THE WINGED PERIL
Doc Savage had selected an emergency landing spot near the lake shore for a specific purpose. He dug binoculars out of the cockpit duffle pocket, then quitted the windmill plane.
He ran for the beach. Here, as along most of this wilderness shore, there was timber. Doc sought a large tree. He did not use his flashlight, but felt about in the black night with his hands.
Finding a towering pine, he mounted. Monk and Renny, puzzled, clambered up after him.
The monsters, from the direction they had taken, should have reached the lake shore perhaps two miles away to the westward. Doc focused his binoculars in that direction.
“What’s the idea?” Renny asked.
Doc passed the binoculars to him. “Take a look.”
Renny did so. In the jet night he could not see the giants. But he did discern tiny spots which glowed with an unearthly purple luminance.
“Say, what’s them light patches?” he demanded.
“A chemical compound akin to phosphorus,” Doc explained. “The stuff begins to glow after it is exposed to the air half an hour or so.”
Monk, astride a limb below, emitted a knowing snort. “The dope was in the shotgun slugs you plugged at the giants!”
“It was,” Doc admitted.
The bronze man fell to watching the luminous spots which marked the position of the monsters. The glowing patches moved out into the lake and became stationary.
The great loud-speaker voice of Hack, thundering out, carried over the two miles with surprising volume.
“Bring the speed boats!” Hack called.
A moment later, in answer to the red-necked man’s behest, marine engines sputtered into life. Boats had been waiting out in the lake. They sped for the shore.
“Three of them!” Monk decided, after counting the craft.
The giants went aboard the speed boats, and the craft headed out into the lake.
The glowing spots on the giants seemed to grow larger, although the monsters were being carried away.
“They’re trying to rub the shiny stuff off,” Renny thumped. “Their efforts just spread the dope.”
Doc Savage got careful bearings on the direction taken by the launch.
Distance finally swallowed the glowing smears on the giants.
* * * *
Doc and his two men moved down the lake shore to the point where the boats had been boarded. They found the car with the loud-speaker equipment. It was parked near the shore, deserted.
Later, Doc traced the license number of the vehicle. The machine had been purchased in Detroit a few weeks before by a man giving his name as Pere Teston, but who answered the description of the slain Caldwell.
On its side the car bore the advertising of a political party which was now campaigning. It developed that the car had no connection with the political organization, however.
“They put the sign on it so the loud-speaker wouldn’t attract suspicion,” decided big-fisted Renny.
The men returned to Trapper Lake.
The town was in an uproar. Women still screamed, sobbed and had hysterics. Men galloped about, wild-eyed, their persons bristling with weapons. Almost every one was bare-footed, having been routed out of bed. A number of old-fashioned male nightgowns were to be seen.
The house into which the pinhead monster had crawled was a wreck. A number of fences had been torn down; gardens were trampled. The door of the Guide’s Hotel had been demolished. Shapeless tracks of the big, armored feet were thick.
“One of the infernal giants just butted the door down and climbed in,” reported the dapper Ham.
He indicated the hotel door with his sword cane. “I made a pass at the brute. Then retreat looked good, so I jumped from the handiest window.”
“They came after Griswold Rock!” declared Long Tom.
Doc and his men scattered, and devoted themselves to attending to the injured.
The giants had seized four Trapper Lake men in the course of their raid. Using only their leviathan hands, they had crushed every vestige of life from these victims. The bones of the unfortunates had been broken, limbs wrenched from their bodies, their skulls crushed.
“I saw one of the men get killed!” wailed a Trapper Lake citizen. “A giant just picked him up, took his head in both hands, and mashed it like you and me would bust an egg.”
* * * *
Having stayed awake the rest of the night, Trapper Lake looked around in the morning and saw something like fifty newspaper men. While there were no long distance telephone lines out of town, telegraph wires paralleled the Timberland Line railroad, and wires had conveyed news to the outside world of the visit of the giants.
The press took fire. Almost half the passengers on the next train were newspaper reporters, and the other half newspaper cameramen.
More correspondents came by plane. A blimp flew up from Detroit, carrying the reporters and cameramen of a tabloid newspaper.
It dawned on newspapers in every large city in the United States that here was the explanation of the strange “Beware the Monsters!” advertisements which they had been publishing.
