook.

  That he had practiced a great deal with the grapple was shown by the accuracy with which he tossed the hook. It snared the bundle of clothing. He hauled it toward him, remaining sheltered behind the shell pile.

  Stunted and other men bounded up from where they had been lying and watching the bundle.

  “He slicked us!” Stunted bawled.

  Doc Savage gave the silk cord a brisk yank, stooped, and caught the garments, and was off like a sprinter. Guns made whooping thunder behind him. He pitched right, then left, zigzagging. Then he doubled over and changed course.

  The last was a wise move. Some type of light machine gun blared out behind him. Its lead stream sickled off the marsh grass across the spot where he had vacated. The gunman did not fan his fire, but concentrated it, and the ammo drum went empty. Violent cursing followed.

  Doc was some distance away now. He heard noises of men sloughing about in mud, and enraged grunts and growls.

  “Monk!” he called softly. “Ham!”

  The pair were waist-deep in mud. Doc extricated them. They joined him in flight.

  “Monk, the baboon, led us into that bog!” Ham complained.

  Monk found his pet pig before he shouted, “That’s a lie! I was followin’ that overdressed shyster!”

  Sounds of pursuit dropped rapidly behind, and it became evident that they were going to get clear.

  “We oughta do something about them rambunctious jaspers,” Monk announced.

  “The police will do something about it,” Doc told him.

  * * *

  Doc Savage, Monk, and Ham were in the skyscraper headquarters when the police telephoned the results of their raid, staged on the strength of the bronze man’s information.

  The oyster factory, they advised, had been found deserted. The “birds” had flown.

  “They must have a bally tight organization to move that fast,” Ham opined. “They knew their hangout was no longer a secret, so they cleared out.”

  Monk lifted his pig, Habeas, by one oversize ear and swayed the porker slowly back and forth, a procedure the shote seemed to enjoy.

  “What gets me,” muttered the homely chemist, “is what that streak of a thing in the sky could have been. Did you see it, Doc?”

  The bronze man nodded.

  Monk persisted, “Hear the funny long crack of a noise it, or something like it, made?”

  Doc nodded again, then said, “The men at the oyster factory mentioned the streak in the sky and the sound, as having some mysterious connection with their own project.”

  Monk let Habeas fall. “Say, what’s behind all of this, anyway?”

  The telephone rang.

  “This is the central police station,” a voice stated. “You seemed to be interested in that Willard Spanner killing, so I thought we’d better let you know his body has been stolen from the morgue.”

  “You mean Willard Spanner’s clothing was stolen?” Doc queried.

  “I mean his body,” said the officer. “They got his clothing first. They came back about fifteen minutes ago for the body.”

  “Same crowd?”

  “Sure.”

  “They got away?”

  “They did. Or they have, so far.”

  Doc had switched an audio amplifier-and-loud-speaker into circuit with the telephone, a procedure he commonly followed on calls in which his aides might be interested. Monk and Ham heard.

  “Jove!” Ham exploded. “They made no move to take the body the first time.”

  “At the oyster factory, I heard them speaking of ‘taking care of the rest,’ ” Doc said slowly. “This matter of the body must have been the ‘rest.’ ”

  Ham lifted the bundle of clothing which Doc Savage had taken at the oyster factory.

  “We still have Willard Spanner’s garments here,” he declared. “Since those men wanted them so badly, they may possibly furnish us with a clue.”

  Monk got up, grunting, “Maybe the duds had papers or something sewed in them, like they have in story books. Let’s have a gander at ’em, as we lowbrows say.”

  The garments were tied together with tarred twine of the type which seagoing men call marlin. Ham took hold of it, after trying the knot, intending to break it; but finding it much stronger than he had expected, gave it up, grimacing, snapping his strained fingers.

  Doc examined the knots.

  “No sailor tied those,” he decided.

  “They didn’t talk like sailors, either,” Monk offered. “What part of the country d’you figure they came from, Doc?”

  “The West, or the Southwest,” the bronze man said, and, with no perceptible difficulty, broke the cord which had baffled Ham. He sorted through the pieces of clothing.

  “They outfoxed us,” he said. “Fixed this up as a decoy by that shell pile merely to draw me back, hoping to get a shot at me.”

  Monk squinted. “Meaning?”

  “These are not Willard Spanner’s clothes,” Doc said. “They are for a much larger and fatter man.”

  Monk groaned, “We’re sunk!”

  “We have,” Doc corrected him, “one chance.”

  Chapter 3

  THE MAN FROM OKLAHOMA

  The bronze man lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a number.

