The Metal Master: A Doc Savage Adventure Read online

  Doc Savage hit the entryway. He knew the next instant that that was what he should not have done. He rarely got into trouble by charging his enemies. But this time he did. They were prepared for him, had it all fixed.

  First indication of the trap was a swishing noise overhead. Then Doc felt a netting descend and envelop him. Some kind of a fish net, judging from the faint odor of the tarred cord. He could break the strands. It wouldn’t hold him.

  But there was more to it than the net. The net was lined with three-prong fishhooks. They grabbed him in a score of places, dug into his flesh. The chain-mail vest protected his body, but not his hands, his features.

  Doc backed for the stairs. He might still have made it. But they had spread a rope on the floor, looped with a running noose, and they yanked it, got his legs. He went down.

  “Savage!” a voice barked anxiously. “Behave yourself and you won’t be killed.”

  A man who keeps his head in a fight has one advantage. He knows when he is licked. Doc Savage was in a bad way. He might fight clear, but would probably be disfigured, perhaps blinded, for life. On the other hand, if he submitted now, there might be a chance for escape later.

  The bronze man stood perfectly still.

  “All right,” he said. “You’ve made it work.”

  There was another reason for giving up. He might discover, from the conversation of his captors, the nature of the mystery of the Metal Master.

  * * *

  Upstairs, fighting raged. Another attack must have been launched from the back. There was no shooting. The men were wary of the noise, evidently.

  Doc listened. The fight sounded violent. Monk was whooping and howling. The homely chemist invariably did that in a fight. The harder the fight, the more noise he made. This one must have been a riot.

  Finally, Monk and three or four other men came tumbling down the stairs. A truckload of bricks unloaded suddenly would hardly have made more of a racket. When Monk hit the bottom, a man leaped forward and did his best to break a pistol over Monk’s head. Monk leaned back against the stairs and went to sleep, with his enormous mouth wide open and scarlet leaking from it.

  The battle still raged upstairs. Half a dozen men mounted. Their comrades had Ham forced into a corner. Ham’s sword cane was unsheathed. Three men, made senseless by its tip, sprawled on the floor.

  “Shoot ’im!” a man gritted.

  “No, no!” snapped another. “Get a bunch of chairs!”

  They got the chairs, and tossed them at Ham until he was finally battered back and they got their chance to overwhelm him.

  Gorham Gage Gettian was also sprawled out on the floor.

  Downstairs, Doc Savage was still tangled in the hooks. His ankles were held by the rope. The outside door had been closed throughout, so that not too much of the rumpus would reach the street.

  Men advanced carefully, guns ready, and Doc Savage was released. They did not take too much care with the fishhooks. They simply plucked them out.

  Doc Savage said nothing, did not grimace, while they were getting the hooks out.

  “Ain’t you human?” a man growled.

  Doc Savage did not reply. It was, as a matter of fact, agony. All the howling and groaning in the world would not make the pain less. There was a psychological reason for his stoicism, too. The mental concentration involved in trying not to show pain aided in keeping his thoughts off the pain itself.

  Nan Tester came into view. Throughout the fight she had been out of sight, in a tiny cloakroom opening off the vestibule. She walked in stiffly, head back, eyes defiant.

  “They tricked me into decoying you downstairs by screaming,” she said grimly. “I didn’t know you were here. I really thought I was warning Gettian.”

  One of the two burly men gripping her wrists, holding her a captive, spoke harshly.

  “Pipe down, sister,” he said. “It ain’t your time to talk!”

  * * *

  Doc Savage, Nan Tester and Monk were taken up to the room where Decitez and his men lay. Ham was being held tightly. Gorham Gage Gettian had come to, was getting on his feet. They were all arrayed against a wall, where they could be watched.

  Doc Savage studied Nan Tester intently for a time. The bronze man’s flake-gold eyes seemed more animated than usual.

  “What have you learned from them, Miss Tester?” he asked.

  “Very little,” said the girl in her rather low, throaty voice.

