Kenneth Robeson - The Pirate of the Pacific

The cloud of invisible, odorless anaesthetic had not yet become ineffective. The man ran into it. He folded down, and momentum tumbled him head over heels across the walk.

Doc stepped to the door.

From two points — one up the street, one down it — machine guns brayed a loud stream of reports.

Doc had expected something like that. This was a trap, and Tom Too's men were hardly fools enough to wait for him on the upper floors of the building, where their retreat would be cut off.

He flashed backward in time to get in the clear.

Fistfuls of stone powdered off the building entrance as jacketed bullets stormed. Falling glass jangled loudly. Ricocheting lead squawled in the lobby.

Doc glided to the stairs, mounted to the second floor and tried the door of a front office. It chanced to be locked. He pulled — not overly hard, it seemed. The lock burst from its anchorage as though hitched to a tractor.

Entering the office, Doc crossed to a window and glanced down.

The machine guns had silenced. A gray sedan sped along the street, slowing to permit the Mongols to dive aboard. The car continued north. It reached the first corner.

Suddenly there was a series of sawing sounds, like the rasp of a gigantic bull fiddle.

Doc knew those noises instantly — the terrific fire of the compact little machine guns he had invented. Renny, Ham, and Mindoro had turned loose on the Orientals.

The gray sedan careened to the left. It hurdled the curb. There was a roar of rent wood and smashing glass as it hit a display window. The car passed entirely through the window. Wheels ripped off, fenders crumpled, top partially smashed in, it sledded across the floor of a furniture store.

Doc saw the attackers wade through the wreckage after the car. Several times their little machine guns made the awful bull-fiddle sawings.

Then the three men came out and sped toward the Far East Building.

Doc met them downstairs.

"Three of the devils were in the car!" Renny grimaced. "They're all ready for the morgue."

"What about our pals?" Ham demanded. He seized Doc's wrist and stared at the telewatch dial. "Good! They're still tied to those chairs!"

Doc said nothing. His golden eyes showed no elation.

They rode up in the elevator. Renny raced down the tenth-floor corridor. He did not wait to see whether the Dragon concern office door was locked. His keg of a fist whipped a terrific blow. The stout panel jumped out of the frame like match wood.

Renny, continuing forward, tore the door from its hinges with his great weight.

Ham leaped to one of the bound figures, grasped it by the arm. Then he emitted a squawk of horror.

The arm of the form had come off in his hand!

"THEY'RE dummies," Doc said. "The clothes worn by Monk, Long Tom, and Johnny — stuffed with waste paper, and fitted with the faces of show-window dummies."

Ham shuddered violently. "But we saw Monk, Long Tom, and Johnny in here! They were moving about, or at least struggling against their bonds."

"They were here," Doc admitted. "But they were taken away and the dummies substituted while one of the Mongols stood in front of the television transmitter, unless I'm mistaken."

Renny's sober face was black with gloom. "Then they knew the television sender was installed here!"

"They were lucky enough to find it," Doc agreed. "So they brought the three prisoners here, hoping we would see them and come to the rescue. They had the machine-gun trap down in the street waiting for us. That explains the whole thing."

Ham made a slashing gesture with his sword cane. "Blast it! We haven't accomplished anything!"

Doc swung over to the fragments of broken window lying on the floor. One piece was about a foot square, the others smaller. He began gathering them.

"What possible value can that glass have?" Mindoro questioned curiously, still trembling a little from the excitement of the recent fight.

"Monk broke this window and his captors knocked him over," Doc replied. "He lay on top of the glass fragments for a time, while the Mongols looked down at the window to see if the breaking window had caused alarm. They did not watch Monk at all for a few seconds. During that time, I distinctly saw Monk work a crayon of the invisible-writing chalk out of his pocket and write something on the glass."

Renny lumbered for the door. "The ultra-violet apparatus is at the office. We'll have to take the glass there."

They left the Far East Building by a rear door, thus avoiding delay while explanations were being furnished the police.

In Doc's eighty-sixth-floor retreat, they put the glass fragments under the ultra-violet lamp.

Monk's message confronted them, an unearthly bluish scrawl. It was brief, but all-important.

Tom Too is scared and taking a run-out powder.

He is going to Frisco by plane and sailing for the

Luzon Unlon on the liner Malay Queen. He's

taking us three along as hostages to keep you

off his neck. Give 'im hell, Doc!

"Good old Monk!" Ham grinned. "That homely ape does pull a fast one once in a while. He's heard the gang talking among themselves. Probably they figured he couldn't understand their lingo."

Mindoro had paled visibly. He strained his graying hair through palsied fingers.

"This means bloodshed!" he muttered thickly. "Tom Too has given up trying to get the roster of my political group. He will strike, and my associates will fight him. Many will die."

Doc Savage scooped up the phone. He gave a number — that of a Long Island airport.

"My plane!" he said crisply. "Have it ready in an hour."

"You think we can overhaul them from the air?" Ham demanded.

"Too risky for our three pals," Doc pointed out.

"Then what — "

"We're going to be on the liner Malay Queen when she sails from Frisco!"

THE liner Malay Queen, steaming out through the Golden Gate, was an impressive sight. No doubt many persons on the San Francisco water front paused to admire the majesty of the vessel. She was a bit over seven hundred feet long. In shipbuilding parlance, she displaced thirty thousand tons.

The hull was black, with a strip of red near the water line; the superstructure was a striking white. The craft had been built when everybody had plenty of money to spend. All the luxuries had been put into her swimming pool, three dining saloons, two lounges, two smoking rooms, writing room, library, and two bars. She even carried a small bank.

Most of the passengers were on deck, getting their last look at the Golden Gate. At Fort Point and Fort Baker, the nearest points of land on either side, construction work on the new Golden Gate bridge was in evidence — a structure which would be nearly six and a half thousand feet in length when completed.

Among the passengers were some strange personages.

Of exotic appearance, and smacking of the mystery of the Orient, was the Hindu who stood on the boat deck. Voluminous white robes swathed this man from neck to ankles. Occasionally the breeze blew back his robes to disclose the brocaded sandals he wore. A jewel flamed in his ample turban.

Such of his hair as was visible had a jet-black color. His brown face was plump and well-fed. Under one ear, and reaching beneath his chin to his other ear, was a horrible scar. It looked as though somebody had once tried to cut the Hindu's throat. He wore dark glasses.

Even more striking was the Hindu's gigantic black servant This fellow wore baggy pantaloons. a flamboyant silk sash, and sandals which had toes that curled up and over. On each turned-over toe was a tiny silver bell.

This black man wore no shirt, but made up for it with a barrel-sized turban. He had thick lips, and nostrils which. flared like those of a hard-running horse.