SEN GAT’S OFFER
Hearing that call, Doc Savage knew for sure that his senses had been dulled by the uncanny spell, for he should have seen the other before the words came.
Sen Gat had called. The lanky black crow of an oriental crouched on a near-by roof. Crestfallen, bedraggled, scratched and bruised, he was a woebegone rogue. Remarkably enough, however, his finger nails in their exotic protectors were still intact.
Behind Sen Gat huddled the apish one, Evall. He, also, had suffered rough handling, as indicated by torn garments and broken and purple skin. If possible, his aspect was more simian than ever.
Doc moved toward them, drawn by curiosity. Neither of the two held a weapon, and there was no one else in sight. When nearing them, Doc made note of two things:
First, Sen Gat’s coat pocket bulged immoderately.
Second, both men were obviously in the grip of an awful fear, as denoted by nervous movements, protuberant eyes, and sporadic breathing.
Doc stopped, a narrow, canyonlike alley separating him from the pair.
“Calling to me was not a wise idea,” he said grimly. “I have a long score to settle with you fellows.”
Sen Gat shuddered; his grotesque finger nails waved. “Now, listen——” he started.
“Where is Lucile Copeland?” Doc demanded.
“Bukan bagitu!” In his perturbation, Sen Gat cried out in his native tongue. “Oh, no! We have not touched her!”
“Have you seen her in this city?”
The other shook his head vehemently. “We have not! By all of my ancestors, it is true!”
“Why did you call to me?” Doc questioned.
Just how great was the terror which gripped Sen Gat was now evident, for he sank to his knees and made in Doc’s direction the meek gesture of taubat, of repentance. The shaking of his limbs was quite visible.
“Oh bronze man, may the Malik-ul-maut, the angel of death, take me if I do not speak the truth. Great is my terror, bronze man, for death is close upon us, and the only thing that will save us is that which you carry.”
“What is that?”
“The black sticks!”
Doc heard the last in silence, but in a vague way it gave him an unpleasant shock, for it showed that these two did not know he had turned the sticks over to Monk, hence they had not been in contact with the homely chemist.
Monk, then, had not seen Sen Gat; the hideous tracks on the river bank were the only indication of his fate.
“Give us two of them,” Sen Gat pleaded. “One for myself, the other for Evall—so that we may all live.”
“Yeah,” Evall put in. “Sen Gat’s givin’ it to you straight, Savage. Them sticks will save us.”
“I have no reason to worry about you,” Doc said dryly.
“The sticks will not save you,” whined Sen Gat.
Doc eyed the space separating himself from the other two; it could be spanned with a long leap.
“Won’t save me, eh?” he queried. “Why not?”
“Because you do not know how to use them!” There was triumph in Sen Gat’s cry.
The bronze man did not change expression. “But you know how to make them serve?”
“We know,” said Sen Gat
Doc Savage lifted on tiptoe, stared, and discovered there was a square hole in the roof upon which Sen Gat and Evall stood. This aperture was beside the pair, and Doc could distinguish only the farthermost portion of it, the part near the feet of the two being cut off by a low parapet.
The presence of the opening accounted for the abrupt appearance of the pair. No doubt they had climbed through it.
Doc kept his voice emotionless. “Before we discuss the black sticks further, I must know what has happened to you two.”
Sen Gat and Evall swapped looks. Then, as if by mutual agreement, they shivered.
“It was incredible,” moaned Sen Gat. “Myself and my men landed in our planes. We heard a strange, fluttering sound, then something—inexplicable—happened to us. I became senseless, and knew nothing until I revived some little time ago in a stone room. Only Evall was with me. Where my men are I do not know.”
Doc transferred his gaze to Evall. “And you?”
The apish man swabbed a tongue over thick lips. “Well, you know how I gave you the slip on the raft when Sen Gat’s planes came over. I poled downstream and landed in that clearing. Sen Gat and the others came down in the planes to pick me up.
“I was with them when this thing—whatever it was—got everybody. That’s all I know, until I woke up with Sen Gat.”
Doc saw the pig, Habeas Corpus, stirring on his back, an indication that the shoat had thrown off the mysterious spell and was reviving.
“You’re leaving something out,” Doc told the two men, across the narrow street.
Sen Gat registered innocence. “I swear by many illustrious and honorable ancestors——”
“The black sticks,” Doc interjected. “Where did you learn of their use?”
The two men squirmed, showed discomfort, but maintained a stubborn silence.