  “You have learned the secret of the Metal Master?” the bronze man asked.

  “No,” she said.

  One of the men stepped forward. His face was ugly.

  “Take the dame back to our hangout!” he directed. “She’ll either talk too much or learn too much around here! And we don’t want her to know so much that we’ll have to get rid of her. We want her alive to whip that brother of hers into line, if necessary.”

  With that, Nan Tester was taken out. When she started to screech, a gag was popped between her lips. They dragged her downstairs and out of the house.

  The man who had given the order regarding the girl’s disposal, came back and stood rocking on his heels. He was a tall, well-dressed man. He did not have an evil face. The thumb was missing from his left hand.

  “Wake up, you!” he gritted.

  With that, he delivered a terrific kick against Napoleon Murphy Decitez’s ribs. Decitez did not even groan in his strange sleep.

  “Let me revive him,” said Doc Savage.

  The man with the missing thumb glared at Doc. “And why do you want to revive him, huh?”

  “What he says might be interesting,” Doc said frankly.

  “Hm-m-m.” The man considered. “O. K.”

  Doc sidled over to Decitez. He did something to the back of the man’s neck, relieving the condition of the deadened nerves.

  Decitez opened his eyes. He groaned heartily.

  “You dirty crook!” said the man with the missing thumb. “What was the idea of trying to cut in on us?”

  Decitez was a woodchuck cornered by dogs, to look at his expression. He did not seem to be able to think of anything to say.

  “We oughta kill you!” “Missing Thumb” told Decitez.

  Decitez shut his eyes. He began to tremble.

  “But we won’t for a while!” snarled the other. “That’s the chief’s orders.”

  Decitez stopped trembling and opened his eyes.

  “Who is your chief?” he asked.

  “I’d be likely to tell you, wouldn’t I?” jeered the other. “The chief wants you alive, so that you can help us get our hands on that double-crosser, Tops’l Hertz.”

  “I don’t know any Tops’l Hertz!” gasped Decitez.

  “You’ll change that tune!” snapped Missing Thumb. “Come on, boys! Let’s move ’em!”

  * * *

  Monk, the homely chemist, revived at that point. Monk had a good many animal qualities. Nature has equipped an animal to awaken from sleep, and sometimes to recover from senselessness, all of a sudden. That was the way Monk revived. He kicked a man’s legs from under him.

  Three men fell on Doc Savage instantly. They jammed guns against vulnerable portions of his anatomy. Before he could make the slightest move, they would finish him.

  Monk was banged over the head until he sat down weakly. His hairy wrists were tied with a rope. Many turns were used.

  The man with the missing thumb strutted about fiercely.

  “That shows the chief was right!” he barked. “We can’t take any chances with this bronze guy or his gang!”

  He waved an arm. “Take ’em out,” he directed.

  He scowled at Doc Savage.

  “You’re not married, are you?” he demanded.

  “No,” Doc Savage admitted. “Why?”

  “Because it’s too bad you won’t have any descendants to carry on your meddling work!”

  Chapter XII

  MURDER BY METAL

  What immediately followed was an indication of how dan
gerous was the mysterious organization affiliated with the Metal Master.

  Gorham Gage Gettian had a private driveway for deliveries at the rear of his mansion. A milk truck appeared in this. It was getting along toward morning, so there was nothing suspicious about a milk truck being abroad. It was a truck with a large body.

  By now, all of the prisoners were conscious. They were all bound and thoroughly gagged.

  Bald-headed Gettian wailed, “Why am I included in this? I know absolutely nothing about the whole affair!”

  “We just like your company,” one of the thugs told him.

  “And we don’t like to think of what you might tell the police,” said another, giving a more logical reason.

  The captives were loaded into the truck.

  Three of the gang, with automatic pistols and flashlights, got in to serve as guards.

  The truck rolled swiftly through New York streets. There was almost no traffic now. For a long time, it was very quiet inside the truck.

