Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) (2 page)

Monk and Ham had quarreled famously since the beginning of their association, and as a result they were wont to play tricks upon one another. For years, Monk had been fooling Ham Brooks with an assortment of trick quarters, so cleverly constructed that even upon inspection the hairy chemist’s duplicity rarely came to light.

But losing so many times to Monk’s nimble finger work, the dapper barrister had decided to beat the homely Monk to the draw, with evident success.

Ham glowered at Monk and demanded, “Are you reneging upon your promise to pay our luncheon bill?”

“I ain’t renegin’. I am regretting.”

“Well, regret all you want after we have had our fill, for that is what we are about to do.”

With that, Ham Brooks marched off to the restaurant in question, leaving Monk Mayfair to amble along in his wake, wearing an unhappy expression and furtively examining his wallet for greenbacks, which numbered a precious few.

MONK MAYFAIR’S hangdog expression was only slightly less droopy when he caught up with Ham Brooks at the entrance to the eating establishment, which was one of the swankiest at this end of town.

Monk had never eaten there before, but the sight of the place caused him to swallow hard and momentarily consider dropping his wallet down the storm drain, with the firm intention of fishing it out again later, in order to evade the doubtless lavish bill.

Only the disreputable state of the apish chemist’s finances had compelled him to consider risking such a subterfuge, and the possible loss of the billfold.

Frowning hard, Monk started into the elegant eatery as Ham Brooks held the door open with his dark cane.

“Hurry it up, you hairy mistake!” urged Ham. “For the place is packed with diners.”

“Hold your horses, you fashion—” Suddenly, Monk squawked,
“Oof!”

For the apish chemist had, in his preoccupation, managed to collide with someone.

The person into whom he bumped unwittingly bounced back and almost lost her footing.

A hairy paw reached out and snagged the individual before she could topple over.

This was how Monk Mayfair found himself holding a rather delectable blonde woman. That she qualified as a woman was a matter of dispute, for she might have been no more than nineteen. Conceivably, she could have been all of twenty years of age.

The blonde morsel was not so much tall as she was willowy, but her hair was very, very blonde. It was the color of cornsilk, and rather long as well.

Dancing blue eyes locked onto the apish man and Monk was prepared to receive a scolding, accompanied by a withering look from those same brilliant blue eyes.

Instead, he became the recipient of a hurricane of feminine enthusiasm.

“Well—goodness gracious me! If Ah can believe my eyes, Ah have bumped into Mr. Monk Mayfair himself!”

Monk was hardly slow-witted, but he had been girded for a scolding. This ration of enthusiastic approval took him off guard.

He hauled his battered hat off his bullet head and said, “You got the right number, toots. I’m Monk, all right.”

“Well, Ah declare! This must be my lucky day! Ah have hardly been in the big city a full day and Ah bump into my first celebrity.”

Pleased, Monk beamed. He showed great white teeth that created a smile that threatened his cauliflower ears.

Seeing all this, Ham Brooks skillfully inserted himself into the conversation.

“You will have to pardon my goonish friend,” said Ham smoothly. “As you can tell from casual inspection, there is no more homely specimen of manhood parading about the city. Had he not been classified 4-F, no doubt Monk would be in military fatigues on some battlefront at this precise moment. But the United States Army considered him unfit for duty.”

“That’s a bald-faced lie!” roared Monk. “Don’t listen to that slick shyster, Miss. The only reason he’s not overseas is because he’s too dang old, not to mention the fact that he’s the sole support of a fat wife and thirteen half-witted children.”

Ham drew himself up to his full height and announced, “I have not, and never have been, married.”

“Yeah? So where did the thirteen half-wits come from?”

Waving his slim cane about madly, the dapper lawyer sputtered inarticulately for a full minute, his composure entirely ruined by the false canard.

During this interval, the blonde bestowed upon Monk the most amazing smile he had ever beheld. The pearly masterpiece of dental perfection made him feel warm and tingly all over.

Monk and Ham were both two old wolves, with many conquests behind them. Their rivalry, such as it was, extended to outdoing one another with the fair sex. Whenever they encountered a suitable specimen of femininity, invariably they attempted to paint the other in satanic colors, while gathering saintly robes about themselves.

