CORDON
It was not long before Doc Savage arrived at Sen Gat’s house in Shoreditch—slightly more than ten minutes after his men met with bad luck. The bronze man alighted from a taxi some blocks away and walked the rest of the distance. Nearing Sen Gat’s abode, he kept to shadows. His eyes were alert, missing little.
The wrinkled, oriental hawker with his tray of nuts and tasties was back at the corner. Doc Savage studied the fellow, then gave more attention to Sen Gat’s house. No sound came from the latter.
Doc moved toward the peddler.
A patrol car, occupied by uniformed bobbies, rounded a corner. Their manner indicated that they were hunting for something, as the police braked to a stop near the sidewalk merchant.
“I say, where were the shots?” called an officer.
Doc Savage, not many yards distant, heard the words distinctly.
“Me thinkee bang-bang noise no blong gun,” singsonged the peddler.
“We didn’t ask you what you thought,” declared a bobby. “Where was the uproar?”
The hawker pointed. “Noise ’longside that dilection. Mebbeso thlee blocks. Mebbeso six blocks. Velly solly, no can tell.”
The officers consulted in whispers. “You saw no excitement around here, my man?” one of them asked.
“Velly still,” said the wrinkled one. “Mebbeso you buy nuts, sweetmeats? Velly good.”
The bobbies declined; their car rolled on. Sen Gat’s spy had taken them in.
Doc Savage crept forward, making no noise, and a moment later was sure that the wizened one was watching Sen Gat’s house. The intensity of the fellow’s gaze aided Doc in advancing silently until he stood in the glow of a street lamp less than six feet distant.
“Business good?” he asked.
The hawker started violently. He whirled, saw the bronze man, and registered a stark horror which proved conclusively that he feared Doc, and hence must be one of Sen Gat’s henchmen.
“Wrinkles put on with plastic makeup,” Doc decided aloud, studying him intently. “Not a bad job. What’s the idea?”
The answer was a snatch which the other made at one of his voluminous sleeves, a snatch which brought out a long knife with a crooked blade and a carved handle—a creese.
The peddler was squatting on the walk. Jutting the blade out in front of him with both hands, he leaped forward and upward, and had the bronze man stood still he would have been sliced wide open.
But he did not remain stationary. A twist, half a spin, got him clear.
Missing, the attacker sprawled froglike in mid-air, until Doc slammed both hands against his back and drove him down flat on the cobbles, so forcibly that air blew from the man’s mouth and nostrils and he lost his knife.
Doc gathered him up and bundled him under one arm, exerting such pressure that the fellow could not cry out. Then Doc picked up the creese, dropped it on the tray of wares, and carried the tray as he moved toward Sen Gat’s house.
Inside the door, he deposited the tray. Then, with the prisoner helpless in his clutch, he conducted a rapid search.
Doc Savage saw the evidence—in the shape of knife-sliced tyings—that told him Sen Gat and the other truth-serum victims had been liberated. The empty cartridges from from Johnny’s superfirer proved that Doc’s men had been here and had engaged in a fight.
“What happened?” Doc demanded of his prize.
“Kurang pereksa,” the fellow snarled in Malayan.
“Don’t know, eh? You’ll change that tune!”
Doc bound the fellow, employing more strips ripped from the silken hangings of Sen Gat’s house. Then he picked up the bottle of sweet wine, watching the prisoner as he did so. Frightened lights in the fellow’s eyes indicated that he knew what had happened to Sen Gat and the others after they had imbibed from this bottle.
For effect, Doc Savage held the bottle before the man’s eyes, saying, “You know what happened to Sen Gat and the others after they drank from this.”
The other said a beady-eyed nothing, but it was obvious that he did know.
Doc moved the bottle slightly. “You have a choice. Either talk now, or I’ll feed you some of this.”
The prisoner thought it over at great length, rolling his eyes, making angry faces. The bottle, swaying in front of him, was a great, impelling force, and soon he muttered reluctantly, “What do you want to know?”
“What is behind this business of The Thousand-headed Man?” Doc demanded.
“Me not know.”
“Better think it over,” Doc advised him.
“Calvin Copeland all same find Thousand-headed Man one time, me thinkee,” the prisoner imparted unwillingly. “Copeland fella in plane. Two othel fella with him, allee same pilot and mechanic. Something damn bad, him happen. Only Copeland fella get away.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Sen Gat, him tell.”
“Where did Sen Gat learn it?”
