Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (14 page)

“How,
fraulein?”
asked Schmidt.

“Tell me what has happened to Hornetta Hale,” she requested.

Schmidt spread his hands and murmured, “Most impossible to say,
fraulein.
”

“Then you can go take a flying jump into the Atlantic Ocean,” Honoria snapped. “I am not talking any more.”

And she did not.

THEY worked along, trying to pump the young woman for the next fifteen minutes, but Honoria displayed an outward courage that Schmidt and Schwartz had obviously not expected; her resistance to their catechizing strengthened proportionately as her belief grew that the sinister duo were not especially anxious to take her life.

“You aren’t going to get anything more out of her,” Schwartz muttered finally.

“Ja,”
Schmidt agreed. “She has the nature of a clam.”

“This Doc Savage angle isn’t something to trifle with,” Schwartz warned. “I think we had better put the problem up to
Die Mannner Unter dem Meer.
”

“Yes,” Schmidt repeated. “The Men Under the Sea will know what to do.”

One of the men went to the steamer trunk and opened it, again disclosing the portable radio transmitter and receiver. He warmed the tubes and snatched up a radio headset.

Honoria did not know the code, hence had no idea of what was being sent and received. She could only watch the expression on Schmidt’s rather dark features, a procedure which told her little. Schmidt finally took off the receivers. He was smiling queerly.

“Good!” he chuckled. “Good! The Count will take care of Doc Savage, just in case the young lady did communicate with him.
Herr Kapitan
will himself transmit them.”

“But what about the
verdammte
dame herself?” Schwartz growled.

“Our ingenious leader suggested a most effective method of silencing her,” Schmidt leered.

Honoria Hale, seized with sudden horror, threw back her head and started a scream of utter fright, a frenzied shriek for aid.

Schmidt, leaping swiftly, managed to smack a hand down over her mouth to cut off the cry.

From a pocket, he produced a glass ampule. He broke the long neck off with a snap of his thumb.

Holding his own breath, he waved the tiny vial under Honoria’s quivering nostrils. A tiny thread of whitish vapor licked out. This was disturbed by the woman’s escaping air.

When Honoria inhaled, the vaporous tendril was drawn into her open nose. She fought against its unfamiliar smell.

Very quickly, her eyes began to water and her shoulders to shake. Her captor held the distressed woman still for a time, then released her.

When Honoria Hale stood free, the reason for her convulsions became apparent. She had been laughing uproariously. The hilarity which had seized her was an unpleasant, unnerving thing to hear.

She laughed and laughed and then keeled over, as if expiring from uncontrolled laughter.

Holding their breaths, Schmidt and Schwartz rushed in to catch her in the act of falling on her open-mouthed face.

Chapter XIV

RUDE AWAKENING

WHEN GLOOMY STARR returned to consciousness, his dark eyes snapped open and his rather large and shaggy head shifted about.

The pugilist’s lips parted and he seemed about to say something, but he caught himself before he could release the utterance, whatever it might have been.

He was in the steamer
Matador’s
infirmary. Next to him, sprawled on another hospital bed, lay the man who called himself Bantam Blitz. He was not yet awake.

Rolling out of bed, Gloomy went over to the undersized man and gave him a quick but very professional physical examination for wounds. Finding only a significant bump on one temple, he seemed to relax.

Then the pugilist noticed the ship’s wall calendar. It was a day later than he remembered. The sight of the date seemed to hold the man transfixed for quite a long time.

Once more, Gloomy’s lips parted, and he caught himself before any sound could emerge. With an effort, the human hulk turned the unspoken thought into music, making a low whistle of astonishment instead of what was about to come out of his rangy mouth.

He went in search of the ship’s doctor.

Gloomy did not have to search far. Rounding a corner, he all but bumped into the other. The glum-faced medical man was just returning to the infirmary.

“Good,” said the medico. “You are awake. I had begun to question that you would.”

“What happened?” demanded the pugilist.

“You missed all the excitement. Or most of it, rather, since I understand that you were in the thick of it when all Hades first broke loose.”

“Let’s hear it,” encouraged Gloomy.

