TWINS OF EVIL
Doc Savage did not feel the urge to surrender himself, not knowing what the intentions of the young woman and the brick-haired man might be.
His flashlight beam seemed to collapse in mid-air as he switched it off. A noiseless leap to the right put him in the shelter of a lifeboat.
An angry grunt came from the man with the carroty hair. He produced a flashlight of his own and spilled its brightness down the deck.
“He jumped behind the lifeboat, Red!” snapped the young woman.
“Get indoors, Lady Nelia!” Red directed her. “I’ll take care of this bird, whoever he is. Did you get a look at him?”
“No. His light blinded me.” Lady Nelia made no move to seek safety inside the deck house, as she had been commanded. “I do not know who he could be. But he was acting suspiciously.”
Red growled: “We’ll darn soon find out who he is!”
Raising his voice, he addressed the lifeboat. “You—back of there! C’mon out! C’mon, or I’ll uncork a few bullets!”
There was no reply from behind the lifeboat where Doc had taken shelter.
Red repeated his command and threat to shoot. Getting no results, he advanced gingerly. His flashlight beam did a spooky dance, so shaky was the hand which held it. The revolver muzzle wavered, Red’s finger twitching.
In his tottering, terror-haunted condition, Red was a most unreliable foe. He might at any moment begin shooting in an excess of nervous excitement.
“Come from behind that boat!” he rasped, still hoping mere threats would get results.
No response. Red sprang around the prow of the lifeboat. His flashlight fanned a glare; his revolver menaced. Then his jaw fell. There was no one behind the boat.
Very few seconds had elapsed since the moment of Red’s appearance on deck. He was a little stunned at the idea of his quarry escaping from behind the lifeboat in such short order. There had been no splash to denote a leap over the rail.
Red leaned far out and cast his light downward. The black steel plates of the hull were unbroken below and for many feet toward the bow and stern—unbroken except for portholes. And Red well knew the portholes were not large enough to admit a man.
“Where could he have gone?” Lady Nelia gasped.
“Search me,” Red muttered, striving to quell the nervous twitching of his muscles.
Low voices became audible. The sound of them seemed to drift along the hull of the steamer.
Red cast his flashlight beam in the direction of the voices. The funnel of luminance disclosed a small launch alongside the landing stage amidships.
Two men in the launch were arguing heatedly with a sailor of the Yankee Beauty crew.
* * * *
The pair of wranglers in the small boat were the two newspaper reporters—the veteran scribe and his cub understudy—who had decided on this means of reaching the Yankee Beauty. They had heard the shots, the screams and the other excitement, and were wildly anxious to get aboard.
The sailor who barred their way held a boat hook. He was promising to belabor the first man who set foot on the landing stage.
Red addressed Lady Nelia in a low voice: “We’ve got to get off this boat. Sol Yuttal and Hadi-Mot are aboard. The death of poor Jules shows that.”
“And the attack on me.” Lady Nelia shuddered violently and covered her face with her hands, as if to shut out a frightful vision. “I got out on deck and got the door slammed before the thing reached me. The horror of it must have made me hysterical, because I imagined the thing was still after me, even after I had shut the door upon it!”
“It’s too dangerous to remain aboard,” Red muttered. “We are almost helpless against Yuttal and Hadi-Mot and their devilish way of doing murder!”
He pointed at the launch holding the two newspaper reporters. “Let’s grab that boat and get away from here.”
Lady Nelia nodded. “All right.”
The two moved away, Red glancing over his shoulder as if still trying to fathom how the mysterious figure with the flashlight could have vanished from behind the lifeboat.
“Keep a sharp lookout!” Red warned uneasily.
“Right-o,” agreed Lady Nelia. “And let us make no more noise than necessary.”
Sailors came galloping along the deck, intent on investigating the feminine screams.
Lady Nelia and Red hastily entered the lounge to escape notice. They made their way to Lady Nelia’s cabin.
Lady Nelia tugged the stateroom life belt out of its rack. Her slender fingers explored and made sure that certain small, hard objects were still embedded in the cork blocks, under the canvas covering.
“My share of the diamonds are in here,” she said grimly. “Have you yours, Red?”
Red pointed at his own ankles. “I fastened mine to my shins with adhesive tape, the same way Jules did.”
“Let’s go!” suggested Lady Nelia, donning the life belt so that her hands would be free.
The two descended the main staircase, passed the doors of the dining room, and gained the deck from which the upper platform of the landing stage could be reached.
The sailor and the two reporters still argued loudly at the foot of the stage.
Red ran down the stairlike stage, holding his revolver out of sight behind his back. Reaching the side of the sailor, he whipped the weapon into view.
“Get back!” he rapped. “You two mugs in the launch—come on up here with this sailor.”
* * * *
The two reporters stared, popeyed, into the revolver muzzle. There was an electric light at the top of the landing stage and it showed the weapon to advantage.
