Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (10 page)

Accepting the thing from the bronze man, Ham studied it carefully, wiped it clean with a silken handkerchief and tested the gimmick.

He blew into it several times, producing no audible result other than the prolonged hissing of his breath.

Pausing, he asked Doc, “Hear anything?”

“I thought so on your last attempt. Try again.”

Ham blew and blew, while Doc Savage closed his golden eyes and concentrated his entire consciousness on the sound being produced.

The dapper lawyer blew himself crimson and then purple until he gave it up.

“Did you hear anything?” panted Ham.

“Yes, but not consistently,” said Doc Savage, accepting the return of the whistle. “Practice may prove useful.”

“Your practice or mine?” asked Ham, looking confused.

“Mine. I am certain the whistle functioned perfectly.”

Doc Savage went to a trunk that had been delivered to the cabin, and threw up the lid. From this he removed a flat case, which he opened on the modest dresser.

Ham recognized it as a remarkably complete make-up kit, one that the bronze man had developed over a number of years.

“Take a seat,” Doc directed. “Let us see what we can do with your face.”

“Are you going to disguise yourself now?” Ham asked Doc.

“In due course,” replied the bronze man. “First, let us see what can be done with you.”

Although not an old man, Ham Brooks was blessed—or cursed—with prematurely white hair. It was easier to work from that distinguishing feature rather than dyeing the locks a different color.

Digging around in the make-up case, Doc Savage removed a van Dyke mustache and beard made from similarly-hued hair. With spirit gum, the bronze man fixed these articles of adornment to Ham’s patrician features. Then, using an astringent solution, he daubed the dapper attorney’s face with cotton balls, which produced a puckering of lines and wrinkles appropriate for an older gentleman.

This was insufficient to fool anyone who had spent more than ten minutes in Ham’s presence, so Doc added a pair of glasses with dark lenses.

Donning these, Ham regarded himself in the pocket mirror the bronze man offered.

The artificial wrinkles were still settling in, but the beginnings of the transformation had already commenced.

“Not bad,” allowed Ham. “But what shall I call myself?”

“How about Brom Van Bummel?”

“It fits, but what is my nationality?”

“If you read Washington Irving, you would know that. You are Dutch.”

Standing up, Ham complained, “My attire will give me away.”

“Not necessarily,” suggested Doc. “Merely remove your vest and watch, as well as some of the more expensive adornments.”

Reluctantly, the dapper lawyer did so, lastly surrendering his damaged sword cane, which he had gripped tightly during the process of transformation.

Doc Savage regarded Ham and suggested, “Perhaps we had better weather your coat to make it look as though you are a down-at-heels refugee, and not a man of means.”

Ham made a face. “This is a rather expensive outfit.”

“It cannot be helped,” said Doc. “But I will let you attend to those details.”

The expression on the dapper attorney’s face was mixed. He was justifiably proud of his attire, and his reputation as one of the best dressed men in New York, an award he earned annually as a general rule.

Noticing this, Doc asked, “Unless you would rather I rough them up for you?”

Wavering, Ham finally said, “No, I will do it,” dispiritedly.Stepping into the washroom, he began to undo seams and rub his sleeves against the steel walls, endeavoring to weather the impeccable fabric. When he was finished, Ham was not so much a sorry sight as a slightly distressed item.

“Do not wear your hat,” said Doc.

Ham nodded dejectedly. “I will leave it here with you, along with my cane and other items.”

“Why don’t you take a turn around the deck and see what you can discover?” suggested Doc. “While you are at it, look in on Monk. Make sure he’s abandoned his wild ideas.”

“That misbegotten baboon,” said Ham harshly, “can no more abandon his wild notions than his pet pig could shed his favorite fleas.” With that pronouncement, the no-longer-dapper lawyer took his leave of the stateroom cabin.

HAM WENT straight away to Monk’s cabin, making no effort to be furtive about it. He wanted to be seen because, if his disguise did not stand up to scrutiny, it would be better to know that sooner than later.

With him, he took the key to Monk’s cabin, and used it to open the door.

