Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (17 page)

Not long after, Ham Brooks returned, knocking insistently in code. Monk let him in.

The sharp-eyed lawyer noticed at once that Seaman Goines was not resting on the bunk.

“What have you done with him, you miserable miscreant?” demanded Ham.

“Stashed ’im in the tub,” returned Monk.

“Why would you do that?”

“The skipper of this barge came callin’. Wanted to talk to Doc. I had to let him in. I couldn’t let him see the big guy on the bunk, now could I?”

“What did McCullum want?”

“He was lookin’ for Doc. He thinks the story Doc fed him about Goines havin’ a spell was fishy.”

“Well,” mused Ham, “it
was
fishy. Considering that it was not the truth.”

“I told him I would give Doc a message, hopin’ he wouldn’t go lookin’ for him. The Captain knows of Doc skulkin’ around in disguise, but he doesn’t know what he looks like. And he sure doesn’t know he’s coolin’ his heels in the brig right now.”

Ham released a sigh that caused his fake mustaches to come to life. “We are making very little progress, and sinking in quicksand at the same time.”

Monk nodded somberly. “Let’s just hope that Diamond and his gang stay holed up in their cabins until Doc is set free. Otherwise, you and I are gonna have to handle things.”

“At least we have Don Worth and the boys to fall back on. It was the devil’s own luck that they happened to be stationed on the ship.”

“The devil’s own luck,” mused Monk, “is kinda like a coiled rattlesnake.”

Ham eyed Monk skeptically. “What do you mean by that?”

“What I mean,” returned Monk unhappily, “is that the devil’s own luck can sometimes rear up and bite you while you’re congratulatin’ yourself that it happened to you.”

“Sometimes,” admitted Ham, “you almost make sense.”

“That’s because the devil’s own luck has nipped me a time or two in the past,” muttered the hairy chemist worriedly.

Chapter XVII

STORM WARNING

THE
NORTHERN STAR
steamed south without incident over the following day, pushing against the cyanide-blue waters of the Gulf Stream, pulling into Nassau on New Providence Island around seven in the evening. The season being mid-summer, it was still light.

Due to the air-like clarity of the sea, a characteristic of Bahamian waters, one could easily spy tropical fish in the harbor. Dolphins. Flying fish. There were a few leaden sharks, as well. The presence of the man-eaters discouraged any prolonged fish-watching.

The gangplank was lowered, but few disembarked. The skipper had already put out the word that the ship would not be long in port, and was merely taking on additional cargo, along with a few British dignitaries.

Ham Brooks watched the gangplank from the stern rail. He loitered several minutes, observing quietly, still disguised by his worn suit and white van Dyke mustache and dab of a beard. He gripped the rail because, without his sword cane, he did not know what to do with his hands. They tended to fidget without the slim stick to grip and twirl.

The absence of deck chairs—an unnecessary luxury in war time—also annoyed Ham. Also, the disguised barrister did not like the way the weather had shifted. All day and night long, the sea air had blown steadily. Now it was uncannily still.

After about a half hour, Ham decided that no one else was getting off. Noting the time, and not being fond of the quality of food being dished out by the ship’s mess, he decided to disembark and take a chance on a local restaurant.

“I will be less than an hour,” he told the First Mate as he stepped off.

The First Mate nodded, but said nothing.

Ham wandered around the Royal Palm dock, maintained as part of the service by one of the finest hotels in the Bahamas, taking in the sights. As he sauntered along quaint colonial streets, he noticed the ubiquitous palm trees. They hung their shaggy heads in a manner that was lifeless and a bit surreal. The customary dry rustle of palm fronds was strikingly absent, the air also having a definite quality of being charged with something or other, not promising anything good.

A visit by a hurricane, Ham recalled, was not unusual in the Bahamas in August, and the clarity and the stillness struck him as being definitely hurricane symptoms. He began to look around for a barometer as he walked down the street; presently discovering one in a jewelry store window. He wasn’t surprised that several persons were standing around, looking at the barometer.

He looked himself. It was low. It was low enough to surprise him.

“That doesn’t look so good,” one of the observers remarked.

“No, it doesn’t,” Ham agreed, noticing that the speaker was a lean, mahogany-skinned individual. A native, obviously.

