Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (13 page)

“We gotta get outta here!” Gloomy barked.

The cabin, quite naturally, offered only one means of egress—the door giving out onto the lower deck. No attempt was being made to batter it down.

“They want to panic us—stampede us into their ambush!” hissed Blitz.

Gloomy Starr nodded wordlessly. His eyes grew crafty.

“You first,” he suggested.

Whitish fumes were spreading fast.

From pockets, the two uneasy allies produced what appeared to be bags of cellophane. They drew these over their heads, and the transparent envelopes snapped about their necks with elastic bands sewn into the open ends.

These made serviceable protective gas masks, even if the air supply was necessarily limited with what was enclosed about their heads.

A clasp knife came out, made short work of the ropes tying the girl to her chair. Gloomy wielded the blade.

Picking up Honoria Hale, Gloomy Starr set her atop one beefy shoulder, and clamped her nose and mouth shut to protect her lungs from the fast-flowing fumes.

Plucking an intricate machine pistol from an underarm holster, Bantam Blitz made for the door. Unlocking it, he cracked the panel, and slipped the weapon’s muzzle out through the crack.

Depressing the firing lever, he began jerking the weapon this way and that way.

The pistol shuttled, moaned and ejected brass cartridges like a slot machine disgorging pennies. There were a lot of these clattering to the floor.

Outside, men began howling and there came a commotion consistent with a frantic scramble of retreat.

Yanking the door open, Bantam Blitz thrust out his head, craning about. A mistake.

Someone threw a blackjack. It flew true. The weighted portion struck one of Blitz’s temples, and he flopped backwards, his unusual pistol falling from nerveless fingers.

Gloomy Starr charged in, pulled the small man back, where bullets could not finish the job of vanquishing him.

A man’s voice yelled.

“You in there. Give up the girl!”

“And if I don’t?” bellowed back Gloomy.

“We have hand grenades. And the firm intention of using them.”

“If I give up the girl, you’ll use ’em anyway,” the pugilist countered.

“You may take that risk, or you can die with her.”

“Who are you, brother?”

“Call me Schmidt—or Burch, if you prefer. Now do your deciding. We have no time to waste on indecision.”

Gloomy struggled slightly to keep Honoria Hale perched atop his shoulder. She was wriggling and writhing frantically, feet kicking. The fumes were beginning to get into their eyes. They smarted, as if stung by ammonia.

Gloomy knew that the passing seconds were precious.

“I’m gonna carry the girl out and lay her on deck by the rail,” he called out.

“Do it then.”

Gloomy eased out, a human monster who cautiously peered both ways before emerging completely.

He set the girl down against the rail, went back to help the insensate Bantam Blitz.

He fully expected a hand grenade to come bouncing down the deck.

He was not disappointed. One did.

The round black object bounced once.

Moving with amazing speed for one so hulking, Gloomy Starr showed how he had earned his reputation in the ring.

Reversing direction, he kicked the grenade. It went flying between two uprights supporting the rail, and into the water.

The sound of its explosion was not loud. Nor was the spurt of water produced by its detonation remarkable.

But Gloomy had no time to absorb that. For another grenade came sailing his way.

This one he raced to meet, caught it on the fly, pitching it out to sea. It was an amazing catch, worthy of a professional baseball infielder. The pugilist was forced to drop to the deck because this one, set to a shorter timer, detonated before it hit water.

A blast that produced grayish-black smoke mixed with fire made his cauliflower ears hurt.

By this time, the ship was full of commotion. The crew had been roused. A bell rang. Feet pounded up and down companion steps as the ship’s complement searched out the source of the battle.

At that moment, another glass bottle like the one that had broken inside the cabin came hurtling Gloomy’s way.

He lunged for it, captured it in both hands. But it was a near thing. He had to dive for the clumsy projectile like a football player attempting a flying tackle.

When the second bottle came, it scooted along the deck, not thrown but shoved. It slid along the varnished wood very smartly.

Gloomy’s hands were full. Intercepting it was out of the question.

