THE COCKNEY VISITOR
The Taberna Frio, downtown Antofagasta hotel, which Doc Savage had made his headquarters, was not the most pretentious structure in town. However, its walls were thick, its rooms cool, and the chambers boasted certain comforts much to be desired in this blistering clime—namely, running ice water and electric fans.
An alley gave access to a service entrance in the rear.
Doc Savage, arriving with his cargo of awfully afflicted men from the valley over which the blue horror had passed, drove the car up to this back door. Carrying the tightly bound forms of Monk and Ham over his mighty shoulders, Doc mounted the stairs. He used the rear stairway, and it chanced that no one saw him.
The bronze man shoved open the door of the suite of rooms occupied by himself and his men, and stalked inside with his pitiful burdens.
Two men occupying the living room leaped to their feet and stared.
“Holy cow!” gulped one of the pair in a voice which resembled the roaring of a disgrunted lion in its den.
The speaker was tall, angular, and would weigh in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty pounds. Large as his frame was, however, it was somewhat stunted by the size of his fists. The fists, blocked, would make cubes of bone and gristle larger than many another’s head.
He had a face which was very long, and which bore an expression of profound gloom. He looked as if he were contemplating attending a funeral.
The man with the fists and the gloom was “Renny”—Colonel John Renwick, an engineer whose work was known on many continents, and a gentleman whose boast was that he could knock the panel out of any wooden door with either fist.
“What’s happened, Doc?” demanded the man beside Renny.
This latter individual was not tall, and only fairly set up. Judging by his pallid complexion, his past life had been spent where there was not enough sunlight. He had an astoundingly high forehead.
He was “Long Tom”—Major Thomas J. Roberts. He was far from being the weakling he appeared, and his forte was electricity. A “wizard of the juice,” men of his profession called him.
Renny and Long Tom were two more of the group of five who worked with Doc Savage.
Doc carried his burden into a bedroom.
“My instruments!” he said sharply.
Renny and Long Tom both dived into an adjacent room and came back bearing metal cases which held Doc’s hospitalization apparatus.
The equipment ranged from endoscopes for scrutinizing the lungs, to complete skiagraphy apparatus for surveying the various parts of the body by X ray.
With the instruments, Doc went to work upon Monk and Ham. The bronze man was trying to ascertain what manner of spell the dazzling sky transient had cast upon his aides.
“There is a car at the back door,” Doc told Renny and Long Tom. “You will find men in it, tied securely. Bring them up, will you? And Monk’s pig, too. But do not untie any of them!”
Johnny and Long Tom went out, looking puzzled.
They were soon back, carrying the Tibetans. The puzzled look on their faces had given way to expressions of horror.
It had dawned upon them that these men had lost the use of their brain cells.
* * * *
All of the victims were placed in the inner room. Johnny and Long Tom stood by as Doc Savage went to work. They maintained silence, for they could see that Doc was battling with some profound mystery, some culminating horror.
Neither man asked what had happened to Monk and Ham and the rest, although curiosity was consuming them. Doc was working now, and would tell them the story in his own time. They knew from experience that the bronze man spoke only when he so desired.
Time dragged, some fifteen minutes passing. Then Doc’s weird trilling came into being. The singular sound drifted up and down the range of musical notes for perhaps a fourth part of a minute, then sank away as if the walls of the bedroom had absorbed it.
Renny and Long Tom shifted uneasily, aware that the trilling meant something momentous.
“What is it, Doc?” Long Tom asked.
“The nerves and brain centers are in practically a state of suspended animation,” Doc replied.
“They can’t use their brains?” Long Tom ejaculated.
“Exactly. They are so much living flesh and bone, with no power to think or guide their movements.”
“Have the brains been destroyed?” Renny demanded in hoarse horror.
Doc did not reply.
Long Tom clenched his pale fists and his lips writhed, but he could not frame whatever words he was trying to say, so great was his emotion.
“They do not respond to restoratives or stimulants,” Doc said at last.
The bronze man applied hypodermic needles to the bound men. After this, they became quieter.
“Sleeping opiates,” Doc said, indicating the hypo needle.
