Кеннет Робсон - Death in Silver

Monk peering at Doc, started slightly. He had just discovered that Doc carried — tucked obscurely under one arm — one of the strange metallic garments worn by the Silver Death'sHeads .

"Where'd you get that thing, Doc?" the homely chemist demanded.

"From the room under the Indian Head Club basement," Doc replied.

"Think it's a clue?" Monk questioned eagerly.

"No," Doc told him. "But there are pockets inside the garment. And the contents of one of those pockets is, I think, going to prove very valuable."

They were still retreating from the flames . A crowd sprang up rapidly about them — curious persons drawn by the terrific blast and the amazing fire. Howling fire trucks bored through the throng followed by hose wagons, rescue squads, and emergency police.

In the uproar, Doc Savage and his party attracted little attention.

They reached a drug store, windows of which had been broken by the detonation. It was unoccupied, the proprietor evidently having dashed off excitedly to the fire. Lights were burning inside the first spot Doc and his party had encountered where there was illumination.

"Let's have a look at what was in the pocket of that silver suit," Monk requested.

Doc nodded and they went in the drug store. Broken glass strewed the floor for many bottles had been shaken off counters. The bronze man employed the marble top of the soda fountain as a table.

From the inner recesses of the silver suit, he extracted a long blue roll sealed with wax.

Rapid Pace took one look at them and exploded, "The blueprintthat was taken from the shipyard safe!"

"You've seen it before?" Hugh McCoy asked sharply.

Pace scowled at his rival for the hand of Lorna Zane.

"No!" he retorted. "But Miss Zane described it."

Doc unrolled the print. It was, it developed, the only one.

"Blazes," muttered Monk eying the lines traced whitely on the blue background. "A sketch of New York Harbor! Now, that ain't quite what I expected."

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The map— it was actually no more than that — of the harbor was not especially complete. But it showed certain prominent details, outstanding landmarks, and the depth of water was carefully gauged at numerous points. Compared with a regulation marine harbor chart, it would have been crude. Yet it apparently had been traced from such a chart.

Doc dropped a finger on the blue expanse. "These 4 small stars seem to be the only especially- outstanding marks."

The 'stars' with Doc indicated were situated in approximately the center of the East River — the first off the Wall Street section of Manhattan; the next possibly a ¼-mile South; and the others spaced at like intervals farther down.

"Maybe they're buoys," Ham suggested.

"No buoys at those points," Doc assured him. "And notice the position of the first — the Northern-most one."

Ham looked again … then started.

"By Jove! It is almost directly opposite that Indian Head Club."

"Exactly," Doc agreed.

"You think that is significant?"

"I do."

"Will you explain, Doc?" Ham requested.

"Later," Doc told him.

The bronze man went to a telephone booth, took the receiver down, found the circuit intact, and dialed a number. He spoke quietly for some moments.

His metallic features did not alter expression. However, there was audible for a brief moment that unearthly trilling sound which was the bronze man's peculiar characteristic — the sound which he made unconsciously when some unusual danger threatened, or which marked some stark discovery, or which preceded some unusual course of action. Finally he replaced the receiver and left the booth.

"The Silver Death's-Heads ," he said slowly, "have seized Pat and Lorna Zane. I just talked to Pat's establishment."

It was getting along toward dawn. And "Father Knickerbocker" — as New Yorkers like to dub their city as a whole — was for the most part asleep. It had been a hectic night.

No less than 20 major robberies had been committed by the weird Silver Death's-Heads during the early part of the night.

New York had had her crime waves in the past. There had been nights which saw more robberies and nights when more loot had been annexed by thieves. But never had a crime wave possessed quite the spectacular qualities of this one. Never before had the thieves all affected the same fantastic costumes. That was the startling thing!

The tabloid newspapers ate it up. The radio broadcast it. And the police began to expect gray hairs when they next looked in mirrors.

The Mayor was up all night walking the floor. The Governor called twice to know whether the militia would help. And editorial writers sharpened their pencils to take "digs" at the city administration.

Almost a million dollars in loot had been taken, the largest haul being the armored truck earlier the previous afternoon. Robbery reports piled onto the city desks of newspapers so fast that the editors could not tell which was which.

The murder of Paine L. Winthrop — good for a front-page streamer on the first edition — was relegated to the back pages before the final edition went to bed.

Most amazing aspect of the whole thing, however, was the fact that New York's usually efficient policemen had not captured a single silver man! What was more, they had no idea where any one of the silver men could be found.

The sinister fellows in metallic disguises bobbed up … committed a robbery … shot down anyone who resisted … and fled. Maybe the police chased them a few blocks. Then without exception, the silver men disappeared.

Usually, they disappeared in the vicinity of the waterfront surrounding Manhattan Island. The police had noted this fact.

It was still foggy. And although dawn was more than an hour distant, there was still intense darkness. Ocean vessels were dropping anchor outside the Narrows, waiting for the soup to lift. Such tugs as prowled the harbor nosed along with tooting horns and every spare man on lookout duty.

There was one boat on the river which was not making undue noise, however. It was a thin lance of a speed craft with motors which did not make sound proportionate to their great power for they were scientifically muffled. With just a few alterations, that boat could well be a contender for the Harmsworth trophy. She was fast.

Doc Savage and Monk were alone in the speedboat — Monk handling the controls, Doc in the cockpit — donning a pair of heavy lead diving shoes.

From time-to-time, Monk lifted a box-like device to his eyes and peered at one shore of the river and then the other. Monk was getting bearings.

On the shore, Doc had placed projectors emitting strong infraredlight — rays invisible to the unaided eye but which bad the power of penetrating fog and smoke to a remarkable degree. The box-like apparatus rendered the infrared beacons visible. Merely an adaptation, this contrivance, of the signaling apparatus well known to Naval technicians and of principles with which alert photographers were familiar.

"The place is about a hundred feet upstream," Monk decided.

Doc paused in buckling on the lead shoes and reached into a locker. He brought out a flashlight already tied to a float and switched it 'on'. This he tossed overboard together with a long line to which was affixed an anchor weight.