THE BLIND-MAN HUNT
Bewilderment gripped the assembled thugs. They could not comprehend that the bronze man had taken the place of Honkey, back at the uptown skyscraper. It was too much for them to believe that any one could be such a master of voice imitation as to fool them by emulating Honkey’s hoarse growl.
They looked at the six of their comrades huddled senseless on the floor. A near-terror distorted their ugly faces. The bronze man slowly pushed Honkey’s cap off his head. The cap was none too clean. It was as though he didn’t wish to wear it longer than was necessary.
For a brief instant, his finger tips probed in the bronze hair that lay down like a metal skullcap.
“Keep clawin’ fer the ceilin’!” snarled the gang chief.
Doc’s arms lifted obediently. His hands nearly touched the ceiling, indicating what a really large man he was.
“Search ’im!” ordered the leader.
Gingerly, four of the thugs advanced. They frisked Doc with practiced fingers. They found some silver coins and a few bills which had belonged to Honkey. These they appropriated. But they unearthed no weapon.
“De umpcha ain’t got a rod!” they muttered. The fact that Doc wasn’t armed seemed to stun them.
Their leader eyed the six limp hulks on the floor. He moved to the bedroom door. He whitened perceptibly when he saw the two sprawled on the bed.
“I don’t savvy dis!” he shivered. “What messed dem guys up like dat?”
Suddenly his mean eyes narrowed.
“Hunt in his sleeves!” he commanded his men.
They did so—and brought to light a small hypodermic needle.
The leader grasped the needle fearfully between thumb and forefinger. He inspected it.
“So dis is what laid ’em out!” he leered.
The other villains stirred uneasily. They didn’t fancy weapons such as this. A gun was more their style.
“Croak ’im!” they suggested.
But their boss shook his head violently.
“Ixnay!” he snapped. “Dis guy is just de umpcha we need. We’re gonna make ’im tell us where old Victor Vail is!”
A marked interest now registered on Doc Savage’s bronze features. He was obviously surprised.
“You mean to say you haven’t got Victor Vail?” he asked.
The remarkable power of his great voice held the gangsters speechless for a moment. Then their leader spoke sneeringly.
“D’you t’ink we’d be askin’ where de guy is if we had ’im?” he demanded. He scowled blackly. “Say, whatcha drivin’ at—askin’ us if we got ’im?”
“Victor Vail was seized,” Doc replied. “I naturally supposed you fellows had him. That is why I am here.”
The thugs exchanged angry glares.
“Dat damn Keelhaul de Rosa crowd got ’im first, after all!” one grated.
* * * *
This morsel was very interesting to Doc Savage.
“You mean to say your outfit and Keelhaul de Rosa’s outfit were both after Victor Vail?” he asked.
“Button de lip!” rasped the leader of the thugs. “I t’ink yer lyin’ ter me about anybody gettin’ Victor Vail!”
“Den why would he come here?” put in another fellow. “Don’t be a nut! Dat’s what the shootin’ upstairs was. Yer remember we heard a typewriter turn loose. Dat’s what scared us off.”
Doc Savage gave the tiniest of nods. He understood now why the five captured by Monk and Ham had come dashing out of the elevators with their guns in hand. They had heard the machine-gun fire upstairs, and had become terrified.
“I wonder how Keelhaul de Rosa got ahead of us at de skyscraper?” mumbled the leader.
“He tried to grab de blind guy from under our snozzles at de concert hall, didn’t he?” asked the other thug. “He drove off mighty fast in dat taxi, but he could’ve circled back an’ followed de blind guy to dat skyscraper just de same as we did, couldn’t he?”
Doc listened with interest to all this. These fellows must have arrived at the concert hall in time to witness the street fight. And they had been cunning enough to keep out of sight.
The leader swore loudly. “Cripes! Yer remember dat guy in a cab who had a trick mustache? De one dat was puffin’ a cigar? He followed de roadster to de skyscraper, den went in right after dis bronze guy an’ old Victor Vail. I’ll bet dat was Keelhaul de Rosa!”
“What we gonna do?” growled a man.
The leader shrugged. “Ben O’Gard will wanta know about dis. I’ll go an’ have a talk wit’ ’im!”
This apprised Doc of another fact. These men were hirelings of Ben O’Gard!
Victor Vail had mentioned a strange feud between Ben O’Gard and “Keelhaul” de Rosa on the arctic ice pack. It was evident that this old feud still continued.
But what was back of it? Did Victor Vail’s unconsciousness at the time of the disaster to the liner Oceanic, and his awakening with a queer smarting in his back, have anything to do with this mystery?
The leader of the thugs came over and confronted Doc. He looked small and unhealthy before the mighty bronze man. He held up the hypodermic needle.
“What’s in dis?” he questioned.
“Water,” Doc said dryly.
“Yeah?” sneered the man. He eyed the unmoving forms of his fellows on the floor, shuddered violently, then got hold of himself. “Yer a liar!”
“There’s really nothing but water in it,” Doc persisted.
