Kenneth Robeson - The Pirate of the Pacific

MINDORO was long-faced with worry when he returned.

"The situation is indeed serious," he informed them. "My associates succeeded in trapping one of Tom Too's Mongols. They scared the fellow into talking. The information they secured was most ominous. Tom Too is ready to seize power!"

"Exactly how is it to be managed!" Doc ('questioned.

"The physicians who attend the president have been bribed," Mindoro explained. "The president will be poisoned, and the physicians will say he died of heart failure. The moment this news gets out, rioting will start. The rioters will be Tom Too's men, working under his orders.

"Tom Too will step in and take charge of the police, many of whom are his men, or in his service because of bribes They will put down the rioting with an iron hand — a simple matter since the rioting will be staged deliberately. Tom Too will be touted in newspapers and over the radio as the iron man who took charge in the crisis. He will ride into power on a wave of public good will."

"That is the sort of plan which will work in this day and age!" Ham declared savagely.

"It doesn't sound like pirate methods!" Renny grunted.

"Tom Too is a modern edition of a pirate," Doc pointed out dryly. "If he should sail into port with his warships, as buccaneers did in the old days, he wouldn't get to first base. For one thing, the Luzon Union army and navy would probably whip him. If they didn't, a few dozen foreign warships would arrive, and that would be his finish."

A messenger, a husky patrolman on the Mantilla police force, whom Mindoro trusted, arrived bearing a change of garments for all four of the refugees.

Doc studied the patrolman with interest. The officer's uniform consisted of khaki shorts which terminated above the knees, blouse and tunic of the same hue, and a white sun helmet. The man's brown feet and legs were bare of covering.

"Have Tom Too's men sought to bribe you?" Doc asked.

"All same many time," admitted the officer in beach English. "Me no likee. Me say so."

"They tell you who to see in case you changed your mind?"

"They give me name fella come alongside if I want some Tom Too's dolla'," was the reply.

"They told you who to see if you wanted on Toni Too's pay roll, eh?" Doc murmured.

"Lightee."

Doc's golden eyes roved over his fellows.

"Brothers," he said softly, "I have an idea!"

SOME thirty minutes later, a husky Mantilla policeman could be seen leaving the vicinity of the secret room to which Juan Mindoro had led Doc Savage, Ham, and Renny.

The cop twiddled his long billy in indolent fashion, as though he had no cares. Yet he covered ground swiftly until he reached a sector of Mantilla given over almost entirely to Chinese shops and dwellings.

Here, he approached the driver of a small, horse-drawn conveyance known as a caleso. The driver was leaning sleepily against his mangy pony. The cop accosted him with an air of furtiveness.

"Alee same come by change of mind."

"No savvy," said the surly caleso driver.

"Me likee many pesos," continued the cop patiently. "Tom Too got. Me want. Me get idea come to you chop chop. You likee."

The caleso driver's evil face did not change.

"Seat yourself in my lowly conveyance, oh lord," he said in flowery Mandarin.

The cop hopped into the vehicle with alacrity, crossed his bare brown legs and settled back.

The caleso clattered down many streets that would not pass as decent American alleys. These were swarming with people either coming from the excitement at the bay front, or going. The inhabitants of Mantilla were of every conceivable nationality, not a few of them a conglomerate of all the others. Mantilla seemed to be a caldron in which the bloods of all races were intermingled.

Several times, policemen or other individuals cast knowing leers at the big cop riding in the caleso. This was evidence the driver of the vehicle had corrupted more than one man. The mere fact that a cop was riding in this caleso was an indication he was en route to receive a bribe from Tom Too's paymaster.

The caleso halted before an ancient stone building.

"Will you consent to alight, oh mighty one," said the driver

in Mandarin. The contempt in his beady, sloping eyes belied his flowery fashion of speech.

The big policeman got out. He was conducted into a filthy room where an old hag sat on the floor, cracking nuts with a hammer and a block of hardwood.

Only a close observer would have recognized the three irregularly spaced taps which the old crone gave a nut as a signal.

A door in the rear opened. The caleso driver herded the cop into a passage. The place smelled of rats, incense, and cooking opium.

They reached a low, smoky room. Perhaps a dozen Orientals were present, lounging about lazily.

Three men were manacled in a single pile upon the floor — handcuffed ankle to ankle and wrist to wrist.

They were Monk, Long Tom, and Johnny.

The caleso driver shoved the big cop.

"Step inside, oh resplendent one," he directed with a thinly veiled sneer. "Tom Too is not here, but his lieutenants are."

The next instant the caleso driver smashed backward to the stone wall. He was unconscious before he struck it.

Some terrible, unseen force had struck his jaw, breaking it and all but wiping it off his face.

THE Orientals in the low room cackled like chickens disturbed on a roost. The cackling became enraged howling.

Over the excited bedlam penetrated a sound more strange than any ever heard in that ill-omened room. A sound that defied description, it seemed to trill from everywhere, like the song of a jungle bird. It was musical, yet confined itself to no tune; it was inspiring, but not awesome.

The sound of Doc!

The human pile that was Monk, Long Tom, and Johnny went through an upheaval.

"Doc!" Monk squawled. "By golly, he's found us!"

The form in the airy garb of a Mantilla cop seemed to grow in size, to expand. A giant literally materialized before the eyes of those in the room — a giant who was Doc Savage.

Doc spat out bits of gum he had used to change the character of his face. He whipped forward, and there was such speed in his motion that he seemed but a shadow cast across the gloomy den.

The first Oriental in his path dodged wildly. The fellow apparently got clear — the tips of Doc's sinewy bronze fingers,

now stained brown, barely touched the man. Yet the slanteyed one dropped as though stricken through the heart.

A Mongol plucked a revolver from the waistband of his slack pantaloons. It tangled in the shirt tail which hung outside his trousers. He fought to free it. Then there was a sound like an ax hitting a hollow tree, and he fell.

The heavy hardwood stub of the cop's club had knocked him senseless.

Another man was touched by the tips of Doc's fingers. Then two more. The trio were hardly caressed before they became slack, senseless heaps upon the floor.

"His touch is death!" shrieked a Mongol.

That was exaggerated a little. Doc only wore metal thimbles upon his finger tips, in each of which was a needle containing a drug which put a man to sleep instantly. And kept him asleep for hours!

The thimbles were so cleverly constructed that only a close examination would disclose their presence.

Another Oriental went down before Doc's magic touch.

Gun muzzles began lapping flame. Lead shattered the oil lamp which furnished the only illumination.

Putting out the light was a mistake. With the darkness came terror. Yellow men imagined they felt the caress of those terrible fingers. They ducked madly, struck with fury, and sometimes hit each other. Two or three separate fights raged. Coughing guns continued to add to the bedlam.