“You, along with your friend, were discovered outside your cabin, dead to the world, but still breathing. There had obviously been a battle—a very serious one. In fact, we are putting into Bermuda to see the authorities there. This is a British ship, as you may know.”

Gloomy nodded. “There was a girl named Honoria Hale,” he said. “What became of her?”

The doctor blinked. “I have been going over the passenger list with the Captain, with the intention of accounting for the missing. I do not recall that name.”

“She was smuggled on board,” explained Gloomy.

“This is very serious,” clucked the medico. “Especially in wartime. We have missing passengers. During the night, a lifeboat was commandeered and an unknown number of persons went into it. This was discovered only this morning. Most of the missing are from two adjoining cabins. None of the unaccounted-for passengers was a woman, however.”

“I think,” said Gloomy grimly, “we had better talk with the captain.”

THE CAPTAIN of the
Matador
wasn’t very happy to speak with the hulking prizefighter. In point of fact, he was downright irate as he demanded answers. Straight ones.

“What the bloody hell went on here yesterday?”

“A group of men attempted to kidnap a woman from my cabin,” replied Gloomy.

The Captain placed hard fists on either hip and stuck out his jaw. “You had a woman in your cabin, did you?”

The ship’s physician inserted, “The name of Honoria Hale was mentioned by this man.”

This brought a dark glower to the skipper’s weathered features. “No such passenger on this ship. Can you explain that?”

“She was an unregistered passenger,” admitted Gloomy.

The Captain looked the huge tower of a man calling himself Gloomy Starr up and down, canting his head so far to one side he almost lost his captain’s cap.

“You appear to have recovered,” he appraised. “How do you feel?”

“Fit, but confused,” admitted Gloomy. “It appears that I have lost a day of my life.”

“You may lose more than a mere day. Since you appear to be in good fettle, I am consigning you to the ship’s brig.”

“Perhaps it is time to make full explanations,” said Gloomy.

“Make them then!” the officer bit back. “But you are going to the brig regardless.”

Instead of replying, Gloomy Starr reached up and began peeling away the scar tissue that criss-crossed his rugged features. He removed his cauliflower ears, disclosing outwardly normal aural appendages. Horsey false teeth came out of his mouth.

As pieces of his unlovely countenance came off, more and more the true face of the man who had been calling himself Gloomy Starr came to light. His pasty pale complexion revealed a healthy bronzed hue beneath.

The disguise was excellent. Not until dark glass shells were removed from the eyeballs, revealing irises that glinted with myriad golden flakes, did the truth become evident.

“I recognize you!” chirped the medico. “Doc Savage.”

“My word!” exclaimed the ship’s captain. “The Man of Bronze in the flesh. So who is the other man we found with you?”

“My aide, Long Tom Roberts, who booked passage on this ship under the pseudonym of Bantam Blitz,” imparted Doc.

“Do you care to reveal the details of the matter you are obviously investigating?” asked the befuddled Captain, with more than a trace of respect cutting through his British reserve.

“That matter is confidential,” returned Doc, “But I am prepared to reimburse the line for all damages.”

“That will be more than appreciated, I am sure. But there is still the awkward matter of answering to British authorities in Bermuda.”

“It is vitally important that the lost lifeboat be found,” advised Doc Savage.

“Every effort is being made to locate it,” the Captain assured him. “As a matter of fact, we have been steaming in circles all morning.”

The bronze man asked to use the ship’s radio. This permission was promptly granted.

Taking over the radio room, Doc tuned to a frequency used by his men for private communications and began speaking into the microphone. “Doc Savage calling Monk Mayfair. Come in, Monk.”

A squeaky voice came back,
“Monk speakin’. Where are you, Doc?”

“On the steamer
Matador,
heading toward Bermuda.”

“We’re not far behind you. I got word to hightail it south to Buenos Aires. But no explanation why.”

“It was a ruse,” explained Doc. “Designed to lure you to Argentina.”

“Well, it didn’t work. The telegram didn’t have our usual code, so we knew it was phony. It was Long Tom who radioed us to head south by boat and wait for word from you.”

“Who is with you?” asked Doc.