The thug leered. His hand darted like a striking serpent. The hypo needle was embedded in Doc’s corded neck. The implement discharged its contents into his veins.
Without a sound, the giant bronze man caved down to the floor.
“So it was only water in dat t’ing!” snorted the gangster straw boss. “Dat needle is what got our pals!”
* * * *
He gave orders. The big bronze man was turned over, kicked a few times, and soundly belabored. He showed no signs of consciousness.
“Dat guy is harder’n brass!” muttered a thug, blowing feverishly on a fist with which he had taken an overly hard swing at the limp, metallic form.
“Watch ’im close!” commanded the leader. Then he pointed at a telephone on a stand against one wall. “I’m goin’ to talk wit’ Ben O’Gard in person. I’ll either give you mugs a ring about what to do wit’ the bronze guy, or come back myself an’ tell yer.”
The man now departed.
The other gangsters expended some minutes in seeking to revive their unconscious fellows. However, they had no luck.
They smoked. They muttered to each other, and one of their number took a post outside in the hallway as lookout.
Suddenly a shrill voice came from the room where the two thugs lay senseless on the bed.
“C’mere, quick!” it piped. “I got somethin’ important!”
A number of gangsters rushed into the room. Others crowded about the door.
For a moment, not an eye watched the bronze figure of Doc Savage!
“Dat’s funny!” declared a man, examining the pair on the bed. “He must’ve gone back to sleep! They’re both out like a light now!”
“I never heard either one of dem guys talk in a shrill voice like dat,” another fellow said wonderingly.
They came out of the bedroom, a puzzled group of villains.
Not one of them glanced at the telephone. So none noticed that a match had been jammed under the receiver hook, holding it in a lifted position!
The strong lips of Doc Savage began to writhe. Sounds came from them. Clucking, gobbling sounds, they were—absolutely meaningless to the listening thugs. The sounds were very loud.
“What kinda language is dat?” growled a man.
“Dat ain’t no language!” snorted another. “De guy is jest delirious an’ ravin’!”
The gangster was wrong. For Doc Savage was speaking one of the least-known languages in existence. The tongue of the ancient Mayan civilization which centuries ago flourished in Central America! And his words were going into the telephone!
When all the gangsters looked in the bedroom, they had given Doc sufficient time to call Monk at his skyscraper office. The thugs had been too excited to hear him whisper the phone number.
Doc was a ventriloquist of ability. He had thrown his voice into the bedroom to get the attention of his captors.
It would have surprised the absent leader of the thugs to know the hypodermic needle he had used on Doc had actually contained nothing more harmful than water! Doc had chanced to have the needle on his person. And he had slipped it up his sleeve for the purpose of deceiving the villains.
It was not the needle with which Doc made his enemies unconscious so mysteriously.
* * * *
Doc Savage continued to speak Mayan. The lingo sounded like gibberish to the listeners in the shabby room.
To homely Monk in the uptown skyscraper, however, it carried a lot of meaning. All of Doc’s men could speak Mayan. They used it when they wanted to converse without being understood by bystanders.
“Renny, Long Tom, and Johnny should be there by now,” Doc told Monk in the strange language.
The three men he had named were the remaining members of his group of five adventuresome aids!
“Tell Johnny to get the contents of Drawer No. 13 in the laboratory,” Doc continued. “The contents will be a bottle of bilious-looking paint, a brush, and a mechanism like an overgrown field glass. Tell Johnny to bring the paint and brush here.”
Doc gave the address of the dive where he was being held.
“There are two sedans parked outside,” the bronze man went on in the gobbling dialect. “Tell Johnny to paint a cross on the top of each one. He is to bring his car which is equipped with radio. He is to wait in a street near by when he has finished the painting.
“Long Tom and Renny are to take the overgrown field glasses and race to the airport. They’re to circle over the city in my plane, Renny doing the flying, while Long Tom watches with the overgrown glasses. The glasses will make the paint Johnny will put on the sedan tops show up a distinctive luminous color. Long Tom is to radio the course of the sedans to Johnny, who will follow them.”
The gangsters were listening to the clucking words. Evil grins wreathed their pinched faces. They didn’t dream the gobble could have a meaning!
“You, Monk, will visit the police station where the thugs who attacked Victor Vail and myself outside the concert hall were taken,” Doc said. “Question them and seek to learn where a sailor called Keelhaul de Rosa would be likely to take Victor Vail.
“Ham is to remain in the office and question the rat you found unconscious in the laboratory, also seeking to find Keelhaul de Rosa and Victor Vail.
“If you understand these instructions, snap your fingers twice in the telephone transmitter.”
Two low snaps promptly came from the wedged-up telephone receiver. They were not loud. Not a thug in the room noticed them.
* * * *
Doc Savage now became silent. He lay as though life had departed from his giant form.
“Reckon he’s kicked the pail?” a crook muttered.
Another man made a brief examination.
“Naw. His pump is still goin’.”
After this, time dragged. The guard outside the door could be heard. Once he struck a match. Twice he coughed hackingly.