A bullet came along and shattered the glass container before Gloomy Starr could retreat to the relative safety of the cabin.

As it happened—and this was purely by chance—glass fragments raked his cellophane gas mask, rupturing it.

Big hands sought to clutch at the tears, seal them by hand pressure. But there were too many.

The eye-stinging whitish vapor swiftly seeped in.

Nearby, the blonde woman was in the middle of screaming when suddenly the scream turned into a high, howling laughter.

Hearing this wholly unexpected sound, Gloomy Starr wheeled in its direction. Then he began laughing, too.

The pugilist was still emitting sounds of unbridled mirth when he struck the deck, his gas mask coming apart in his clutching hands.

Hard-faced men swept in and seized Honoria, who was no longer laughing. She appeared to have lost consciousness. They bore her away, around a corner to another cabin, whose door snapped shut before the first converging crew members arrived to investigate the raucous sounds of combat.

Chapter XIII

THE CORNER

HONORIA HALE AWOKE in an entirely different passenger cabin.

She was no longer trussed to a chair, but cords were wound around both wrists and ankles, and the tight gag still crowded her mouth. Correction, she realized when she fell to examining her wrists. These were different cords and a fresh gag. It all came rushing back to her. The two men, and attack upon the cabin, her loss of consciousness.

Curiously, the last thing Honoria could recall was screaming wildly, then, paradoxically, bursting into a fit of laughter.

The laughing was strange, bizarre. She did not laugh because she thought her predicament was funny. Quite the contrary, she had been terrified. Yet she had laughed. Then she had evidently blacked out.

Honoria could not explain it. Not even to herself.

By a combination of wriggling and shifting, Honoria managed to maneuver herself so that she was seated on the edge of the bed on which she now lay. This gave her a clear view of her face in a nearby mirror. This showed two things: That her gag was fresh—this one was tan while the other had been white—and there were a few gray hairs in her tousled blonde head.

This latter was probably a figment of her imagination, but that was how Honoria Hale felt about the present situation.

Standing up, she decided, might be achieved. But progressing with her ankles bound together was probably not a smart idea. Nevertheless, she attempted the feat.

Hopping in place proved to be the only sensible method of locomotion, and Honoria managed to jump three times before she lost control of her equilibrium, and fell smack on her face.

Looking about, she came to a startling realization. The cabin was nothing like the one she had previously occupied against her will. This was more modern, the appointments tasteful in the way the other had not been. She began to question if she were not on an entirely different boat than before. The very thought made her wild.

She swore through the gag for more than two minutes. This did nothing to alleviate her predicament, but she felt slightly better.

While she was contemplating her unfortunate situation, a door jumped open. The cabin was a double, with a connecting door.

A man she did not recognize banged in, took one look at her and gave out a holler.

“She is awake!”

This brought another man, also unknown to Honoria.

This second arrival began muttering.

“I understood that the
fraulein
was supposed to be out for a day or more.”

“Well, she isn’t. Let’s get her back on the bed.”

The two strangers caught her up, one at the shoulder and the other took her by the feet and actually gave her a couple of hammock-like swings before they let go.

Honoria sailed a few feet and bounced onto the bed, nearly bouncing off it again. The mattress was that new.

Muffled imprecations came from her gagged mouth.

“In case you are wondering,” one of the men said, “we are with the Count. I am Mr. Schmidt, and this is Mr. Schwartz. You understand that these are just names for convenience.
Ja?”

Honoria frowned. One of the men must have been an unconscious mind reader because he seemed to understand the frown.

“Those two who had you before this were fakes,” Mr. Schwartz explained.

Honoria’s frown deepened.

“The big one who called himself Gloomy was Renny Renwick, a Doc Savage aide,” added Mr. Schmidt. “We don’t know who the other one was. But we got you loose from them, and now you’re going to stay under wraps until the Big Thing is accomplished.”

At mention of that, Honoria squeezed her eyes shut.