“I take it you live around here, so you would know what the barometer reading means,” added Ham.

“Nobody can tell about hurricanes. They’re as unpredictable as chickens,” the man replied.

“I wonder where it is now?” mused Ham, fishing for information.

“The Miami radio station reports the thing is centered south and east of here, off the northeast tip of Cuba,” the man added. “What I wouldn’t give to live on the mainland where they don’t have those things. These Bahamian blows ain’t fun.”

“Then there
is
a hurricane?” Ham asked.

“Sure.”

“I hadn’t heard about it,” Ham remarked.

“From the way folks are talkin’,” the other remarked, turning away, “this one is a roaring monster.”

Ham rushed off, continuing on his way. This was important information and he must get it to Doc Savage. But first he would eat.

The Central Bahamas Hotel had a dining room—a seafood restaurant specializing in lobster. Ham entered, was seated, and ordered two, with a baked potato and butter beans. It was not his usual dinner fare, but seafood appealed to him.

Ham noticed that preparations for a hurricane were already being taken, for workmen were carrying the light garden furniture to some place of safety, and heavy hurricane shutters were being placed on some of the windows.

The restaurant seemed to be half deserted, so he struck up a conversation with the bored waiter.

“What are the latest meteorological reports concerning the anticipated hurricane?” Ham asked casually. “Is it expected to make landfall?”

“Yes, the barometer is pretty low and there’s a blow headed this way,” the other man admitted. “However, it will probably be twelve hours or more before anything nasty gets this far. Can’t tell, though. Hurricanes have a way of fooling a body.”

The food was served with uncommon swiftness for the tropics, and Ham ate more briskly than usual. Whatever impulse to loiter he might have had was dispelled by the hammering of workmen constructing hurricane shutters on the hotel building, working with an alacrity not ordinarily seen in the Caribbean, where time seemed to pass more slowly than on the mainland.

The waiter presented Ham with his bill of fare before the dapper lawyer had quite finished shelling his lobster.

“I live in Grants Town,” he explained solicitously. “I want to get home before this hurricane hits, to see that things are properly taken care of.”

“I understand perfectly, my good fellow,” said Ham, tendering a ten dollar bill and indicating that change would not be necessary.

When he stepped out, the palm fronds and shrubbery stood completely motionless in the unusually bright and still tropical air. The weird frozen clarity of the ominous pre-hurricane sky promised trouble.

Returning to the
Northern Star
, Ham mounted the gangplank with a crisp step that marked him as a decisive man of action.

He went immediately to Monk’s cabin.

WHEN Ham Brooks entered the stateroom cabin, the homely chemist jumped up from his chair and demanded, “Where the heck have you been? I’m starvin’.”

“I will have a banana sent up from the galley later,” Ham snapped back. “There’s a big hurricane roaring up from Cuba. We have to let Doc know.”

“How big?”

Ham replied, “I just came from Nassau town and they tell me it’s a monster.”

Worry immediately wrinkled up Monk’s simian features. “I’ve been in Caribbean hurricanes,” he said slowly, “that make Oklahoma twisters look like those little dust devils you see scootin’ by the side of country roads.”

Ham nodded soberly. “It is nothing to take lightly. And it may affect whatever is due to transpire. I must get word to Donald Worth so that he can relay this message to Doc Savage. The storm is due in about twelve hours.”

“We’re supposed to ship out by midnight,” muttered Monk, “on account of we want to make the Caribbean run by night in case of German raiders.”

“For my part,” declared Ham, throwing open the cabin door, “I would rather face a Nazi U-boat than a storm of this ferocity.”

The disguised attorney clapped the door shut. Monk called after him, “Don’t forget my grub!”

Ham went in search of Donald Worth and, failing to find him, made a beeline for the ship’s dining hall.

He found Seaman Tucker cleaning up the breakfast plates, the dining hour having expired.

“I just came from shore,” confided Ham, looking about to make sure he was not overheard, “and there is a hurricane coming this way that is said to rival Gargantua in size.”

“I wonder if the Skipper knows?” murmured Tucker.

“Has Doc Savage been fed his dinner yet?” inquired Ham.

“No. I was going to be doing that shortly.”