Sometimes Ham won out through his dashing good looks and cultured demeanor, but other times Monk got the upper hand, there being something about his homely face and amiable disposition that bowled over certain types of women.

This corn-fed blonde appeared to belong to the latter category.

Seeing this, Monk gave it all he had. “Please accept my apologies for bumping into you,” he said, stealing a leaf from the smooth Ham.

“Think nothing of it, honey,” the blonde replied enthusiastically. “In fact, Ah do declare that Ah am the one who bumped into you. Ah was so startled at the sight of you that Ah—um—momentarily lost my senses.”

Recovering from his spluttering, Ham Brooks said archly, “You would not be the first woman to be shocked out of her wits by the sight of this ape’s flat-nosed face.”

The blonde refused to take her eyes off Monk. “On the contrary, I adore homely men.”

“What—you do?” sputtered Monk.

“Honest to my grandma, Ah do. Ah used to have a favorite bulldog, and y’all remind me of him somehow.”

Monk did not know how to take that remark, but then remembered that small children and babies often responded to his anthropoid features the same infectious way.

Thinking fast and moving even faster, he asked, “Were you about to dine in this joint?”

“Ah was indeed, Mr. Mayfair. Ah thought Ah would have lunch in the most swellegant place Ah could find.”

“Oh, you don’t want to eat here,” inserted Monk hastily.

The overfriendly blonde frowned prettily. “Ah don’t? Why on earth not?”

“Because,” Monk said with studied sincerity, “this joint serves French food. If this is your first time in Manhattan, you’ll want to eat New York style.”

Ham began to object, but the woman said, “You are exactly right. Ah should eat as the natives do, now shouldn’t Ah?”

“I know a place that serves the best spaghetti in Little Italy,” said Monk. “I can take you there.”

The blonde looked as if she was about to swoon with sheer pleasure. “Oh, would you? That would be such a delight. Ah would love to have lunch with y’all and hear all about your famous self.”

Monk beamed so broadly that his head looked as if it had separated in two. Taking the blonde by the arm, he said, “Come on, then. It’s only two blocks south of here.”

Fuming visibly, Ham began hectoring Monk. “I thought we were going to dine here!”

Monk flung back, “You go ahead and eat that measly French cuisine, me and my new friend here are going to chow down on spaghetti and meatballs.”

“But—but you don’t even know her name!” called out Ham in exasperation.

“It’s Davey Lee,” the blonde cooed. “Ah hail from Louisiana.”

Monk’s grin got even wider. “Is that right? I’m from Tulsa myself.”

“Ah was raised in Shreveport, so that makes us almost neighbors.”

“I think I’m going to like gettin’ to know you,” said Monk as they disappeared around the corner.

Standing in the open doorway of the lavish restaurant, Ham Brooks seemed not to know what to do with himself. The dapper lawyer was obviously torn between following the hairy chemist and his bubbly blonde companion, or disappearing into the restaurant for his intended meal.

Instead, he raced to a nearby drugstore and popped into a telephone booth, dropping a nickel into the slot and asking for the operator.

“Connect me with Doc Savage. The number is Empire 1-7900.”

Chapter II

DITHER

HIGH ON THE eighty-sixth floor of the tallest skyscraper in midtown Manhattan, a number of telephones commenced ringing at once.

Not all of the instruments rang, technically speaking. Some did, but many others simply buzzed, and a few were silent, but indicated an incoming call by flashing a red light attached to the designated devices.

The headquarters of Doc Savage was distributed all over the eighty-sixth floor, and so it filled the greater portion of an acre. The smallest room was the reception room, which gave into a library that would have been the envy of many Ivy League universities. Beyond the library was a laboratory-workshop that was virtually unrivaled in all the war-weary world.

It was in this laboratory that a giant man of bronze was engaged in scientific work when the many telephones set up their jangling, buzzing, flashing commotion.

Doc Savage—for he was the giant bronze-skinned individual—did not hear them. He was seated before an apparatus from which ran a pair of earphones. The device was creating sounds that ranged the auditory scale, beginning with a deep beeping and progressing, or more correctly diminishing, to a succession of electrical noises that sought lower and lower registers.

These frequencies were similar to the device ear doctors use to test a patient’s hearing. In this case, the tones dropped by stages to produce sounds below the auditory threshold that the human ear could normally detect.