The two men departed, to return shortly carrying a rather bulky steamer trunk, which had evidently been stored below in the baggage hold. Honoria Hale watched curiously as this trunk was opened.

Inside was much wiring, black insulation panels, knobs, dials, and many batteries taped together in groups. Not until Schmidt donned a telephone headset and seated himself where he could tap a key attached to the apparatus, did the young woman realize the trunk held a portable radio transmitter and receiver.

Schmidt was undoubtedly going to communicate with the other members of his organization. He did not speak but instead began tapping out a message, telegraph-style. Honoria watched him anxiously as he clicked off switches and hung up the radio headset.

“What did you learn?” the other asked anxiously.

The first man was perspiring freely, obviously worried about something.

“Doc Savage has been tricked,” he reported. “He was led to believe that Renny Renwick booked passage on a different boat than this one, one whose destination is Buenos Aires in Argentina. This message was sent to his headquarters by telegram. Savage will no doubt hop into one of his big planes and go chasing after that boat to assist his man.”

“Which leaves us in the clear?”

“Precisely.”

The other looked doubtful. “I’ll be damned if I see how Doc Savage can be taken in so readily. That Yankee
supermann
is supposed to be fool proof.”

“Savage won’t dare risk not following up on the message,” the other insisted. “He understands something very large is in the wind. The Count saw to that in his attempt to frustrate Hornetta Hale’s foolish efforts to draw him into the matter.”

“Brains did the job.”

The other nodded. “The Count and his associates are very brainy,” he agreed. “It is regrettable that word of Hornetta Hale’s escape from that island caused this other one to attempt to reach
der bronzemann.
For Doc Savage has the reputation of a lightning bolt. Sometimes one hears the warning thunder, other times not. Either way, when Doc Savage strikes, he does so with the same irresistible ferocity.”

The other man nodded somberly. “Thor the thunderer and his war hammer are no less fearsome, by reputation.”

HONORIA HALE took in this byplay with a great deal of interest, first because she was surprised by the terror which mere mention of this man of mystery, Doc Savage, had produced in the unscrupulous pair. Secondly, Honoria was seeing symptoms of a disagreement brewing between her captors, a condition which she hoped might escalate and so draw attention to her own plight.

A hot argument now ensued, Schmidt pointing out jeeringly that Doc Savage was not even upon the trail, and furthermore that the Man of Bronze probably did not even suspect that Honoria Hale had been on her way to enlist his aid.

“How do we know Savage
doesn’t
know she was coming to see him?” Schwartz countered.

“We will find out about that,
Herr
Schwartz,” Schmidt stated grimly.

The tall, dark man with the guttural voice came over to Honoria, glared at her, then informed, “If you try to scream, you will promptly receive a knife in your pretty throat,
fraulein.
”

Schmidt produced a pocket knife which had a four-inch blade that
snicked
into view when a button was thumbed. He pressed the cold dull back of the blade to Honoria’s throat and made a few other threatening gestures by way of impressing her.

When the gag was removed, the young woman did not cry out; she was convinced these men were thorough villains who would not hesitate to slit her throat to preserve their own skins.

“Were you on your way to enlist the aid of this man, Doc Savage?” Schmidt questioned.

“Yes,” Honoria said promptly. She was surprised that she answered at all. It was not her intention to do so. There was not much use denying it and she wanted to worry her captors, anyway. Still, the word “Yes” had jumped off her tongue, unbidden. It was strange.

“What made you think he would believe your story,
fraulein?”
Schmidt persisted.

“I,” said the young woman frostily, “have my reasons.”

Schmidt scowled. “I will put the question in another way: Have you been in communication with this Doc Savage? Does he know of your existence and your concerns?”

Honoria said grimly, “You will find out the answer to that in the course of time.” Which was the truth, if evasive.

“The knife,
fraulein,
” Schmidt warned, holding the blade almost against her rather regally thin nose. “You have not gotten hold of him. You were going to employ a telegram to send a message.”

Honoria glared into the gravelly-voiced Schmidt’s eyes and requested, “I’ll bargain with you.”