“Flom Indigo, who is make Maples tell.”
Doc Savage was silent, aligning the information mentally. So Calvin Copeland had once visited The Thousand-headed Man by air, and had lost his pilot and mechanic. Doc digested this; then:
“Where do the black sticks come in?” he asked.
“Copeland make stick to use as key when he go back to Thousand-headed Man’s city.”
“Key? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Thousand-headed Man have something Copeland want bad. Sen Gat him also want. Velly valuable, this t’ing.”
“How do you know it’s valuable? What is it?”
“Not know what t’ing is. Sen Gat, him one time all same live in Indo-China jungle. Him listen much talk about Thousand-headed Man. Him talk to native who been to place. Gat, him all same damn well know what Thousand-headed Man got. Him not tell us what she is.”
Doc, watching the man intently, concluded the fellow was telling the truth.
“Where is Calvin Copeland now?” Doc asked.
“Him go hunt Thousand-headed Man in Indo-China. All same not come back. Copeland wife blong lose, too. Missy Lucile Copeland fella, Maples fella—them two get out of jungle. Savvy?”
Doc took this sketchy phraseology to mean that the Copeland expedition had met disaster in the search for the city of The Thousand-headed Man in the Indo-China jungles, only Lucile Copeland and Maples escaping.
“How did Sen Gat get in touch with Maples and the girl?” the giant of bronze asked.
“Lucile Copeland fella and Maples fella tly get somebody go hunt fella who lost in jungle. They talk Indigo. He talk Sen Gat. Savvy?”
Doc understood. Lucile Copeland must have reason to believe her father and mother still alive. Much of this story was still unclear, but further elucidation would have to wait until later, for it was sure that the vastly more important question of what had happened to Doc’s five men superseded everything else.
“Where did Sen Gat take my five men?” Doc asked.
The man refused to answer. He feared to actually put Doc on Sen Gat’s trail.
Doc left him to think it over, went out into the street and scooted a flash beam over the cobbles. Moisture and filth on the paving stones received his particular attention, for these held tracks which told him what had happened.
The treads of the cars which had picked up his men might not be of great help, but he fixed them in his memory, anyway, then traced the wheel marks to the corner, to ascertain which direction the machines had taken.
Following the tracks accounted for his being some distance from Sen Gat’s house when two police cars rocketed into the street. Not forgetting that a woman’s voice had telephoned the police in accusing him of murder, Doc drifted into black shadows.
The cars skidded to a stop in front of Sen Gat’s house. Officers piled out.
“No delays this time,” a bobby shouted.
“Righto! That woman telephoned a second tip, saying we’d get Doc Savage here if we moved fast.”
The officers—there was no question about them being genuine—charged into Sen Gat’s house, guns in hand. Their excited shouts indicated that they had found the peddler. Some one ordered the fellow cut free.
Doc Savage worked back to the corner, taking care to make no noise. He tried various doors, found one was unlocked, and entered.
The building was one which had been long given over to orientals of the poorer class. Unlighted stairs led upward.
Doc’s exploring fingers found patches where plaster was gone from laths. The carpet was worn away in spots. Elsewhere it was napless, like canvas.
There was another flight of steps, then a third, and a trapdoor which gave out on a roof. There was a little space between the houses, but the bronze man leaped the crevasses without difficulty.
In the street, bobbies with flashlights were running about.
Doc Savage gained the roof of Sen Gat’s house, after discovering a stout plank which spanned from the adjacent housetop—evidently a minor get-away precaution on Sen Gat’s part.
The roof hatch was not fastened, and he lifted it and went down. Soon he could hear the pseudo-peddler talking excitedly.
“Damn blonze fella go blong stleet,” insisted the monger. “You fella plentee catchee.”
“Jove! We’re tryin’!” snapped an officer. “You say Doc Savage tied you up?”
“Ee-yes!”
“Why?”
“Velly solly, not know. Blonze fella mebbeso come alongside think-box full of black fly things without feathels.”
“Got bats in his jolly belfry, eh? You think Doc Savage is crazy?”
“All same mebbeso. No savvy why else him glab me.”
Doc descended farther. The street salesman was putting up a glib story. He was clever, and probably knew where Doc’s five men might be found.
Doc intended to carry him off, to snatch him from under the noses of the bobbies.
Reaching a door, Doc glanced through. There were two officers with the huckster. One of them stood in front of the door, his broad back not a yard from Doc.