Doc Savage was testing his hearing. He was not looking for any problems, however. His ears were fine. In fact, they were phenomenally acute, a consequence of a childhood spent in training for the work that he did now.

The work of Doc Savage was a Galahadian affair. It all began when his father, a renowned explorer and medical man, had turned him over to a seemingly inexhaustible array of scientists and other top experts to train up young Clark Savage, Jr., to become superior in all human endeavors.

All this fit him for the job of troubleshooting other people’s troubles, and for no pay. This was the life’s path his father had set out for him. Why remained a deep and dark mystery.

Part of this regimen was a routine of exercises Doc had practiced since very young. These honed his mind, his body and his senses to razor sharpness and were as indispensable to his life work as the ability to fire a rifle with uncanny accuracy or swim underwater for long periods without surfacing, to name just two skills at which he had become proficient.

Specialized apparatus were a part of this daily routine. There were corked vials containing exotic scents that were changed regularly. This routine enabled Doc to identify odors that might be encountered in the far corners of the world, where his life could depend upon it.

A modest device reproducing difficult-to-hear tones was another useful component of this regular routine.

The apparatus before which Doc Savage sat was a more advanced version, and much improved. With it, Doc was endeavoring to detect sounds definitely below what was normally audible to the human ear. Dogs and some other animals could hear these sounds. It was a rare man who could, however.

By intensive practice, the bronze man was training himself to detect sounds that were conventionally beyond human hearing.

So engrossed was he in these tones, Doc Savage failed to hear the ringing of the many telephones, for he sat in a soundproof cubicle, rather like those used by radio broadcast announcers.

It was the flashing of one telephone’s red light that brought him to awareness of the insistent phones, which had been ringing some two minutes now.

Whipping off his earphones, the bronze man raced to the nearest instrument, revealing that he was a giant of a fellow with an amazingly symmetrical physique. He scooped it up.

“Doc Savage speaking,” he said in a vibrant voice.

“Doc! It’s Ham. Something has happened to Monk.”

“Go on.”

“We were entering a fashionable restaurant for lunch when this blonde floozy managed to bump into him. The next I know, that hairy lump of muscles had squired her off, leaving me in the lurch.”

“Who agreed to pay for lunch this time?” asked Doc.

“Monk did, but that was beside the point. There is something amiss here.”

“When either of you come into contact with blondes, not to mention redheads and brunettes,” said Doc Savage pointedly, “there usually is. Or soon will be.”

Ham snapped, “I am
not
joking.”

“Nor am I. Why do you think this particular blonde represented trouble?”

“The way she gushed over him.”

“In other words, she paid you no mind.”

“That is not the point,” raged Ham. “I did not see how it all began, but I am highly suspicious that this peroxide Jezebel deliberately bumped into Monk in order to capture his attention.”

“If you feel so strongly about it, why don’t you follow them to the restaurant and invest in a little eavesdropping?”

“Monk would spot me a mile away.”

“Bribe a waiter to listen in.”

“That is a very good idea,” replied Ham in a mollified tone. “I will get right on it.”

“Contact me if you discover anything out of the ordinary,” directed Doc, hanging up.

Returning to his apparatus, Doc again donned the headphones and engaged the device. Soon, the earphones were reproducing their weird beeping and the bronze man concentrated on following the tones as they sank into inaudibility.

When ten minutes had elapsed, Doc ceased the experiment and picked up a dog whistle. He blew in it. A frown touched his regular bronzed features and the metallic flakes that perpetually stirred in his golden eyes grew troubled.

Despite an hour of practice, he could not hear the dog whistle. He wondered if the act of blowing into the whistle himself might interfere with his perception of the inaudible sound.

Doc decided to have one of his men experiment with the dog whistle at the next opportunity to determine if his theory had any credence. Leaving the soundproof booth, Doc moved about the vast laboratory, checking on experiments in progress, and reflected upon Ham Brooks’ frantic call. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Monk and Ham getting into disagreements over the latest morsel of femininity to cross their paths. They were a pair of wary old wolves, but yet not wise enough to forego such foolishness. A time or two they had nearly been dragged into matrimony, but somehow managed to evade the Justice of the Peace in the end.