THE FAKE MONK
Lucile Copeland and Maples settled themselves for a wait. As a matter of precaution, they shifted chairs into the corridor. The girl kept her purse unlatched on her lap, where her gun could be gotten at quickly.
Down in the street, traffic rumbled with less volume. The bobby no longer tweetled his whistle on the corner, vehicles evidently now being few enough that they could find their own way across the intersection.
Maples’s chair creaked as he squirmed, and said, “You know, Miss Copeland, Savage jolly well neglected to say whether he would help us or not.”
The girl did not look concerned.
“He’s already helping us,” she pointed out. “Isn’t that answer enough?”
She fingered the three black sticks thoughtfully. Her eyes held speculation. “I wish we knew what—these really are.”
Maples eyed the bony lines of his own hands. “This city of The Thousand-headed Man—I wonder what is actually there.”
“Weird death that came through the jungle.” Lucile Copeland restored the sticks nervously to her hand bag. “My father and mother are there, too—I hope.”
“And something else, by Jove! Something your father wanted. I wonder what——”
“Sh-h-h!” interposed the girl.
Steps were mounting the stairs. They were heavy steps, rapid.
The girl put a hand in her purse, touched her gun.
A man came up the stairs, a fellow whose height was but a little over five feet, and whose shoulder breadth was tremendous. His forehead was narrow. Huge hands dangled below his knees.
The newcomer grinned expansively. “Where’s Doc?”
Under one arm, the apish one carried a pig. The shoat was Habeas Corpus, with a slender chain fastened to a collar around his neck.
“I say, who are you?” Maples demanded suspiciously.
“Why, I’m Monk,” said the apish man. “Don’t you remember seein’ me at the airport?”
Lucile Copeland and Maples exchanged glances.
“You saw Doc Savage and his men at the airport,” the young woman asked of Maples. “Is this Monk?”
Maples eyed the homely man with the pig. The light had been none too good at the airport, but the gorillalike proportions of this man were distinctive.
“He looks like Monk,” Maples decided.
The anthropoid man grinned. “Sure, I’m Monk.”
Lucile Copeland exclaimed sharply, “But I thought Sen Gat was holding you with the other four prisoners.”
“We got away,” Monk chuckled. “Say, where’s Doc?”
“He went to rescue you.”
“Yeah? Where’d he go?”
Again, Lucile Copeland and Maples swapped glances.
“He neglected to tell us,” Maples advised.
Just then the phone jangled.
The huge simian man swung into the room and answered the phone.
“Hello, Doc!” he said loudly. “Where you at?”
He listened for several seconds, the receiver clamped tightly to his ear.
“Great, Doc!” he chuckled. “So you found Renny and the other three. Now, what am I to do? ... Repeat it, will you?”
He listened again.
“I’m to take Lucile Copeland and Maples and hop off in a plane, eh?” he said, as if repeating the instructions. “We’re to fly to Indo-China, to the city of The Thousand-headed Man. Ain’t you goin’ along?”
The speaker at the other end of the wire talked for a time.
“I see,” said the anthropoid man. “You’re gonna follow in another plane, keeping out of sight. That’s to prevent Sen Gat from interferin’ with us, eh? Good idea.”
Once more he listened.
“O.K.,” he finished. “We’ll take off right away, pronto.”
Hanging up, he turned to Lucile Copeland and Maples. “Doc wants us three to go by plane to the city of The Thousand-headed Man in Indo-China. He’s gonna trail us and kinda watch out for things.”
“Then we’re to leave at once?” Lucile Copeland asked eagerly.
“Right off.”
The homely man had lowered the grotesque-looking pig to the floor. The porker now made a determined endeavor to bite the fellow, but was prevented by the leash.
“Cut it out, Habeas! Save that stuff for Sen Gat!”
The three now prepared to depart from the hotel. The gorillalike man eyed the boxes which constituted Doc Savage’s luggage.
“We’d better leave this stuff,” he decided. “The police are down in front. They might not let us get out with it.”
“What is Doc Savage going to do about the police?” Lucile Copeland asked anxiously.
“Don’t you worry about that, Miss. Doc’ll take care of it. What we want to do is get to the airport. Doc has arranged for a plane to be ready.”
They left the hotel.
A taxi carried them through the city. They directed this machine past Lucile Copeland’s house; but observing policemen about the place, they did not enter or even alight.
“But what will we do for supplies, clothing and such?” the girl pondered.
“Have to pick it up enroute,” said the man with the pig. “Doc is gonna load some equipment in the plane.”
They directed the taxi toward an airport—not Croydon, but a smaller and more obscure flying field. There was not much traffic, due to the lateness of the hour, and they soon reached the field.
“Aren’t we going to see Doc Savage before we leave?” Lucile Copeland asked.
“Nope. Doc thinks Sen Gat may be watchin’ him, and if we get together, that’ll put Sen Gat on our trail.”
There was a plane waiting, an all-metal, low-wing job powered with three motors. The ship seemed to be completely new. In the rear of the cabin were rifles, cases of ammunition, and tropical clothing.
Lucile Copeland was delighted when she found boots, breeches, blouses and a tropical helmet which were almost her exact size.
“Doc thinks of everything,” the pleasantly ugly man informed them. “Let’s get goin’.”
They occupied their places in the plane.
“You got the three black sticks?” asked the apish one.
Lucile Copeland hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“O.K. We’re off!”
The plane moaned across the field and mounted into the air.