“Give us two of the black keys and we will tell you,” mumbled Sen Gat.
Acting as if he had not heard that, Doc asked, “What became of my five friends?”
Sen Gat hesitated, eyeing his own overlong finger nails. “How could we possibly know?” he said.
“You should know,” Doc retorted shortly. “You seem to be a clairvoyant.”
Sen Gat spread his elaborate finger nails. “I do not understand.”
“You know I have the three black sticks. How did you find that out?”
Sen Gat slitted his slant eyes, and it was obvious that he thought swiftly.
“We did not know,” he called. “We merely tricked you into admitting it.”
The bronze man was not deceived, for he knew voice tones, and if any one had ever spoken with assurance and certainty, Sen Gat had done so.
“Two liars,” he said. “Just about half of what you have told me is the truth.”
Sen Gat wrung his hands in his perturbation, and his nail protectors made castanetlike clinkings as they tapped together.
Evall said something in a tone so low that Doc did not catch it, and this moved Sen Gat to dip a hand in the coat pocket which bulged.
Doc stared at what the fellow brought to view. Jewels! They were uncut stones of moderate size—diamonds and rubies for the most part, with a large sprinkling of pearls.
“A handful of these for two of the sticks!” Sen Gat offered eagerly. “They are genuine—worth a fortune!”
Doc was thoughtful for a moment. “Where did they come from?”
Sen Gat hesitated. “That is my secret.”
“So this place holds such loot as that?” Doc queried.
“Obviously. But will you trade two of——”
“And you knew there was such loot here before you left London,” Doc continued. “You must have known it, since nothing else explains your mad eagerness to reach the city. How did you secure the information? Maples did not know it.”
Sen Gat squirmed. “I am a native of Indo-China. For years I was a trader in these jungles.”
“And you had heard of this city?”
“Exactly. Many times I had heard of it. I once met a man who had been close enough to see the—the spot where these jewels came from. I knew he did not lie. I knew the jewels were here.”
“How much else do you know?”
“Nothing,” Sen Gat said promptly.
“Another lie!”
Crouching slightly, Doc leaped upward, his object being to see all of the roof hole beside which Sen Gat and Evall stood.
He accomplished his purpose. What he saw handed him a surprise.
A stout sutera rope was tied to Sen Gat’s ankle, another to that of Evall. The lines extended into the roof hatch.
Tardily, Sen Gat and Evall endeavored to move so as to hide the cords from the bronze man’s view.
“Who is holding you prisoner?” Doc demanded.
“Karut!” Sen Gat shouted desperately. “Nonsense! The cords were tied to our ankles when we awakened, and we could not free them. The tight knots——”
That was a lie, of course, and Doc Savage was already backing a few paces to get room for a running leap. Crouching, he set himself for the sprint.
On the other rooftop, Sen Gat and Evall threw up their hands. The cords tied to their legs were being jerked forcibly, throwing them off balance, hauling them down into the hole. Sprawling wildly, both vanished from sight.
Doc made a terrific leap. His landing on the other roof was light, cat-easy. He crouched, listening.
On Doc’s back, Habeas grunted; the pig was conscious.
The bronze man’s golden eyes were riveted to the aperture in the roof. Sunlight slanted into the room below, disclosing a smooth floor, sleek walls, and a door. Steep steps led down from the roof to the room.
Of Sen Gat and Evall there was no sign, their mysterious captor apparently having dragged them out of the chamber. Descending the steps, Doc made no more noise than rolling smoke. He ran to the room door and found a passage; this he traversed.
Darkness pushed in blackly around him. Faint sound—the clatter of feet—came from ahead. Doc put on speed.
This building—it was not far from where Lucile Copeland had been seized—appeared to be of vast proportions. The passage angled sharply, then descended. Doc’s feet advised him of worn steps. The sound of movement ahead was a siren decoy.
Unexpectedly, he came out in a long hall.
At the opposite end of the cavernous corridor a ray of sunlight spilled through a roof hole. This might have been the beam of a theater spotlight.
In the light stood The Thousand-headed Man!
Doc Savage wrenched to a stop. His career had been long, perilous, its course dotted with many things foreign to the experience of an ordinary individual—things hideous, unusual, eerie, even smacking of the supernatural. Yet nothing equalled this.
The Thousand-headed Man was a vision utterly grotesque. Doc Savage himself was a giant in size, yet this monstrosity before him was even larger—very much as Lucile Copeland had described him.
