A GUIDE TO TROUBLE
The sky was like the white-hot concave paunch of a furnace overhead. A round hole in the brazen heavens, a peephole to the glitter and heat of a hell flame, was the sun.
The Helldiver crawled through the Arabian Sea as through hot oil. She pulled a milky funnel of wake along behind. Spray, jumping up from the bows, dried almost instantly when it hit the sun-heated deck plates and runnerlike guard rails.
Monk, his furry hulk clad only in trousers, sat on deck with a high-power rifle, watching for sharks on which to test his marksmanship. He waved a slow arm.
“What’m I offered for my share of Arabia and the whole blasted ocean, brothers?” he asked gloomily. “Do I hear any offers? Thirty cents will buy it!”
Ham, immaculate in white ducks and sun helmet, smiled blissfully. Monk had spent a miserable time crossing. There had been much rough sea.
They had been many days negotiating the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, the Suez Canal, and the Red Sea. Monotony and much hard work was all the trip had offered. The Helldiver was equipped with an excellent set of master controls operated from the central control room, enabling the tiny crew of five men to handle the craft.
There had been no sign of Mohallet, or his black yacht with the gold trim.
“The Helldiver is fast for a submarine,” Doc declared, clambering out of the main hatch. “Chances are that Mohallet’s yacht is much swifter, however. Considering the few days we lost rigging the submarine for sea, Mohallet probably beat us here by a day or two.”
“Maybe he didn’t even come to this neck of the ocean,” Monk suggested gloomily. “His yacht had not passed through the Suez Canal.”
“You’ll recall one of the prisoners told us it was a stolen boat,” Doc pointed out. “Mohallet, not daring to take it through the canal, must have sailed around the lower end of Africa. I’ve been figuring his probable maximum speed and our own rate, and the chances are that he did not beat us by more than a couple of days.”
Johnny and Long Tom were on duty at the controls, below.
Doc’s golden eyes ranged across the bows.
“Arabia!” he announced.
Monk squinted. “It looks like a sand pile to me. I’ve seen some bleak country, but it was a luxuriant jungle compared to that!”
Seven or eight miles distant lay the shore line. It was low, almost entirely of sand and rock. Beyond, wrapped in jittering heat waves, were bald mountain fangs.
The Helldiver crawled ahead, the big Diesel engines mumbling.
Tiny specks on the shore grew in size, boxed themselves out in the shape of houses crowded along narrow streets. It was a town, small, heat-baked.
“The town of Bustan,” Doc offered. “In Arabic, the word means ‘garden’!”
Monk snorted noisily.
“It’s the last outpost along this desolate coast,” Doc continued. “We’ll go ashore here and see if we can get a line on a place known as the Crying Rock. Even the best charts show no such landmark.”
* * * *
From the shore, many dark eyes watched the approaching Helldiver. Bustan was a dead hole. There was no harbor, and vessels of necessity anchored off a beach which was rock-spiked and dangerous in a blow. Hence, ships seldom visited the place.
The authorities ruled Bustan with an iron hand. They had to; otherwise, robbers from the surrounding desert would have taken the town over. There was, considering the frontier outpost nature of the settlement, very little lawlessness.
The local hakim had the reputation of being a bad governor to fool with. He frequently caused criminals to be tried and executed the same day they were caught. If ever there was a town where justice had teeth, Bustan was that place.
Gentry of evil ways haunted the town, however. But they masqueraded as honest traders or tribal nomads.
One of these was among the many who watched the strange-looking Helldiver. He was a fat fellow. His face resembled a ball of rancid yellow lard stuck full of very black whiskers.
This man maintained his scrutiny only long enough to make certain the Helldiver was going to drop anchor offshore. Then he wheeled and scuttled up a cramped street populated by robed and whiskered men, an occasional woman with covered face, donkeys, one-humped Arabian camels commonly known as dromedaries, and an infinite number of dogs.
He entered a large and not unattractive dwelling. Over the roof of this, a radio aërial stretched. Broadcast receivers were not unknown in Bustan. Ostensibly, there was one hooked to the end of this aërial lead-in.