The bronze man lunged forward. His hands came against the officer’s back. The push he gave the fellow was terrific. The bobby hurtled across the floor, collided with the second policeman, and they both went down.
The peddler screamed an instant before Doc grabbed him. With a continuation of his rush, Doc circled back to the door through which he had entered. He was carrying the huckster.
Getting through the door, he slammed it at his back and shot the bolt. Then he hauled his squirming prize up the stairs.
The oriental shrieked, kicked, and struck with his fists. Doc held him a little tighter and the fellow ceased struggling, partially paralyzed by the unearthly strength in the bronze arms. Squeakings and moanings were the only sounds he could manage.
Black fog pushed moistly against Doc’s metallic features as he came out on the roof. He started to go back the way he had come—but did not get far.
Some of the policemen had been foresighted enough to come up to the roof. Probably they had followed Doc’s own route. The noises the oriental was making attracted their attention. They turned on flashlights. The beams picked up the bronze man.
A gun exploded; another. Both bullets went wide—discharged by way of warning, it appeared.
Doc sank flat on the roof. With one hand, he sought to close the hatch.
The oriental took advantage of Doc’s preoccupation. Squirming around, he managed to kick the bronze man in the face. That got him loose.
With frenzied haste, the peddler leaped across the roof.
Doc would have recaptured him easily, except for another circumstance. One of the bobbies with flashlights sprang atop a chimney, and from that high vantage point managed to sight the bronze man. He aimed deliberately and fired. His bullet tore cloth, and scooped a shallow gully across Doc’s shoulder.
The bronze man let the oriental go and rolled to cover. It was the only thing to do. These policemen could shoot.
The oriental took a wild chance. On his feet and running, he saw the space between the two buildings and it must have looked narrow, or perhaps the flashlight glare created an optical illusion which made it seem less wide than it was. The fellow tried to jump it.
His feet barely made the opposite coping. Momentum failed to carry him over. His arms gyrated; he doubled, trying to grasp the edge, but failed. Head first, he sank down into the black space between the buildings.
He screamed throughout the fall, and the shriek ended in a crunch not unlike that which might be made by the dropping of a package which contained a full bottle of some liquid.
Doc Savage lay perfectly motionless. The wall behind which he had taken shelter had a height of little more than a foot, and extended the length of the house—it was a continuation of the walls. The roof sloped downward, and there was no projection along the back.
The bobbies on the other roof top were not advancing. They were taking no chances, thinking Doc might have a gun. As a matter of fact, the bronze man carried no firearm, not even one of his supermachine pistols.
He did, however, wear a well-padded vest fashioned with many pockets, and worn under his outer clothing so that its presence was hardly noticeable. He delved into the concealed pockets, and from one came what at first glance might have been mistaken for a toy rubber balloon, bronze-colored.
When inflated, however, the rubber object proved an article of careful workmanship, and some good painting. It was a respectable likeness of Doc’s head and features.
Removing his coat behind the low wall was a tortuous process. When he had it off he tied it securely to the lower part of the balloon by a string already attached to the rubber for that purpose.
An inch at a time, he pushed both balloon and coat away from the wall. He listened carefully.
“Jove!” gasped one of the bobbies.
Doc ceased shoving. Would they fire, or wait for reinforcements?
There were whispers. They were evidently going to wait, mistaking the balloon for Doc and had him spotted.
Doc crawled toward the rear, not showing himself.
“The blighter’s dead! The fall killed him!”
That shout, coming from between the buildings where some one had examined the luckless oriental, meant that the vendor had eliminated himself as a source of information. It was a bad break.
Gaining the rear edge of the roof, Doc Savage swung over. Cracks between the bricks, then window sills, furnished finger tip purchase as he descended.
Flashlights, waving brilliant plumes in the alley, showed that the bobbies had a cordon across either end and were moving forward. Word had evidently been spread that the bronze man was still on the roof.
“Tear-gas guns on the way up!” an officer called.
Doc Savage reached the cobbles, then produced a flashlight, extended it high over his head, and turned a beam on the rear of the roof.
“Keep the back lighted, you idiots!” he called.
His voice, almost an exact imitation of the man who had shouted word that the oriental was dead, deceived the bobbies, leading them to believe their brother officer had come from between the buildings. Flashlights sought the roof and held it.
While the attention of the officers was thus fixed, Doc experienced little difficulty in slipping past them and away into the night.