A tri-motored speed plane came in with the sound cameras of a news-reel concern. Two enterprising journalists brought their own radio stations and operators.
Before noon, Trapper Lake stood on the front pages of every newspaper in the country in two-inch black type, or larger. Pictures were telephoned. Maps were drawn with X marking the spot where Trapper Lake stood.
Some enterprising city editors, unable to get pictures, had their artists draw giants. Exaggerated stories were flying around, so the artists drew their giants tossing houses around.
The giants grew in size with every repetition of the tale. Trapper Lake had its share of tall story tellers, and these fellows outdid themselves. The giants became bigger and bigger.
Word got out that Doc Savage was on the scene. A wild rush to interview the bronze man ensued. A New York newspaper wired its reporter, promising him a year’s vacation in Europe, all expenses paid, if he could get a first-person story from Doc.
The reporter hunted like a wild man, but failed to earn the year in Europe.
Doc Savage, being possessed of a hearty disapproval of seeing his name in public print, had withdrawn to the seclusion of a clearing some miles from town. Here he and his men discussed and consulted with each other.
They had done some sleuthing before the newspaper locust swarm had arrived.
“I checked on the finger prints of the giant’s hand which Renny dug up,” Long Tom said.
He mopped perspiration off his pale brow. “You remember that bird, Nubby Bronson, who was taken from the Trapper Lake jail?”
“Sure,” Monk grunted.
“The finger prints of that big hand and Nubby Bronson’s prints were the same in design.”
“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun!” cried bony Johnny. “They grabbed Nubby Bronson out of jail and made him into a giant!”
Ham, his sword cane tucked under an arm, came up. He had been working with the portable radio.
“I’ve broadcast a description of those giants, as you directed,” he told Doc. “They answer the description of the criminals whom Caldwell got out of jails all over the country.”
“We know now why Caldwell was collecting them,” said Monk. “He was gathering them for Pere Teston to make into giants.”
With that, Monk scratched the winglike ears of his pig, Habeas Corpus.
The dapper Ham scowled at the pleasantly ugly chemist and his equally homely pet.
“The pattern must have been mislaid the day you two were made!” he snorted.
Monk sighed, as if he had stood about as many jibes as he could bear.
The pig, Habeas Corpus, was looking intently at Ham, as if he resented the dapper lawyer’s words. The pig opened his mouth.
The thing which happened then always drove Ham into a screaming rage. The pig seemed to speak distinct words:
“I’m gettin’ dang tired of the stuff this funny-faced lawyer calls humor.”
Ham purpled very indignantly. He gripped his sword cane.
“Dramatics!” sneered the voice from the pig. “Ain’t he a funny-lookin’ snipe in them rags?”
Ham was particularly touchy on the subject of his clothing. He still wore the garb which had been ruined in the bramble thicket, although it was far from his liking. He slashed suddenly with his sword cane.
Monk dodged wildly to get clear.
Monk had learned ventriloquism solely for the purpose of having Habeas Corpus express scathing opinions of Ham. The business of the talking pig, although ridiculous to watch, invariably filled Ham with rage.
The conversation reverted to the giants.
“But for what purpose did Pere Teston make the big fellows?” Renny pondered.
* * * *
The world got the answer to that question that afternoon.
To the mayors of four great cities, the mail brought letters. The cities were Detroit, Cleveland, New York, and Chicago. The letters bore Trapper Lake postmarks.
They had been mailed during the visit of the giants!
The four mayors had read the newspapers, so they knew what had happened in Trapper Lake. They could not fail to know it—the news was in scareheads all over the front pages.
The four mayors opened the letters with curiosity. All four got the shock of their lives.
The Detroit mayor received his missive first. It read:
Your Honor:
Have you read the “monster” advertisements in the newspapers recently? Those were part of my campaign. Possibly you have read of the episode at Trapper Lake last night. If not, I advise you to do so.
My giants visited Trapper Lake for a reason other than the seizure of Griswold Rock, although the latter was necessary. I wanted the world—particularly Detroit, Cleveland, New York, Chicago—to realize the power of my giants.
You will consult with leading bankers of your city, advising them to assemble five million dollars. The sum is to be in small, unmarked bills.