The real purpose of the aërial, however, was to radiate the energy from an efficient short-wave transmitter and receiver. This was concealed under a slab in the floor of one room, and the slab was in turn masked by a rich rug.
Mohallet was a robber chief with modern ideas. Occasionally, the government of some nation sent a gunboat along the coast looking for him. He maintained several radio stations to tip him off when such craft approached. This was one of them.
The man with the lardy face was soon in communication with the yacht of his chief. The set operated on voice, and the harsh tones of Mohallet himself soon crackled in the receivers.
“What is it?” he demanded in Arabic.
“A strange-looking submarine has appeared offshore.”
“Describe it!”
“It is long and narrow, and has no conning tower,” said the fat man, who was a merchant as far as the authorities of Bustan were concerned. “It has large steel runners extending from bow to stern. The name on the bows is Helldiver.”
A storm of profanity poured from the receivers. Mohallet, in his youth, had been a camel driver. He had assembled a choice collection of epithets.
“Wallah!” he ended. “It was an evil day when I went to New York! No doubt that devil of a bronze man is aboard the submarine. In some fashion, he has learned why I wanted the underseas boat. How he secured that information, I do not know. He must be a magician!”
“All magic is trickery,” said the fat man meaningly. “Perhaps, O master, it might be wise to try some sorcery of our own!”
“You have an idea?” queried Mohallet.
Smirking, the plump man spoke rapidly and in a low voice, his black whiskers against the microphone. He was one of Mohallet’s most clever followers, this fake merchant. Through him, quantities of the loot Mohallet took from inland tribesmen and coastwise vessels was disposed of.
In a secret room under the house, much of Mohallet’s loot was now stored, awaiting fencing.
Mohallet laughed fiercely when he had heard the scheme to the end.
“It is good!” he chortled. “Carry it through at once!”
After concealing the radio outfit, the portly man hurried up to the roof of his house. From there, he could see a boat was being put off from the Helldiver.
* * * *
The boat was a collapsible one of metal. It fitted beneath a hatch in the Helldiver’s steel plates.
Doc Savage and Johnny seated themselves in the little shell. They were attired in worn garments, the dress of common sailors. The information they desired—the whereabouts of the mysterious Crying Rock—could best be obtained by mingling with local citizens. They did not wish to attract attention to themselves.
A small, powerful outboard motor kicked the boat beachward. Several officers met them. But Ham, who took care of the legal angles of their jaunts, had been foresighted enough to secure papers which made their landing entirely legal.
Doc and Johnny separated. Both spoke fluent Arabic; both knew the customs of the country.
“Be careful that no one thinks we are seeking Mohallet,” Doc suggested. “But pick up anything you can regarding him and the location of this Crying Rock.”
“O.K.,” agreed Johnny.
The gaunt archæologist ambled along, idling before bazaars and little drink shops. A turjuman clubbed a camel up before a grog shop, alighted, and went in, each step jarring dust from his robes. The fellow had the appearance of one having just come from the desert.
Johnny followed him in, picked his chance, and told the dragoman: “I am thinking of journeying to the spot known as the Crying Rock. Would you be interested in guiding me there?”
“Wallah!” said the turjuman. “I have never heard of such a place!”
Disappointed, Johnny went on. He decided to try a part of the town where fishermen lived. If the Crying Rock was situated on the coast, they might know its whereabouts.
Striding along, he entered an area where the miserable streets were narrow, smelly rips between the walls of houses.
A figure in feminine robes came toward Johnny, carrying a large basket of dried fruits and nuts. The features were completely masked by the inevitable face cloth. Johnny paid no attention. Just another Arab woman.
The next instant, there was a collision. The basket spilled its contents over Johnny’s person. Their forms tangled momentarily.
“You ran into me!” Johnny said sharply in Arabic. But, motivated by politeness, he bent over to help the woman retrieve her dried fruits.