  Then there was a thump and a loud grunt. The men in the cab of the truck could plainly tell that there was some moving around inside the vanlike body.

  “Anything wrong?” demanded a man in the cab.

  “Heck no!” came a voice from the rear. “We were just kicking the slats of this big gazook who looks like an ape!”

  There was no more rumpus from the interior of the truck. The vehicle rolled rapidly. It turned into a bumpy stretch of road. Two sedans were following, carrying the rest of the gang. All the machines stopped. The rear of the truck was opened from the outside.

  “Throw Decitez and Gettian out!” a voice ordered.

  A moment later, Decitez and Gettian came toppling out of the truck. Both seemed to be unconscious.

  “Whatcha gonna do with ’em?” asked one of the trio who had ridden in the truck.

  “Chief wants ’em alive,” was the reply. “He thinks he can use ’em.”

  “How the heck could he use ’em?”

  “Decitez can be made to lead Tops’l Hertz into a trap,” said the other. “And I think the chief has got some very special use for old Gettian.”

  Decitez and Gettian were loaded into one of the sedans. A man remarked on the fact that they were unconscious.

  “I thought these guys came out of it,” he said.

  “They did,” somebody replied. “But I guess they fainted or something. Probably scared.”

  The car departed with Decitez and Gettian.

  It was rather dark, due to a few clouds in the sky. The faintest of red hazes in the east indicated the sun would rise shortly. There was a cold wind.

  No lights other than the headlamps of the truck and the remaining sedan were visible in the neighborhood. Close to the road loomed a line of boxlike hulks. A man turned a flashlight on them. They were steel railway cars. They were loaded with scrap iron—fragments of old automobiles, for the most part, although there was an occasional huge hulk of a worn-out industrial engine.

  “This is the spot,” a man said. “Get them guys out of that truck.”

  One by one, the prisoners were handed out of the truck. It was dark. Some one had thought to turn out the headlights, which might be seen. A man stood at the truck tailboard and kept track of the captives as they were handed out.

  “There’s one more,” he said.

  “We got ’im!” growled one of the trio who had ridden out from the city in the truck. “It’s the bronze guy. We’re keepin’ our hands on him. We ain’t takin’ no chances.”

  “That’s the old spirit,” chuckled the other.

  * * *

  A man pointed a flashlight beam and said, “Bring ’em over here.”

  The man was indicating the ditch beside the line of railway cars laden with scrap iron.

  “Throw them in there!” he ordered. “Then get back!”

  The prisoners were carried up and thrown into the ditch. The bottom of the ditch was hard, frozen. Some of the captives groaned through their noses. They were still gagged.

  The man in charge of the gang growled, “Now hold it! The Metal Master is gonna show up and finish this thing.”

  Hardly had he spoken, when the sound of an automobile engine came from down the road. It mounted to a roar. The machine was coming at top speed. From the way it bucked over the ruts, it was remarkable that it kept on the road.

  In stopping, it skidded, all but went into the ditch. It was the sedan which had gone away with Gettian and Decitez. The door popped open. A man fell out. He got up, ran toward the party beside the railroad tracks.

  “Decitez regained consciousness!” he screeched. “He says——”

  The man tripped over an icy clod and fell down. He shrieked profanely. Then he got up again.

  “Decitez says Doc Savage knocked ’im out!” the excited man squawled. “He says he thinks Doc Savage and his two men——”

  He probably finished, but no one heard him. An explosion took place among the men at the railroad track. Blows popped. Men fell down.

  “Run!” rapped the powerful voice of Doc Savage.

  “Maybe we can lick ’em!” piped the childlike voice of the homely Monk.

  “You can stay and try it!” said Ham’s modulated tone. “We’ll attend your funeral!”

  There were some more blows. Guns went off. Some one turned on a flashlight, but it was knocked from his hand.

  Then three men ran away rapidly through the darkness.

  By now, the truth had dawned.

  “Doc Savage and his two pals!” a man bellowed. “They got away!”

