Кеннет Робсон - Death in Silver

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There was a touch of the unearthly in the speed with which Doc Savage got back into the niche. Only fabulous muscles — carefully conditioned — could manage such blinding motion. Missing him, the bullets gouged plaster off the walls and knocked glass from a window at the corridor end.

"Rush him!" a man in silver squawled.

"T'hell with that, UII!" another growled.

Shots almost drowned the words and it was doubtful if the man in charge realized his name had been called — Ull. But Doc caught it and filed it mentally for future investigation should he escape.

He was in a tight spot. It was his policy never to carry a gun. And he had none now. But he did have some of the scientific devices which he used. One of these he employed now.

A hand dipped into a pocket and came out with what might have been mistaken for a glass marble. This was actually a thin-walled glass globe. And the liquid inside was a chemical concoction which vaporized instantly into an anestheticgas.

The gas was unique in that its effects were immediate. And it became ineffective within less than a minute so that Doc — holding his breath — could escape the potent stuff while the unwary — breathing it — were rendered senseless.

Doc threw the anesthetic ball.

Rarely had these gas balls failed to catch foes by surprise. But this was an exception. Doc waited, holding his breath to escape the vapor. But his enemies gave no sign of succumbing. They did not, however, call out again. And the clatter of their feet retreated. A door slammed. They had fled ahead of the gas.

Doc knew from past experience just how quickly a man can shoot at an unexpected target. And he knew that he could get a fleeting glimpse of the corridor without great danger of being shot. He looked out.

The hallway was empty. The silver men had gone back into an apartment. Doc stepped out into the hall.

Ah instant later, he flashed backward into the niche because a door had opened and a metal object — slightly smaller than a baseball — had sailed through. No doubt the silver man who hurled it intended for it to stop beside Doc. But the thing had too much momentum. It clattered past. Then it exploded .

The concussion almost disrupted the bronze man's eardrums! Clouds of plaster gushed. The big apartment house trembled. The ceiling lifted, split, and came down with a thundering clamor! The floor collapsed for some distance.

Secure in the niche un-hit, Doc was enveloped in a cloud of smoke, plaster particles and splinters. The grenadehad been powerful! Directly in front of him, the floor was gone, fallen down into the hall below. Bugs's body had been blown back out-of-sight.

Toward the end of the uproar, the door down the hall opened again.

"Get him?" asked the voice which belonged to Ull. It was a shrill, querulously whanging tone. UII was not the one looking into the corridor.

"It fixed 'im," said another voice. "The whole damn corridor is blown to pieces!"

At that point, a loud agonized groan sounded.

"Who's that?" asked Ull.

"Bugs," said the other. "He's butchered up some."

"Let me take care of that," UII suggested.

A moment later, there was a single deliberate shot…and after that the groans no longer ground out.

"He's taken care of," said Ull.

"What next?" grunted the other.

"Down the fire escape, all of you!" ordered Ull. "We've got to beat the cops away from here!"

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Doc Savage gave Ull and his sinister silver aides a few minutes to be on their way. The bronze man did not want any more of those grenades thrown. Women were screaming and children were crying in the apartment below, although it was unlikely that any had been hurt.

When he considered sufficient time had elapsed, Doc stepped out of the niche.

Bugs was a slack figure, torn a little by the blast and with a bullet hole drilling his head just above the ears. Ull had made a cold, accurate shot in ascertaining that his followers did not live to talk. Evidently UIl had not wanted a wounded man on his hands during the get-away.

Doc shoved open the door through which the grenade had been hurled. He stood just inside, strange flake-gold eyes resting on the deep leather chair in the center of the apartment living room.

There was a man in the chair. But not a living man for his body was stiffly erect, probably held that way by the blade of the long knife which had gone through his chest and well into the chair back.

A book had fallen to the floor beside the dead man and was open at the flyleaf so that the name written there could be deciphered.

'Gilbert Stiles'the name read.

Doc Savage rested a hand on the man's wrist where there should have been a pulse had he been alive. But there was no throb.

This aviator had been flying over the river when the explosion occurred in Paine L. Winthrop's office. He must have seen something. And the fisherman in the boat on the river must have seen the same thing. And both had been killed before they could talk or be questioned.

How had the silver fiends gotten their names? Doc had a suspicion — he had no way of knowing how right it was — that Bugs was responsible for this. But Bugs had paid for his part.

Motor roar came up from the street, throbbed, then receded. Doc Savage did not look out. They might see him, and it was just as well if they thought him 'dead' for they might become careless.

The blue car had vanished when the bronze man did glance through the window. He stepped out on the fire escape and ran down lightly, swiftly, and made for his roadster. He did not waste time, but there was no wild haste in his movements.

The sudden life in the oil gauge and ammeter was almost all that told when the roadster engine started, so silently did it operate. The car moved at a touch on the accelerator — it was equipped with the most modern of automatic clutches.

Doc touched one of innumerable buttons on the dash. Then he turned a knurled knob. Static noises came from a radio speaker under the dash. These became terrific as a streetcar was passed and — as Doc continued to adjust the knob — snatches of voice and telegraph were heard. A radio fan would have realized that the bronze man was fishing through the ultra-shortwave bands seeking some particular transmitter.

After a time, regular buzzes — short dashes repeated at 3-second intervals — whizzed from the speaker. They were not unlike train signals except more widely spaced, and they kept coming steadily.

Doc turned the knob to the right. The signals faded. He turned back to the left and they faded again. Setting the knob at the loudest point, he eyed a dial above which bore close likeness to a compass card. A pointer on this indicated almost due West.

Doc Savage drove West. The apparatus he had just employed was a radio compass, the tiny loop of which was in the roadster rear and operated from the knob by remote control.

This compact radio-directional device was one which Doc employed for many uses. For instance, his 5 men — when working with him — used cars which also had transmitters. And these were left 'on' at all times. By simply turning the directional compass knob, Doc could locate the nearest of these cars.