“Get a move on!” growled Red.
The scribes clambered from the launch. For once, they were both speechless. Trailing the seaman they retreated up the landing stage, passing Lady Nelia.
Both journalists gave the young woman admiring glances, in spite of the menacing gun Red held. She impressed them both as about the most entrancing bit of femininity they had seen in some time.
“She’s a wow!” breathed the veteran scribbler.
Lady Nelia and Red entered the launch. They had the little craft to themselves, the newspapermen having done their own piloting.
When Red showed unfamiliarity with the operation of the launch, Lady Nelia took charge of the controls. The facility with which she started the engine showed she possessed no little knowledge of machinery.
Lifting his gun, Red smashed the electric bulb at the head of the landing stage with a single well-placed slug. Both reporters had stopped on the upper platform to stare. They dived from view, thinking they were being shot at.
In the darkness, and over the noise of the launch engine starting, Lady Nelia and Red failed to discover a bronze hand which appeared at the stern of the craft. The metallic fingers of this hand made a silken line fast to the base of the inevitable flagpole socket on the stern.
Like a thing disembodied, the hand retreated, paying out the line. There was no audible splash—hardly a stir in the water. The two in the boat had no inkling of the bronze presence near by. The silk line was of a color which blended with the darkness.
It was this same silk line, the grapple affixed to the end, which had lowered Doc Savage to the water from behind the lifeboat. Once he had entered the water noiselessly, Doc had but to flip the line, dislodging the grapple.
Sinking below the surface, he had stroked a few yards away from the hull. Thus simply was his mysterious disappearance explained.
The launch got into motion. Doc gave the line a turn in the strap harness which held the waterproof bag upon his back. The straps were stout enough to hold.
He was towed after the launch. Lying upon his back, arching his powerful body, he created a surf-board effect. The speed of the boat mounted, yet he felt little discomfort.
Doc’s position in the water was such that he could see the Yankee Beauty. A winking light under the bows of the steamer caught his attention. A small boat! The light glowed again. It disclosed the figure of a man clambering down the anchor chain!
The fellow seemed to have a great basket of an affair tied to his back. The thing was so huge it was giving him great difficulty in his descent.
The light went out, and the strange sight was blotted from view.
* * * *
The rattle of the launch exhaust, the gurgling roar of water past Doc’s trailing form, made it impossible to hear the conversation of Lady Nelia and Red. Whether or not they had glimpsed the mysterious little drama under the bows of the Yankee Beauty, Doc could not tell.
The launch headed for shore, angling northward a bit so as to land at a point less infested by curious spectators. This also happened to be where Doc had left big-fisted Renny and the taxi.
Some fifty yards from shore, Doc jerked a slipknot in the silk cord. This left him floating free in the darkness. He dug his hands beneath the surface in powerful and silent strokes.
No one saw Doc pull himself out of the water, although not many feet distant, some half dozen men stood rubbering at the Yankee Beauty.
Doc’s ability to move silently was almost uncanny.
Renny gave a great start when Doc appeared alongside the cab.
“Two people are just getting out of a launch down the street,” Doc advised swiftly. “They’ll probably want a taxi. Pick them up. Let me know what you learn about them and where they go.”
“Sure,” said Renny.
“And watch out!” Doc continued. “I am not yet sure whether these two are friends or enemies. Keep your eyes peeled. You may be attacked or they may be attacked. In the latter case, I want you to guard them.”
“Sure,” said Renny, and meshed the taxi gears.
The machine negotiated a turn, then loafed down the gloomy thoroughfare. Sure enough, Red ran into the street. In the cab headlights, he looked like a skeleton in clothing.
Renny, feigning the part of a hack driver, stopped and opened the door.
Lady Nelia and Red entered the machine. Lady Nelia had removed her life belt and was carrying it under an arm. Renny drove them away.
The taxi had not progressed half a block when a boat slammed noisily into a near-by pier.
Doc made for the sound. He had been listening to this boat. It had come from the direction of the Yankee Beauty. He thought it was the mystery craft he had seen under the anchor chain.
He saw two men spring from the launch. The pair ran forward. One carried an enormous wicker basket, Doc saw as they dashed through the milky glow of a street light.
The illumination also gave Doc a good chance to see what they looked like.
One of them was by far the fattest man Doc had ever seen. The fellow was hardly more than five feet in height, and he seemed almost that thick. He was a great, lardy ball, with flapping sacks of fat for arms and legs.
The fat man’s head narrowly missed being a part of his round body. It was hardly more than a hump. His mouth was a gigantic curve; his nose was enormous; his eyes were very large.
Ample features usually lend a pleasant aspect to the human face. They did not do so to this fellow. His features were so evil as to be appalling.