He found his friend sprawled on his too-narrow bunk, flat on his back, gaping mouth wide open, snoring through his flat nose like a movie cartoon character.

The apish chemist seemed dead to the world. Ham had no interest in altering that situation. Once his tiny eyes snapped open, Monk was certain to take out his wrath on the first person he spied. Ham wanted no part of that exchange, especially as he was temporarily bereft of his sword cane.

Shutting the homely chemist in his cabin, Ham began to walk the decks of the great converted liner, searching the faces he encountered.

Many were the features of Merchant Mariners, who crewed the vessel. None of these, of course, were familiar to him.

Then, walking down a companionway with suitably stiffened gait, he happened to spy a casually attired young Merchant Marine who struck Ham as faintly familiar. Puzzled but interested, Ham began following this individual.

The Merchant Mariner was going about the business of tending to the ship, and did nothing outwardly suspicious. Try as he might, Ham could not get a good look at the man, for he was following from behind.

Twice, the disguised attorney overheard other sailors casually refer to the young man as “Boats,” which he knew was a common nickname for boatswain. The fellow therefore was the
Northern Star
’s bosun.

So piqued was his curiosity that Ham continued shadowing the fellow long after the light began to fail and no useful purpose would come of it.

Finally, he lost the mariner, who went below into the complicated innards of the ship where passengers could not follow.

There, Ham paused in thoughtful contemplation, searching his memory. But no matter how he cudgeled it, the lawyer could not recall to mind a name to go with that youthful face.

Thwarted, he returned to Doc Savage’s cabin, knocked twice, but received no answer.

Now that darkness had arrived, the bronze man had departed. Turning on his heel, Ham went in search of his chief, wondering if he could or would recognize him, however cleverly he was disguised.

His search had an interesting result. Wandering about the after-deck, he spied a hulking Merchant Marine who fit Doc Savage’s general proportions. The Marine was a Negro, as dark as they come, with a head of hair that was cropped close rather like the curly back of a buffalo. Atop this thicket perched a greasy oiler’s cap.

Assuming he had discovered Doc Savage in disguise, Ham sidled up to the big black Merchant Marine and hissed, “Doc!”

The man turned toward Ham dubiously and asked, “Something I can do for you, bud?” The big black man did not sound anything like Doc Savage.

Ham studied the wide features and for a moment felt confusion course through him.

“I am sorry,” he said apologetically, “You resemble a fellow I used to know.”

“Well, I don’t know
you
.”

“In that, we are in full agreement,” said Ham, retreating.

Ham walked away, and doubt immediately seized him. Doc Savage was a master of disguise, but his great size and metallic skin placed strict limits on his ability to conceal himself by the usual theatrical methods. One of his tricks was to impersonate a large Negro, which the bronze giant had done several times in the past. He was also an astounding voice mimic.

Ham realized that it was entirely within the power of Doc Savage to transform himself so much that it could fool his close associates, even to altering his vocal expression.

Turning, Ham sized up the big Negro once again. Could Doc have fooled him?

The hulking Negro discovered the genteel but disheveled passenger staring at him, and glowered back.

“Are you looking to cause me trouble?” he demanded.

“No, no,” said Ham hastily. “No trouble. No trouble at all.”

With that, Ham hurried away. By the time he had returned to his own cabin, the doubt crept in again. Perhaps Doc did not want attention called to himself—and that large fellow was in fact Doc Savage.

Sitting down on his bunk, Ham looked flustered and fidgeted with his hands. He was without his ever-present sword cane, and he still could not make up his mind if the big Negro was Doc Savage. Or was not.

Chapter IX

TRANSFORMATION

DOC SAVAGE WAS
not
disguised as the hulking Negro.

He was, however, trailing that fellow. Doc wore the casual attire of a Merchant Marine seaman, but it was two sizes too small for him. He had darkened his bronze hair and bleached his deeply metallic skin until it was merely tanned. Whitening it was out of the question.

Exhibiting a tigerish stealth, keeping to such shadows as he could attach himself, Doc measured the big Negro. He was taller than the bronze giant by a half inch and outweighed him by perhaps fifteen pounds, but other than that, they were not far apart in general characteristics.