“Let him know that the blow is due in twelve hours.”

Leander Tucker frowned. “If I know the Old Man, he’s not going to put out into that kind of weather.”

“Whatever he does, it is certain to throw off Diamond’s plans—provided his plans are set to any sort of fixed timetable,” warned Ham.

Seaman Tucker grinned. “Anything to throw a monkey wrench into whatever’s cooking.”

As Ham prepared to leave, he asked, “Do you have a few bananas?”

“Bananas? I can look. Why?”

“Monk asked for them specifically,” said Ham with a straight face.

“You would think,” remarked Tucker, “that being cooped up in that stateroom all day and night, he would want something more hearty.”

Ham maintained a serious expression. His remark about a banana had not been serious. “Monk Mayfair,” he said superciliously, “was raised on a diet of bananas and coconuts. Three bananas will get him through the afternoon.”

Retreating into the back, Leander Tucker came back with four of the yellow-skinned fruit, and Ham took them along with him.

Not many minutes later, Seaman Tucker was carrying a tray of scraps and water down into the brig. He made a point of detouring to the section of the ship where Donald Worth would normally be found while in dock, the cargo holds.

“Do you know about the blow that’s coming?” he asked.

“Well, I know that this still air is not natural. But I haven’t heard the weather report.”

“It’s a monster,” said Tucker. “Driving up from the south, set to hit in about twelve hours.”

Now it was Don Worth’s turn to wrestle with his frowning features.

“Good. I would imagine that the Skipper knows. The question is what is he going to do about it?”

“The real question is what will
Diamond
do about it, since it probably wasn’t part of his plans,” suggested Tuck.

“I will see what I can find out,” promised Seaman Worth.

“And I’ll inform Doc Savage.”

Don Worth looked over the bread and water and asked, “It’s a shame we can’t slip him some decent food.”

“My thought exactly, but if I’m caught doing that, I’ll be bunking with him.”

Don nodded somberly. “Doc is going to need all the help he can get, if anything breaks loose. That means all four of us have to be at liberty.”

Seaman Tucker grinned. “This is turning into a heckuva sea voyage, isn’t it?”

“The heck part,” said Donald Worth heavily, “just might turn out to be sheer hell.”

With that, the two friends went in opposite directions.

SEAMAN TUCKER worked his way down to the brig, and stood aside while the Master at Arms opened the cell door, which was a blank steel panel pieced by a round porthole.

“Oiler, how are you this fine afternoon?” Tucker greeted.

“Hungry,” replied the bronze man in a steady tone.

“Well, I wish I had more for you than these sorry rations,” said Tucker. “But it will have to do, since captain’s orders is captain’s orders.”

Leander Tucker knew from past experience with Doc Savage that the bronze man was an expert lip reader. Turning his back to the watchful jailer, he caught Doc Savage’s gaze and mouthed several fragmentary sentences.

“Big hurricane heading this way. Twelve hours away. Don’t know if we sail or not.”

Doc Savage caught every unspoken syllable, looked down at his tray of table scraps and stale bread left over from the morning meal and sighed heavily in a manner he expected would be consistent with Seaman Goines.

“If I had a twin brother,” he said heavily, “I sure would trade places with him right about now.”

When he looked up at Leander Tucker, his dark eyes held a meaningful light.

“I know what you mean,” agreed Seaman Tucker, “if I had a twin brother, he’d serve every other meal. But I don’t, and you don’t, so what can we do about it?”

Doc Savage laughed irregularly. “Well, I guess all I can do is chow down and keep on wishing.”

“I’ll be back for the tray later,” said Tucker to the Master at Arms as the latter locked up. He hurried topside, trying not to make it look as if he were rushing. But he was.

When Tuck reached the stateroom where Monk and Ham held forth, he knocked and was admitted surreptitiously.

“I told Doc,” he said breathlessly. “He read my lips. The Master at Arms couldn’t hear us. Then Doc said a strange thing. He wished that he had a twin brother to take his place.”

Monk and Ham swapped glances. At first, their expressions were slightly stunned, then became clearly frightened.

“Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Monk asked Ham.

“I fear that I am,” moaned Ham, wringing his hands for lack of a sword cane to twist.