  * * *

  There was no light. The only flashlight, it seemed, had been broken. Men ran about wildly in the darkness. They cursed. They fired guns at sounds, real and imaginary. Fragmentary sentences, punctuated with profanity, jerked out of the confusion.

  “Decitez said the bronze guy busted loose in the truck——”

  A man broke in with curses, because one of the others had nearly shot him.

  “Savage turned his two pals loose—they grabbed the three guards and tied ’em up—took their places——”

  A man climbed down in the ditch and struck a match. He swore heartily, having discovered the three guards there, bound and gagged. No more proof was needed that the bronze man had, with his two aids, exchanged places with the guards.

  “Which way’d they go?” several wanted to know.

  No one was sure. Some one found a flashlight in one of the cars and they cast about, but not very enthusiastically.

  “The bronze guy and the other two have had time to blow,” a man mumbled. “That means this spot is gonna become too hot, before long.”

  They held a consultation, after which they decided to clear out. But before they did this, they performed a bloodthirsty bit of business.

  They shot the prisoners—henchmen of Decitez—lying in the ditch. They did it callously.

  “That’ll teach ’em to monkey with the Metal Master,” one of the killers gritted.

  “They’re only small fry.”

  “Sure! But it’ll be a lesson, anyway!”

  Decitez saw the shooting. He became white as a sheet. He thought they were going to slaughter him, too. But they didn’t.

  “You done us a favor,” they told him.

  Decitez relaxed his fear a little. He fawned. He all but slobbered.

  “I’ll do anything you say!” he gasped.

  The straw boss of the gang came and stood over him in the chill dawn.

  “We ain’t the kind of guys who don’t appreciate a favor,” he said. “How’d you like to throw over this guy Tops’l Hertz and take a share with the rest of us, working with the Metal Master?”

  Napoleon Murphy Decitez had sense enough not to agree too hastily. It would make it look as if his allegiance were too easily shifted. He hemmed and hawed.

  “It’d mean a smaller cut for me,” he complained.

  “Naw, it wouldn’t,” said the other. “You don’t know what plans the Metal Master has
got. Listen, do you know that with the organization and the brains we’ve got, the whole world is the same as in our hands? No battleship, no airplane in the world, could touch us! We can write our own ticket!”

  Decitez was plainly startled. He swallowed several times rapidly.

  “Is—is something like that what you’re planning?” he exploded.

  “It is!” snapped the other. “You string along with us and you’ll go places!”

  “I’m with you!” Decitez gasped.

  “Let’s go,” said the other.

  * * *

  They turned up, an hour later, in front of Napoleon Murphy Decitez’s house in Greenwich Village. Decitez had told them about the four of his men which he had left in charge of Doc Savage, when the bronze man was a prisoner. Decitez wanted to know what had happened to them. The others, when they heard the story, also wanted to know.

  They did not find out. The reason was simple. The four were gone. There was no trace of them.

  “Doc Savage must have disposed of them,” Decitez muttered uneasily.

  “Did they know enough to tell the bronze guy anything of value?” asked the spokesman of the Metal Master’s men.

  “No,” said Decitez. “They didn’t know a darn thing, except that we were after something big.”

  The other man eyed Decitez intently.

  “Then nobody in New York but you knew what it was all about?” he asked. “Your gang knew, didn’t they?” Decitez countered.

  “Outside of them. There was an old guy named Seevers who knew, because he had stuck his nose into things. But we fixed him. Now, nobody but you knows?”

  “I guess that’s right,” Decitez said uneasily. Then he added hurriedly, “And I don’t really know much about it.”

  “The devil you don’t!” exploded the other. “I thought you knew what the Metal Master is?”

  “I do,” replied Decitez. “But who is he? What’s his name?”

  The other man laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Decitez squinted at the other, apparently trying to ascertain whether or not the man was lying. He was unable to decide. Decitez did not press the matter. He knew this was a case where too much knowledge was not good.