“Just living bodies!” Renny muttered, his long, puritanical face bewildered. “But what caused it?”
Speaking rapidly, and using sentences with a descriptive power that would have been envied by a novelist, Doc told the story. He began with the appearance of nervous, excited Rae Stanley at the dedication ceremony, and finished with the coming of the fantastic, blue, screaming mystery of the skies in the valley outside the city.
“But what was the whistling thing that made the blue light—and ruined the brains of these men?” Renny asked.
“You have heard exactly what occurred,” Doc replied.
“Sounds like some kind of blue meteor,” said Long Tom.
Renny went over and inspected the bound men. He touched them. Then he shuddered violently and retreated.
“Living dead men!” he muttered.
The discussion was interrupted by the thump of excited feet in the hallway. The door of the living room burst open.
The man who entered found it necessary to duck slightly in order to keep his head from colliding with the top of the door frame. He was unnaturally tall, and so thin that he seemed merely a frame of bones padded with a little gristle. His coat resembled a sack hanging over a form of broomsticks. No tailor could have fashioned a respectably fitting garment on that bony physique.
This man was William Harper Littlejohn, former head of the natural science research department of a famous university, and one of the greatest living authorities on archæology and geology.
Dangling from a silver chain affixed to his lapel, was a monocle. “Johnny” did not look like the type who would condescend to wear a monocle. Nor was he, for the glass was in reality a powerful magnifier, an article which he needed in his profession.
Johnny was the fifth member of Doc’s group of five.
“Somebody burned your plane, Doc!” he barked.
* * * *
Doc Savage’s bronze countenance did not alter at this news, but the tiny whirlwinds, which seemed to stir continuously the flake-gold of his eyes, quickened a little in speed.
“How’d it happen, Johnny?” he demanded.
“I was servicing the plane for flight back to New York,” Johnny replied. “There is a shack at the edge of the field where gasoline and tools are stored. I was in there, heard a roaring, looked out, and saw the plane blazing.”
“It was an all-metal plane!” Renny thumped.
“I know. But the fellow must have punched holes in the fuel tank.”
“What fellow?” Doc questioned.
“The bird I saw running away,” the gaunt Johnny explained, fingering his magnifying monocle. “He was a squat monkey. I chased him, but he had a car waiting, and got away.”
Johnny now changed his position slightly, and one of the array of securely bound men came into his range of vision.
“For crying out loud!” he gasped. “What’s going on here?”
Without waiting for an answer, Johnny leaped into the other room. He grasped the forms of Monk and Ham, as if to shake them into some semblance of normalcy.
He listened to the sounds they made—horrible, rattling howls as vocal cords simply fluttered with the income and outgo of breath. At times, these sounds resembled the baying noises made by bloodhounds.
He studied the expressions of consummate vacancy on their countenances. He became very pale.
“What happened to them?” he asked hoarsely.
“Their brains have stopped functioning completely,” Doc told him.
Johnny dragged his tongue over dry lips. He mopped a sudden sheen of perspiration from his forehead.
“I never heard of such a thing,” he muttered.
“Nor has any one else,” Doc replied. “It’s mysterious. And, without exaggerating in the slightest, it’s the most horrible thing we have ever run up against.”
Johnny nodded slowly, stiffly. “It attacks the brain and not the body. Somehow or other, that, to me, makes it a lot worse. What caused it?”
Doc went back to the initial appearance of Rae Stanley and told the story.
“The blue, whistling projectile which passed over the valley simply rendered their brains completely dormant,” he finished. “It did not nail me, because I managed to get over the hill and farther away.”
Johnny fingered his monocle, then used it to indicate one of the Tibetans.
“The fellow who burned our plane belonged to the same race as that man,” he said.
“But why should anybody destroy our plane?” Renny grumbled, knotting and unknotting his huge fists.
“There are two logical reasons,” Doc told him. “Some one either wants us to stay here in Chile, or desires us to take another method of transportation northward.”
“A steamer is the logical second choice,” Renny hazarded.
Doc strode to the telephone, spoke briefly to the office of a travel agency, then replaced the instrument on its stand.