Three wiry brown men hurtled out of a doorway upon the gaunt archæologist. They had discarded their usual flowing burnooses, and were naked except for loin cloths.
Robes flew off the womanish individual. It was no woman, but another lithe brown man.
Johnny’s bony frame ordinarily had the appearance of being about as graceful as a brush pile. But now he danced backward with an astounding agility. He jerked off his needless spectacles with the magnifying left lens.
He speared out a long arm. His fist took one of the attackers on the jaw. The fellow went over backward as abruptly as if turning a back flip of his own accord.
The other three darted back and forth. They had drawn long-bladed swords. The tips of these weapons were muddy with poison compound.
Johnny drove a hand to the armpit holster, where he carried his small machine-gun pistol.
It was gone. The pretended woman had lifted it, of course, in the collision.
* * * *
Johnny, seeking to retreat farther, brought up against a wall. Poisoned blades menaced him in front, on both sides. The thin archæologist dodged frantically. He had no other weapon, except an extra drum of cartridges for the missing rapid-firer.
He whipped out the drum and hurled it at a knifeman. The fellow dodged with an expertness that spoke of years of practice at avoiding the bites of evil-tempered camels. The ammo drum bounded down the street. A yapping dog ran out and pursued it.
Other dogs appeared and surrounded the fighting men, their frantic barks making a great bedlam. The knifemen cursed the dogs and Johnny. They weaved in, venomous blades alert.
Johnny was in a spot. The wall behind was too high to leap. And he was sure that one touch of the poisoned steel would mean his death.
Then the rescuer arrived. He came charging around a corner, a stocky man, neatly clad.
“Imshi!” he yelled at Johnny’s assailants. “Beat it!”
He skidded to a stop, whipped out a revolver, and leveled it. The gun gulped a throaty roar!
A brown man squawled, dropped his sword, and wrapped both arms over his middle. He turned, and ran weaving down the street.
The other assailants promptly followed.
Johnny seized upon the fallen sword and set out after the runners. But the plump newcomer got in his way.
“Better not!” he said in good English. “Let ’em go! The police will be here in a minute. They’ll jail us. They’ve got a habit of throwing everybody concerned in the can when a fight comes off!”
“Maybe you’re right!” Johnny agreed.
He inspected his rescuer as they trotted through crooked streets, leaving the vicinity. He was impressed by the man’s neat garb, his smoothly shaven features. Men who shaved regularly were scarce in this part of the world.
“My name is Karl Zad,” said the portly man.
“William Harper Littlejohn—Johnny to my friends!” ejaculated Johnny, shaking hands. “And by helping me out of that hole, you certainly qualify as a pal.”
Karl Zad dropped behind, ostensibly to look for pursuers, but really to permit himself an evil grin.
It had worked, thought Karl Zad. This fool bag of bones did not suspect that the attack had been deliberately staged so that he, Karl Zad, might be the rescuer.
Overhauling Johnny, he received a friendly grin from the gaunt archæologist. Johnny, of course, had no way of knowing Karl Zad was the same lard-faced, bewhiskered pretended merchant who had been in radio communication with the archvillain, Mohallet.
* * * *
“I am a merchant, a trader along this coast,” volunteered Karl Zad. “They are devils, these natives! They have robbed my caravans until they have about put me out of business.”
“You are not a native of this district?” Johnny hazarded.
“I am from Mecca. I wish I had never left there, too! I never saw as many thieves as there are on this coast! They are organized under a leader known as Mohallet.”
Johnny all but fell down at this information. Here, it seemed, was a ready source of information.
“Have you,” asked Johnny eagerly, “ever heard of a place known as Crying Rock?”
Karl Zad did not reply immediately. “I have heard of such a place—a great cliff which is said to make horrible sobbing sounds at times.”
“Can you give me the exact location?”
Karl Zad did some squirming and forehead wiping to simulate embarrassment.
“Maybe it is a dirty trick to take advantage of your gratitude,” he mumbled. “But I’d like mightily for you to give me a job guiding you there. Frankly, I’m about broke.”
Johnny smiled widely. “Great! I’d appreciate that!”