The man’s work clothes would fit him, Doc decided.

Stepping out of the shadows, the bronze man accosted the fellow.

“Seaman, come with me.”

The big black sailor looked up from what he was doing, glowered and demanded, “I don’t recognize you.”

“New man. Now come with me.”

The Negro was not dumb. He did not recognize this crewman, and neither did Doc outrank him.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Doc told him, “Bosun needs a couple of strong backs. You have one, and so do I. Let’s go.”

Shrugging, the mariner fell in behind Doc Savage, a perplexed but resigned expression on his beefy features.

He accompanied Doc to the latter’s private cabin, which Doc unlocked and, stepping aside, waved him in.

“You go first.”

Dubious of expression, the seaman ducked his head in order to clear the blackout-curtain-shielded door. The bronze man followed him in, shutting the door firmly after them.

The big man turned. “Hey! What is this?”

Doc Savage had intended to seize the fellow by his thick neck and apply expert pressure on sensitive nerves found there—a specific spot that would produce rapid unconsciousness. It was the same technique by which the bronze giant had earlier overcome Monk Mayfair, but here, the suspicions of the big black had caused him to turn about, and Doc faced a dilemma.

Having no choice in the matter, the bronze man uncorked one bone-hard fist and dropped the man with one punch.

The Negro collapsed on the floor. Doc Savage hoisted him up in his corded arms and laid the fellow out on the bunk, swiftly stripping him of his clothes and replacing them with his own. As a precaution, he injected him with an anesthetic that would keep the seaman sedated for many hours.

Going to the make-up case, Doc opened it. His eyes continually shifting to the sleeping man’s features, the bronze man undertook to transform himself into a mirror image of the large fellow.

It took nearly an hour, but at last it was done. A chemical preparation darkened Doc’s bronze skin. Optical eye shells did the same for his flake-gold eyes. A suitable wig was affixed to his close-cropped hair, after Doc trimmed it properly to match the man’s haircut. There were other touches. Wire loops were carefully inserted to flare Doc’s nostrils and he had built up his corded facial features to give them a heavy-featured cast.

The hulking Negro’s own mother, conceivably, would have known the difference. But only in very good light and at close proximity. Otherwise Doc Savage was the spitting image of Seaman Jury Goines, A. B.—which was the name on the identification card the bronze man discovered in the fellow’s pocket. His rating was Oiler. No doubt Goines spent much of his time below deck, in the engine room, propeller shaft alley and elsewhere, attending to lubrication-thirsty machinery.

Satisfied with his efforts, Doc locked Goines in the stateroom cabin. He would straighten out the matter with the fellow later, along with sincere apologies. But for now, this impersonation was absolutely necessary. For all Doc Savage knew, the lives of every man on this vessel were at stake. He did not know that to a certainty, but neither could he exclude the possibility. And that, for the moment, was a salve to Doc Savage’s troubled conscience.

ONCE out on deck, Doc Savage moved about freely. His work uniform of open-necked cotton shirt and blue demins proved to be a little loose but this was a considerable relief after the brief period walking around in a too-tight one. The night air had a salty tang that Doc tasted in his nostrils. The wind moving across the open deck blew steadily. Not hard, but the steadiness was unnerving. Doc recognized it as the type of wind that presaged blows that could turn violent quite suddenly.The bronze man made a thorough reconnoiter of the ship and its many decks. He saluted officers where necessary, then moved briskly on, a determined look on his disguised features.

Doc was searching passing faces for any of the men he had encountered at the Old Sailors Home, should they be aboard. He assumed that they were, but assumptions were chancy propositions. He had seen no sign of any of them thus far. Worse, the bronze giant did not obtain clear glimpses of all the men, but their large-framed leader—the amber-eyed man calling himself Diamond—would be hard to miss with his rugged brown face and smoky-gray pompadour.

Doc went to the dining area, which had been converted into a ship’s mess. In years gone by, he had sailed to Europe on the very same vessel, in connection with an adventure that had long ago been crowded into the back of his mind. And in those comparatively carefree days, the dining room was open during set hours, so passengers could dine at their convenience.