The other man was slender, flashily clad. He by no means missed being a handsome fellow. His brown skin and the cast of his lineaments caused Doc to think of the Egyptian coins he had found in the pockets of Jules.
If the second man was not an Egyptian, he was of some closely allied race. He wore a coarse-woven gray topcoat. This was wrinkled. Here, Doc hazarded a guess, was the man who had shot at him.
It was this fellow who carried the great wicker basket. It was rigged with sort of a harness—a strap over the forehead for easier carrying. The wicker was finely woven. There was no chance of seeing what was inside.
The pair passed out of the lighted area.
“Qawam, bil’agal!” puffed the fat man. “Make haste! We must not let them escape us, oh Hadi-Mot!”
“Akhkh!” grunted Hadi-Mot. “I travel as fast as I can, Yuttal.”
The two had spoken partially in a foreign tongue, partially in English. Doc’s studies had embraced most known languages. He had no difficulty recognizing this one. Egyptian!
The few words had also given him the names of the two—Yuttal and Hadi-Mot.
Doc set out after the pair. In Egyptian, he reflected, the name Hadi-Mot meant something like quiet death. Probably it was a nickname.
“Yallah!” Hadi-Mot cried out suddenly. “Tayyib! Good! They are in yonder taxi! I caught a glimpse of Red’s hair as the machine passed under the street light.”
“Imshi, imshi!” rapped Yuttal. “Step on it! We have got to get hold of another cab!”
Although Yuttal spoke the tongue fluently, it was apparent he was white rather than native.
The two sprinted across the street, trailing Renny’s cab. Doc followed them, gliding silently in the darkness.
He promptly encountered bad luck. A car came along the street and splashed him brilliantly with light. The driver was evidently something of a wag, for he blew his horn upon sighting the incongruous figure of Doc running in a bathing suit.
Yuttal and Hadi-Mot looked around.
“Wallah!” gulped Hadi-Mot. He and Yuttal halted.
Doc also stopped.
The motorist rolled on past, leaving the street rather dark.
Doc had observed a narrow alleyway to the left. He ran toward it, bare feet making his progress silent. The place was black and smelled of stale fruit. He loitered there, waiting to see what Yuttal and Hadi-Mot would do. He found out in a most unpleasant fashion.
Out of the gloom before him came a hideous fluttering sound. A soft, repellent pulsation! It approached with a swiftness that was terrible. With it came a faint, obnoxious odor.
* * * *
Doc whirled and ran. He possessed an iron nerve, but he also had good sense. The simplest method of avoiding this mysterious horror was to get somewhere else quickly.
The fluttering thing was overhauling him! Sprint as he would, he could not outdistance it! The brick walls of the alley were high, unbroken, except for heavily barred windows and ponderous doors, most of which were probably padlocked.
The doors seemed the best bet. Doc veered for them. His bare feet landed on an expanse of pebbled metal, to the accompaniment of a faint clank. A manhole.
Doc braked to a stop, wrenched up the iron lid, and eased into the space below. He lowered the cover. The manhole was the entrance to one of the numerous tunnels carrying telephone wires, which run under New York streets.
Over Doc’s head, a faint scraping rasped at the manhole lid. Something gritted on the iron—it sounded like needles digging at the metal. The redolence of the thing, whatever it was, penetrated the crack around the manhole, reaching Doc’s nostrils.
With both big bronze hands, Doc kept a grip on the underside of the lid. It would take tremendous strength to lift the cover against his pull.
A series of tiny, squeaky whistles penetrated the noises atop the manhole. The scrapings and raspings stopped. There was a soft fluttering. The odious creature of the night was departing—answering the signal!
Doc sat where he was and kept a grip on the manhole. He listened. His ears possessed a sensitivity attained by few other men, thanks to the part of his daily exercise routine which was calculated to develop the ear mechanism.
He had an apparatus which made sound waves of frequencies, so high and low, the ordinary human ear could not detect them. As a result of years of practice, Doc had perfected his ears until the sounds registered. He could detect noises beyond the ken of others.
He heard no sound of further attack, however. At length, he quitted his retreat and searched the neighborhood.
Nothing did he find. Yuttal and Hadi-Mot had left the vicinity, taking their fluttering horror of the night with them. Perhaps they had followed the taxi driven by Renny and carrying Lady Nelia and Red. It was impossible to tell.
Doc hailed a cruising cab. The driver of this machine was stricken speechless by the unique sight of a gigantic bronze man walking the city streets in a bathing suit.
Doc gave him the address of one of the tallest skyscrapers in New York. The driver recognized this address. He made a correct guess at who Doc might be.
“You’re Doc Savage!” he gulped. “Say, mister, there wouldn’t be a chance of me collectin’ that million-bucks reward, would there? The dough was supposed to be paid to the guy that found you!”
“It happens that I found you,” Doc pointed out sardonically. “Anyway, you’re a few hours too late.”