  “Police headquarters?” he asked. . . . “Homicide bureau, please.” There was a brief wait. “Homicide? . . . This is Doc Savage speaking. I believe it is your custom to secure pictures of murder scenes, and also photographs of the body of the victim. I wonder if you would send me copies of the pictures taken of Willard Spanner.”

  “You can have them,” advised the voice at the homicide bureau.

  “By messenger, immediately,” Doc requested.

  That he had been promised the photographs so readily was not remarkable, since the bronze man held a high commission, no whit less effective because it was honorary, on the New York police force. The commission was a gesture of appreciation for past aid.

  Doc Savage’s life work was helping others out of trouble—those who deserved aid. It was a strange career, one with few financial rewards. But the bronze man did not need money, for he had access to a fabulous treasure trove. He followed his career for the return it gave in excitement and adventure. And he had five aides who followed it for the same reason.


  Monk and Ham were two of the five. The other three were, at the moment, in upper New York State, where Doc Savage maintained a remarkable institution for making honest men out of such criminals as he caught, a treatment which entailed brain operations and which wiped out past memories. A course of vocational training followed the surgery.

  Monk frowned, demanding, “How in the heck are those pictures gonna help us?”

  Doc Savage did not answer, seemed not to hear. Monk showed no resentment at not getting an answer. It happened frequently. The homely chemist went out and came back with late editions of the leading newspapers.

  “Lookit!” He pointed at headlines.

  UNPREDICTED RAIN OF COMETS

  SCIENCE CANNOT EXPLAIN

  Those residents of New York City, particularly those residing near the marsh section of Long Island, were treated to the sight of a comet to-night. Many reported a loud crack of a sound and a streak of fire in the sky.

  Inquiry develops that such phenomena have been reported within the last few days, from various sections of the United States.

  Monk said, “And they kindly neglected to state just where the other comets were seen.”

  “Telephone the newspapers,” Doc requested.

  Monk went to the instrument, made several calls, and hung up, wearing a puzzled expression.

  “The comets have appeared within the last two weeks,” he reported. “Several were seen around San Francisco. That kinda hooks in with this Willard Spanner killing. But most of the comets were seen in Oklahoma, around Tulsa.”

  Doc Savage was examining the bundle of clothing.

  “Come here,” he said, and pointed at the label inside the coat.

  THE OIL MAN’S TAILOR

  Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  Monk grunted, “That’ll bear looking into.”

  Doc Savage put in a long-distance telephone call, and because it was late, some time was required in obtaining the information which he desired. In the interim, a messenger arrived from police headquarters with a parcel of pictures. Finally, the bronze man secured from the Tulsa tailor, the name of the man for whom a suit answering the description of the one in the bundle had been made. It was a suit distinctive enough to be remembered, being rather loud in color.

  “The garment was tailored for Calvert R. Moore, who is more commonly known as ‘Leases’ Moore,” came the report from Tulsa.

  “Just what do you know about this man Moore?” Doc asked.

  “He is very wealthy.” The Tulsa tailor hesitated. “He is also considered a bit sharp as a business man. Nothing crooked, you understand. Merely, well—a man who misses few bargains.”

  “What else?”

  “He has disappeared.”

  “He has what?”

  “Disappeared.”

  “A kidnaping?” Doc demanded.

  “There has been no indication of that. Leases Moore merely dropped out of sight two weeks ago, on the same day that Quince Randweil vanished.”

  “Quince Randweil?” Doc asked sharply. “Who is he?”

  “The owner and operator of a local dog-racing track,” explained the tailor.

  “There is no indication of what became of these men?” Doc persisted.

  “None.”

  “Have either of these men been considered crooked?” Doc asked.

  “Oh, they ain’t neither one been in jail, that anybody knows of,” said the tailor, who seemed to be a frank and talkative individual.

  * * *

  Monk squinted at Doc when the conversation ended. “More angles?”

  “Two men named Leases Moore and Quince Randweil vanished mysteriously in Tulsa, two weeks ago,” Doc told him. “Leases Moore’s clothing turned up in that bundle.”

  The bronze man now scrutinized the pictures of Willard Spanner’s body. Spanner had been shot to death. Two bullets had hit him in the chest.

  But it was another wound, a wrist cut, upon which the bronze man concentrated attention.

  “This was not a new cut,” he pointed out. “You will notice marks made by adhesive tape, indicating it was bandaged. The manner of the tape application indicates the work of a physician. The man would hardy have applied the tape himself in this manner. I observed this fact at the morgue, but unfortunately, not close enough to be sure.”

  Monk looked surprised. It was not often that the bronze man had to go back over ground he had already covered for information.

  “But where’s this getting us?” asked the homely chemist.

  “Our problem is to ascertain whether the man seized in San Francisco was the one found dead in New York,” Doc told him. “On the face of it, that seems an impossibility—for less than three hours elapsed.”