“The next northbound boat with passenger accommodations available is a small, but fast tramp steamer named the Chilean Señorita,” he explained. “Renny, you investigate the Chilean Señorita.”
* * * *
The Cockney, Shrops, would have been astounded to hear this, for he had thought his plan to lead Doc to book passage on the Chilean Señorita to be quite clever, and beyond suspicion.
Renny departed to investigate the Chilean Señorita.
“Long Tom,” Doc said, “here’s a job for you.”
“Shoot it,” the electrical wizard replied.
“I want you to telephone the New York headquarters of the American Society of Physical Scientists,” Doc directed. “Better make the call from the local phone company office. It’s only a few blocks away, and you can get quicker service by talking to the wire chiefs there.”
“What am I to check up on?” Long Tom asked.
“Find out where Professor Elmont Stanley is at the present time,” Doc directed. “Learn if there is anything shady in Professor Stanley’s record. Also learn what you can about his daughter, Rae.”
“Who is Professor Stanley?”
“An astronomer, one of the most skilled men in the world in telling the composition of planetoids. I’ve never met him personally, but have read his scientific works.”
“You mean that he’s a guy who makes a business of telling what kind of stuff the stars are made out of?”
“That is it.”
“Where does he come in on this?” Long Tom questioned.
“It was his daughter, Rae Stanley, who accosted Monk and Ham.”
Both Long Tom and Johnny looked greatly surprised at this.
“Did you know the girl by sight?” Long Tom questioned.
Doc shook his head. “Never saw her before.”
By way of answering the question, Doc drew a pair of small, powerful binoculars from a coat pocket, indicated them, then replaced them.
No more was needed to tell Long Tom and Johnny how he had learned Rae’s identity. Doc was an expert lip reader. Watching the attractive girl when she accosted Monk and Ham, Doc probably had understood every word she had said.
“She told Monk and Ham that her father was Professor Stanley,” Doc explained.
Looking vastly enlightened, Long Tom took his departure, headed for the phone office to employ a long-distance telephone to check on Professor Stanley.
Doc continued his examination of Monk and Ham. He administered more restoratives and concoctions calculated to stimulate normal brain activity, but results were nil.
No known treatment had the slightest effect on their mental condition.
* * * *
The phone jangled. Gaunt Johnny went to the instrument.
“A man named John Mark Shrops to see you,” he advised Doc.
Doc Savage was entirely motionless for several seconds; then he said:
“Shrops is the name of the man who frightened the girl away from Monk and Ham.”
Johnny stared at his giant chief, and began: “How——”
“The girl cried out his name when she saw him,” Doc explained.
“The guy has got nerve, coming here!”
“Tell them to send Mr. Shrops up,” Doc said grimly.
John Mark Shrops arrived some seconds later. The Cockney’s flashy clothing was immaculate, and his face had never been ruddier. He showed large, white teeth in an expansive smile.
“Not ’arf bad o’ you t’ let me come hup,” he said effusively. “A lot o’ toffs as famous as you wouldn’t see a stranger.”
Doc nodded politely, but did not offer to take the hand which Shrops extended. In order that the gesture might not be construed as impolite, however, he made a pretense of wiping chemicals off his fingers.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“A bloomin’ lot, if you will,” Shrops said. “Hi’ve ’eard that you make a business o’ settlin’ other people’s troubles. ’Ave I been hearin’ the truth?”
“Possibly,” Doc admitted. “Are you in trouble?”
“In plenty o’ it,” muttered Shrops. “But it ain’t me alone. There’s a lot more poor devils sufferin’.”
“Suppose you speak more concretely,” Doc requested.
“’Ave you ever ’eard of Mo-Gwei?” queried Shrops.
“Mo-Gwei?” Doc repeated, as if he had not caught the name.
“Mo-Gwei, the devil-faced one,” Shrops elaborated.
“Never heard of him,” Doc replied.
“’E’s a bad un,” muttered Shrops. “’E’s fixed thousands of poor devils, but the world ain’t ’eard of it because ’e’s been workin’ ’is deviltry in Tibet. The world never ’ears much o’ what happens over there. But the world is gonna ’ear of Mo-Gwei if ’e ain’t stomped on.”