The details were quickly settled. Karl Zad was to receive a reasonable fee for escorting them to Crying Rock. Johnny knew Doc would approve of the idea, especially when he learned Karl Zad had saved his life.
“I shall pay up a few minor debts, get my dunnage, and meet you at the water front,” suggested Karl Zad.
“Need any money?” Johnny offered.
“No. And many thanks!”
They parted.
Johnny found Doc Savage at the little collapsible metal boat fitted with an outboard motor. A ring of gaping Arabs surrounded the bronze giant. They had never before seen a man obviously possessed of such mighty muscles.
“No one seems to have heard of Crying Rock,” Doc said thoughtfully. “What’d you learn?”
“Plenty!” Johnny exploded. He told of the fight and the find he had made in his rescuer. He effused at length on Karl Zad’s excellent appearance and intelligence.
“Go over the part about the fight again,” Doc requested.
Johnny did so.
“You say Karl Zad shot one of your attackers?” Doc persisted.
“In the stomach, yes. The bullet doubled him over, and he ran.”
Johnny spoke for a few moments more on the merits of Karl Zad, then, shading his hands, peered out at the submarine. He could see the huge forms of Renny and Monk on deck.
When Johnny turned, Doc was gone. The big bronze man had departed silently. Johnny showed no surprise: Doc often went away in this fashion when he had something important on his mind.
* * * *
During the next few minutes, there was a great deal of commotion in the ancient streets of Bustan. The excitement was like that of chickens after the shadow of a hawk had passed. In this case, though, the turmoil was caused by the flashing figure of a mighty bronze man who whipped along the streets at a bewildering speed.
Doc made directly for the spot where the attack on Johnny had occurred. He found a crowd. He mingled with them. His golden eyes switched intently over the cobbles.
He was looking for blood from the man who had been shot in the stomach. He found none. He did, however, pick up a small, round wad of blackened cardboard.
For the briefest instant after Doc had found the object, those near by were startled by a weird, indefinable trilling note which seemed to come from nowhere, yet everywhere, persist for an instant, then die away. They glanced about curiously. It was unlike anything they had ever heard, that sound. Some looked at the giant of a man who resembled metal, wondering if he could have anything to do with it.
Doc faded away from the vicinity. The round cardboard he had picked up was the wad from a blank revolver cartridge.
Doc rejoined Johnny. He did not volunteer word of where he had been. Johnny did not ask. He knew Doc’s habit of telling what he thought should be told, and no more.
Karl Zad appeared. He carried two large hand bags of excellent leather. Both were new. They seemed rather heavy.
“We will be very glad to get your help,” Doc said politely, after Johnny had performed the introductions.
Johnny was enthusiastic. He was not gullible. Karl Zad was simply a smooth worker, as clever a rogue at deception as could be found on the whole Arabian coast.
They went out to the submarine.
Karl Zad expressed amazement at the compact efficiency of the submarine, at the remarkable controls which enabled such a small crew to handle her.
He was shown to a stateroom, where he deposited his baggage.
“Leave your luggage here, and Johnny will show you over the sub,” Doc suggested.
Karl Zad did not seem greatly pleased at this. But he left his bags and permitted himself to be led off forward, where Johnny began lecturing on the automatic depth-measuring device, a contraption which utilized sharp sounds sent to the ocean bottom and echoed back. An electrical “ear” measured the interval needed for the sound to go down and come back, and the speed of sound waves through salt water being known, the depth was readily ascertained.
Doc was below decks for some time. Then he came up and had Ham ferry him ashore in the little folding boat. He carried a big box.
“Go back to the sub,” Doc directed. “Some of them may want to come ashore before we sail.”
Doc then walked away rapidly, his large box under one arm.
Ham returned to the Helldiver. Sure enough, it was not long before Karl Zad came hurriedly to the deck.
“I forgot my watch!” Karl Zad gasped. “I left it in a shop to be repaired. May I go ashore and get it?”
“Sure,” said Ham, and offered his services as boatman.