He had one large head, the same as a human being; but there were other heads; scores, hundreds. Some were the size of oranges; others ranged down to the proportions of walnuts. Three protruded from his forehead above his brows; others from his cheeks, his arms, the sides of his body. They were like awful warts.
The sole garment of The Thousand-headed Man was a loin cloth, and this flashed with scintillating splendor in the slab of sunlight, for it was composed of jewels—sapphires, rubies and pearls for the most part—interwoven with a mesh of yellow metal which was unmistakably gold.
All of this Doc Savage saw in one quick glance, for The Thousand-headed Man sprang abruptly backward and was lost in the darkness of the room.
Doc dived forward. The pig, Habeas Corpus, fought free of the lashing and slipped off Doc’s back; but instead of fleeing, trailed the bronze giant. He squealed at every jump—the same fear-ridden sound which he had emitted before. It was as if Habeas had glimpsed The Thousand-headed Man previously.
Dipping a hand into his clothing, Doc brought out one of the tiny metal globules of high explosive. He flicked the firing lever, threw it. Skidding to a stop, he flattened, shoved Habeas down with a hand and covered his own features with an arm.
There was a flash; and thunder rocked the floor. Stone blocks moaned and ground together. A part of the ceiling came down. Rock dust and explosive fumes gushed a blinding cloud.
Doc reared up and ran forward. There was plenty of light now; fully a third of the ceiling was down. He vaulted the fallen blocks, eyes seeking some sign of The Thousand-headed Man.
Doc had purposely thrown the explosive slightly short, hoping to stun rather than kill his fantastic quarry; but the other had escaped. A slit of a door showed by what route.
Putting on speed Doc set out in pursuit. Passages beyond the aperture were long and gloomy. Running sounds came from ahead. The bronze man quickly overhauled these.
He turned into a chamber which was less dark than the others by reason of slits in the roof, cracks probably opened by the weather. The luminance in the room was about equal to that of very poor moonlight.
Doc stopped sharply.
About six feet from him, upright against a wall, was a figure. It had the outlines of a human being, except that in addition to one large head there were other heads, sprouting from almost all portions of the body.
Subconscious impulses account for a certain number of physical movements; a man will duck instinctively when he sees something thrown at him, or will ward an unexpected blow, before his regular thought processes could possibly guide his actions. It was such an instinct which sent Doc hurtling forward, hands outstretched.
In mid-air he made a discovery. It was too late to check his leap entirely, but he made no effort to seize the figure. He was unable to avoid jarring it with a shoulder, however, and the grotesque thing upset. Striking the floor it broke into several pieces, and these rolled noisily on the cobbles.
The figure was but a stone image of The Thousand-headed Man.
There were other such likenesses, skillfully sculptured, Doc saw as he moved down the wide passage. The bronze man scrutinized the statues closely, lest one of them be the living figure which he sought, but distinguished no breath of life in any of them.
He was halfway down the long chamber when he heard the sinister rustling sound which was significant of the mysterious spell of this fabulous metropolis.
Doc wrenched to a stop. A small, metallic globe of explosive came from his pocket. He threw it.
The blast spurted flame and deafening concussion through the passages and rooms of the stone building. Several of the sculptured likenesses of The Thousand-headed Man upset, some breaking, others remaining intact.
The dust set Habeas Corpus to sneezing.
The echoes of the blast subsided after a moment.
The rustling had not been stilled by the blast. If anything, it was louder than before.
Doc began to retreat. His flashlight came out and prodded brilliance, but rock dust stirred up by the explosion hampered his vision and concealed whatever was making the grisly noises.
Doc made his backward pace more rapid, only to pull up when the behavior of Habeas gave him warning. The pig had stiffened as if scenting something behind them.
Doc tossed his flashlight beam; it distinguished nothing. The passage was empty, and beyond that the room where he had first used his tiny grenade could be discerned, the floor littered with stone blocks, sunlight spilling from the ceiling holes.
The bronze man started to go on—and he seemed to stagger. He tried to catch himself and all but fell.
A grimness overspread his bronze features, usually so expressionless. He was again caught in the spell of the fantastic jungle metropolis. He roved his flashlight, more slowly this time, although he tried to make the gesture swift.
The rustling seemed to get louder. Doc found his ideas of where it came from getting hazy. It drifted from above, from the sides, the front, everywhere, and it grew louder and louder until its note was as the rush of a waterfall.
Habeas Corpus lay on the floor and became very still.
After a while Doc Savage also sank to the floor, moved about a little, and then ceased to stir.