To-morrow you will receive a letter of instruction about getting the money into my hands. That letter has been posted.
If my terms are not complied with, my giants will visit your city. They will not be in a pleasant mood. They will kill people, and wreak incalculable damage.
One giant will be designated to hunt you out personally.
You may think machine guns and gas will be effective against my giants. Do not be fooled. They wear bullet-proof armor, and they have special gas masks.
I trust you will not make the mistake of thinking this is a crank’s letter.
Pere Teston.
After reading that, the Detroit mayor tilted back in his chair and had a good laugh.
Then he sent out for the late newspapers and reread the Trapper Lake story. When he finished, he was not laughing. The story had made detailed reference to the crushed condition of the Trapper Lake victims. The mayor called several leading bank presidents and showed them the letter.
“What is the police force for?” asked the bankers.
So the mayor called the police chief, and the chief, in turn, had his men oil their machine guns and break out fresh gas bombs. Radio squad cars were set to prowling roads around the city. Police boats covered the lake front.
In Cleveland, New York, and Chicago, the reaction was about the same, except that in New York City, naval destroyers quietly took up positions around Manhattan Island. They knew Doc Savage’s reputation in New York, knew his name had been in the past associated with the combating of perils before which police departments were helpless. If Doc Savage was involved in the matter of the giants, the thing was no laughing affair.
Newspapers ate up this newest development. Sheets that had red ink ran it in their biggest headlines. Here was the newspaper story of the year.
Pere Teston was investigated, and the facts unearthed added to the general excitement.
It was found that Pere Teston was a man who had dabbled in chemical experiments since childhood. But he had not made chemistry his profession—it had been a hobby.
Pere Teston, railroad men who had known him revealed, had for years maintained that it was possible to develop compounds to increase the size of living beings. The friends had laughed; they thought this was just another crazy idea.
That day, several of Pere Teston’s former acquaintances collected large sums of money for telling their story to the newspapermen. Pere Teston, these men declared, had talked much of developing giant cows, who would give great quantities of milk. He had spoken of huge draft horses, which would be a boon to the farmer.
No one could recall his having spoken of an army of giant men to terrorize the world.
“Probably he thought of that later,” said one man who had known Pere Teston.
“When did he disappear?” asked a reporter.
“A year or two ago, maybe,” was the reply.
The truth was that no one seemed to be just certain when Pere Teston had dropped from sight.
* * * *
Before nightfall, almost five hundred more planes were enroute for Trapper Lake, bearing correspondents and photographers.
Before nightfall, too, Doc Savage and his men took off on a prowl of their own. Doc entertained an idea.
“Everything points to these giants having their headquarters somewhere in the lake,” he pointed out. “Their food supplies, brought in on the Timberland Line, were transferred to barges on the lake.”
“But where can their hangout be?” pondered big-fisted Renny.
“We got a line on their retreat last night,” Doc said.
The gyro fuel tanks were filled to the slosh-over point with fuel smuggled out of Trapper Lake. They headed out into the lake.
Half an hour’s flying put them over an island. It was covered with brush and rock, and certainly harbored no giants. Doc continued onward.
The previous night had been cloudy, extremely dark. This one promised to be gloriously moonlit. They flew high, dropping down when they sighted islands.
An hour passed; another. The fuel was holding out well. The gyro, thanks to its hovering ability, enabled them to scrutinize closely such islands as they viewed.
A half dozen specks of rock and soil they sighted without discerning a sign of the giants.
Another and somewhat larger island appeared.
Ham eyed his watch. “Ten o’clock and all’s well,” he stated.
He was wrong. Up from the isle ahead a plane came boring.
When it was still some three hundred yards away, machine gun muzzles flamed like tiny red eyes from its cowl. Tracer bullets, climbing past Doc’s gyro, might have been red sparks.
The attacking ship was a low-wing bus, very fast.
“That’s the crate in which Caldwell and his gang hopped from New York!” Long Tom yelled.
Doc climbed the gyro, jockeying to one side, then the other, avoiding the machine gun slugs. As the attacking ship slid past, Doc heaved the gyro over on its side and flicked the landing-light switch.
The illumination disclosed a face in the control cockpit of the other plane. It was the steel-haired girl—the ex-lion-tamer, Jean Morris.