“Ham and—”
Monk hesitated.

“And who?” pressed Doc.

The hairy chemist lowered his childlike voice.
“Pat’s with us. And she’s madder than the proverbial hornet. Says you took her up in a plane and pretended to drop her into the Long Island Sound.”

“It was to preserve her life.”

Ham came on the air, saying,
“You put her under with one of your hypo needles and left her in a plane practically scuttled off Long Island. When she came to, she reclaimed her own bus and came seeking you at headquarters.”

Doc sighed. “This was all explained to Pat before she was rendered unconscious.”

“Pat thinks you just wanted her to miss the party,”
piped up Monk.

“I wish,” Doc said fervently, “that my cousin would take up a nice, safe hobby, such as climbing Mount Everest, or diving for sharks.”

Pat’s angry voice jumped out of the radio receiver.

“No thanks to you, I missed out on whatever I missed out on! What did I miss?”
she asked, voice changing from wrathy to intensely curious.

“You missed out on a number of hand grenades blowing up,” stated Doc dryly.

“How are your ears?”

“Red,” admitted Doc. “My participation in this did not go as planned.”

“Try explaining that part.”

Doc Savage said, “In my guise as Gloomy Starr, I joined up with the group and took possession of a woman named Honoria Hale. You met her, Pat.”

“I’ll say that I did!”
flared Pat Savage.
“She threw me to the wolves, so to speak. Honoria is not Hornetta, by the way.”

“They appear to resemble one another rather closely,” admitted Doc. He continued his recitation of recent events. “Earlier in the week, I had radioed Long Tom to return to the States and remain in hiding in his private experimental laboratory. He did so. Once I had custody of Honoria Hale and had some privacy, I telephoned him with further instructions. In disguise, Long Tom booked passage on the
Matador.
Then he barged in on my cabin, pretending to be one of the gang. We feigned an argument, with me taking Honoria’s part. This way we thought she might divulge what she knew of the situation to Gloomy Starr.”

“Did she?”

“Very little. But what she did reveal was alarming.”

“I’m listening.”

“It would be better if you went in search of a lifeboat carrying Honoria Hale and her abductors. They have left this vessel,” directed Doc.

“It’s a doggone big ocean,”
muttered Monk.

“The other gang members were supposed to sail south on the liner
Caribbulla.
It’s possible the lifeboats are simply waiting in the Atlantic until the ship happens along.”

“So you want us to find the
Caribbulla?”

“Or the lifeboat,” said Doc.

“How is Long Tom?”
inserted Ham.

“He has yet to awaken.”

“How long were you two asleep?”
asked Monk.

“Almost a day,” admitted Doc.

“That doesn’t sound reasonable.”

“It is not reasonable. What is more, before I lost consciousness, I began laughing.”

Pat broke in,
“You, laugh? I would expect to see the stone Presidents on Mount Rushmore crack a smile before you burst out in hilarity. Why, the Sphinx would giggle before you would.”

“It is the truth,” stated Doc defensively.

Pat’s tone grew intrigued.
“What was so funny?”

“Nothing,” said Doc.

“Now, that
is
funny. You laughing without any reason, I mean,”
added Pat.

“I do not think so,” said Doc Savage frankly.

“One thing is deucedly clear,”
inserted Ham Brooks.
“This affair is becoming very complicated.”

“Complicated,” said Doc, “is a rather mild word for recent developments.”

DOC SAVAGE returned to the ship’s infirmary and found the
Matador’s
doctor examining Long Tom Roberts, the former Bantam Blitz.

“He has not yet awakened,” the medical man told Doc.

The bronze man bent over the slender form. He lifted each eyelid in turn, checked Long Tom’s pulse at the wrist, and performed other tests.

Indicating the egg-sized lump discoloring Long Tom’s left temple, the doctor asked, “There’s what put him out.”

“A flung blackjack accomplished that,” supplied the bronze man. “But after he fell unconscious, Long Tom inhaled a vapor that worsened his condition.”

“I take it that you inhaled the same potent brew?”

Doc nodded grimly. “The only reason for my shaking it off so quickly can be attributed to my more robust constitution.”