“Just who is Mo-Gwei?” Doc queried.
“The bloodiest criminal that ever walked the earth, and you can take my word for that,” Shrops said earnestly. “That ain’t ’arf, either. ’E’s got the devil’s own tool in ’is power. Nobody knows hexactly what it is, but they call it the blue meteor.”
Johnny, the bony archæologist, fingered his magnifying monocle absently.
Striding swiftly to the bedroom door, Doc opened it and waved an arm.
“Does the blue meteor affect its victims in this fashion?” he asked in an expressionless tone.
Shrops came to the door and looked in. He gave every indication of having received a deep shock. His hands clenched, his jaw dropped, and air left his lungs in a horrified rush.
“Blimme!” he gulped. “Mo-Gwei is ’ere in Chile!”
“Does the blue meteor produce a condition of complete brain inactivity such as this?” Doc demanded.
Shrops nodded solemnly. “You said it!”
“Exactly what is the nature of the affliction?”
“Nobody ’as any idea,” Shrops muttered.
“Do they ever recover?”
“Sometimes, yes; sometimes, no. Depends on ’ow close they was t’ the bleedin’ blue meteor.”
* * * *
Doc Savage considered for a time.
“You came from Tibet to get me to combat this Mo-Gwei?” he queried sharply.
“You ’ave it right,” Shrops agreed. “In a way, Hi’m an emissary o’ the Tibetan government. The right-’and man o’ the Dalai Lama, who rules the country, sent me, and is payin’ my expenses.”
Doc’s flake-gold eyes remained unwaveringly upon Shrops. He was studying the Cockney, judging him. Outwardly, the applelike fellow seemed a shallow, over-dressed dunce. The Cockney dialect enhanced this impression.
But underneath, Doc discerned subtlety and cunning. He suspected this Cockney was one of the cleverest rogues he had encountered in some time. Doc was suspicious of the fellow, since mere sight of him had driven the girl to flight. Doc decided to drag the dead cat out in the open.
“Who is the girl, Rae Stanley?” he asked.
Shrops looked properly surprised, but came out with a glib explanation.
“She’s a young lady who came from Tibet on ’er own ’ook to get your ’elp,” he said.
This was hardly the reply Doc had expected. He asked: “Why does she want my help?”
“Hi ’aven’t any idea.”
“Why is Rae Stanley scared of you?” Doc persisted.
Promptly, Shrops explained: “She knows I came from Tibet, and she mistakenly thinks Mo-Gwei sent me to stop ’er.”
Any one watching Doc’s face would have thought he was believing every word. Actually, he was coming to the realization that he was face to face with one of the smoothest customers he had ever encountered. The Cockney was so slick that Doc was not even sure the fellow was telling falsehoods. And Doc was an expert at spotting liars.
“Why does the Tibetan government not send a detachment of soldiers to get this Mo-Gwei?” Doc questioned. “That is the manner in which they usually handle such customers over there.”
“No bloke ’as ever seen Mo-Gwei’s face,” the Cockney replied. “’E’s like the Irishman’s flea: They can’t put ’ands on ’im. That’s why we’re wantin’ your ’elp in Tibet.”
Doc Savage nodded as if a situation such as this was an everyday occurrence, and not one worth getting excited over.
“I prefer to think this matter over,” he said. “If you will tell me where I may get in touch with you——”
“’Ow long d’you think it’ll take to make up your mind?” Shrops asked.
Doc glanced at the window. The sun was low on the horizon; in twenty minutes there would be darkness.
“You can depend on my answer before midnight,” he told the Cockney.
“That ain’t ’arf bad, gov’nor,” smiled Shrops. “Hi’ll call for your answer at that hour.”
The applelike little Cockney now placed his gray derby at a jaunty angle and departed.
The Taberna Frio was not equipped with an elevator, so Shrops had to walk down the stairs. Near the bottom of the staircase, he gave himself a verbal pat on the back.
“As a schemer, Hi’m quite a bloke!” he chuckled.