A gangster produced two red dice. The men made a pretense at a crap game, but they were too nervous to make a success of it. Seating themselves in the scant supply of chairs, or hunkering down on the filthy floor, they waited.
Doc Savage was giving his men time to get on the job. Johnny would have to daub the luminous paint on the sedans. Renny and Long Tom would have to arrive over the city in the plane. Twenty minutes should be sufficient time.
He gave them half an hour, to be sure. Indeed, his keen ears finally detected a series of low drones which meant the plane was above. Doc’s plane had mufflers on the exhaust pipes. Renny was evidently cutting the mufflers off at short intervals to signal his presence to his pals.
Doc rolled over. He did it slowly, like a sleepy man. He now faced the hallway door.
The thugs tensed. They drew their pistols. They were as jittery as a flock of wild rabbits.
Doc imitated the raucous voice of the guard. He threw it against the hall door.
“Help!” the voice yelled. “Cripes! Help!”
The guard outside heard. He might have recognized his own tone. Maybe he didn’t. He wrenched the door open, at any rate.
The instant his ugly face shoved inside, Doc threw words into his mouth. The guard was too astonished to say a word of his own.
“De cops!” were the words. “Dey’re on de stairs! Lam, youse guys!”
Pandemonium fell upon the gangsters. They rasped excited orders. They actually squealed as though they were already caught.
One man saw the giant bronze figure of Doc Savage heave up from the floor. He fired his pistol. But he was a little slow. Doc evaded the bullets. He reached the light switch, punched it.
Darkness clapped down upon the room.
“De cops are inside!” Doc yelled in the guard’s voice. “We gotta lam, quick!”
To make sure they fled in the right direction, Doc glided over and kicked the glass out of the window.
“Dis way out!” he barked.
A thug sprang through the window. Another followed. Then a succession of them.
Standing near by, Doc darted his hands against such faces as he could find in the black void. Three men he touched in this manner. Each of the three instantly dropped unconscious.
The others escaped from the room in a surprisingly short space of time.
Doc listened. He heard both sedan engines roar into life. The cars streaked away like noisy comets.
* * * *
Into the room where Doc Savage stood there now penetrated a weird sound. It was low, mellow, trilling. It was exotic enough to be the song of some strange bird of the jungle, or the eerie note of wind filtering through a jungled forest. It was melodious, though it had no tune; it was inspiring, without being awesome.
This sound had the peculiar quality of seeming to arise from everywhere within the shabby room, rather than from a definite spot.
This trilling note was part of Doc—a small, unconscious thing which he did in moments of emotion. It would come from his lips as some plan of action was being arranged. Sometimes it precoursed a master stroke which made all things certain. Or it might sound to bring hope to some beleaguered member of Doc’s adventuresome group.
Once in a while it came when Doc was a bit pleased with himself. That was the reason for it sounding now.
Doc turned on the lights. He lined up the thugs he had made unconscious.
Eleven of them! It was not a bad haul.
Doc used the phone to call Ham at the scraper aerie uptown.
“You might bring your sedan down here,” Doc requested.
Ten minutes later, Ham came up the rickety stairs, twiddling his sword cane. Ham’s perfection of attire was made more pronounced by the blowsy surroundings. He saw the pile of sleeping prisoners.
“I see you’ve been collecting!” he chuckled.
“Did you get anything out of Keelhaul de Rosa’s man?” Doc asked.
“I scared him into talking,” Ham said grimly, “but the fellow was just a hired gunman, Doc. He and his gang were hired to get Victor Vail. They were to deliver the blind violinist to Keelhaul de Rosa, right enough. But the delivery was to be made on the street. The man had no idea where Keelhaul de Rosa hangs out.”
“That’s too bad,” Doc replied. “There’s a chance one of the crew who attacked Victor Vail outside the concert hall will know where the sailorman hangs out. If they do, Monk’ll make them cough up.”
The unconscious thugs were now loaded into Ham’s limousine. This car of Ham’s was one of the most elaborate and costly in the city. Ham went in for the finest in automobiles, just as he did in clothes.
Ham did not ask Doc what they were going to do with the prisoners. He already knew. The senseless criminals would be taken to Doc’s skyscraper office. In a day or so, men would call for them, and take them to a mysterious institution hidden away in the mountains of up-State New York. There they would undergo a treatment which would turn them into honest, upright citizens.
This treatment consisted of a delicate brain operation which wiped out all knowledge of their past. Then the men would be taught like children, with an emphasis on honesty and good citizenship. They would learn a trade. Turned out into the world again, they were highly desirable citizens—for they knew of their own past, and had been taught to hate criminality.
The mysterious institution where this good, if somewhat unconventional, work went forward, was supported by Doc Savage. The great surgeons and psychologists who ran it had been trained by Doc.
Ham drove his limousine to the skyscraper which held Doc’s headquarters. The unconscious thugs were loaded in Doc’s special elevator. The cage raced them up at terrific speed to the eighty-sixth floor.
Dragging along several of his unconscious prisoners, Ham behind him, Doc entered his office.
Surprise brought him up short.
Blind Victor Vail sat in the office!