  Doc resorted to the long-distance telephone again. He first called San Francisco police. They gave him the name of the hotel at which Willard Spanner had been staying. Incidental was the information that Spanner had arrived in San Francisco only the previous day.

  The call to the hotel was fruitful. Willard Spanner had slipped in the hotel bathroom, struck his arm against a glass shelf over the washstand, and the shelf had broken, cutting his wrist. The hotel physician had dressed the wound, which was undoubtedly the one the pictures showed.

  “Whew!” Monk exploded. “Willard Spanner was seized in San Francisco a little over a couple o’ hours before he was found dead in New York!”

  Ham flourished his sword cane. “But it could not happen!”

  Monk stood up. “The telephoning has taken time. There oughta be fresh newspapers out. I’ll go get some.”

  He was back in a few moments. He looked excited.

  “Lamp this!” he barked, and exhibited extra editions.

  The headlines were large, black.

  SEEK SPANNER RANSOM IN FRISCO—$50,000 DEMANDED

  A San Francisco newspaper editor late to-day received a note stating that Willard Spanner, reported slain in New York this afternoon, was alive, and would be released upon the payment of fifty thousand dollars.

  There was more of it, but the opening paragraph told the substance of the story.

  Monk eyed Doc. “Hadn’t we better look into this? Ham or me can go.”

  “We will all three go,” Doc told him. “We will leave a note advising the other three members of our outfit to do what investigating they can, when they return from up-State. They can handle the New York end.”

  “What about the Tulsa, Oklahoma, angle?” Ham queried.

  “We will stop off there,” Doc advised.

  * * *

  Tulsa likes to call itself the capital of the oil industry. Oil men do much flying. The Tulsa municipal airport is a source of local pride. Facilities and appointments are excellent.

  Floodlights fanned brilliance as Doc Savage dropped his big speed plane in for a landing. The night force of mechanics stood about and stared. Some one ran to a near-by flying school, and shortly afterward there was a stampede to the tarmac of aëronautical students in all states of partial dress. It was not often that a plane such as the bronze man was flying was seen.

  The speed ship was trimotored, and all three motors were streamlined into the wings until their presence was hardly apparent to the eye. The hull breasted down so that the plane could be landed on water, and the landing gear was retractable. The cabin was as bulletproof as was feasible, and inside were innumerable mechanical devices.

  One individual did not seem interested in the bronze man’s remarkable craft. He was a pilot in greasy coveralls who tinkered with the motor of a shabby-looking cabin monoplane over near the edge of the field.

  He had dropped into the airport two hours before, and had been tinkering with his plane since. He had given short answers to the field mechanics, and thereafter had been left severely alone. It was now not long before dawn.

  Doc Savage taxied over near the covered pit which held the gasoline hoses and cut all three motors. He stepped out of the plane and glanced into the east, as if seeking the sunrise.

  “I’ve h
eard a lot about that bird,” a flying student said, unconscious that his whisper carried. “They say he designed that sky wagon himself and that it’s the fastest thing of its size in the world.”

  Over at the edge of the field, the motor of the shabby cabin monoplane came to life. It roared loudly.

  A small crowd surged around Doc’s speed ship. They were flying men, greatly interested in a sample of the most advanced aërial conveyance. Most of them were interested in the layout of navigating instruments, in the robot pilot.

  “I’ve heard this bus can take off and fly herself, and can be controlled by radio from a distance,” a man said. “Is that a fact?”

  One man was interested in the tail structure of the plane. He found himself alone back there. He flashed a long knife out of his clothing, ripped and gouged, and got open one of the inspection ports through which the control connections could be examined.

  The man was thin; his movements had the speed of an animal. He whipped a series of three packages out of his clothing. They were connected by wires, and none were extraordinarily large. He thrust all three inside the inspection port, then closed the flap. Then he backed away into the darkness.

  He blinked a small flashlight four times rapidly.

  Motor a-howl, the cabin monoplane scudded away from the edge of the field. It headed straight for Doc’s ship.

  * * *

  The bronze man had to all appearances been occupied entirely in answering questions. But now he flashed into life, and seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

  “Run!” he rapped at those standing about. “Get away from here! Quick!”

  His great voice was a crash. It was compelling. Three men turned and fled without knowing why. The others retreated more slowly. They saw the oncoming cabin plane.

  “Runaway ship!” some one howled.

  Monk and Ham had stepped out of Doc’s speed craft. They whirled to clamber back inside. But Doc Savage was ahead of them. He banged the cabin door in their faces, then lunged to the controls. The big motors whooped out at the first touch of the starters, and because they were hot, instantly hauled the speed craft into motion.