Лестер Дент - Death in Silver

The radio compass had another use as well. Doc Savage had perfected tiny mechanical shortwave transmitters which — batteries self contained — were little larger than a cigar box. These sent out a series of buzzing sounds. Attached to the containers were clamps by which they could be affixed to various convenient objects.

As a matter of precaution, Doc had attached one of the transmitters to the azure sedan.The bronze man overlooked few chances. In the perilous life he led, chances could not be overlooked.

From time-to-time, a twist of the directional knob — as the buzzing signals faded — brought the sounds in loud again and gave a check on the direction being taken by the blue machine.

The chase led to Manhattan Island, downtown to the vehicular tunnel under the Hudson, thence along the elevated roadway and — after a few miles — down into a manufacturing district. It ended close to the waterfront when Doc Savage sighted the sedan — empty now and parked before an imposing, massive steel gate.

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The gate was not of steel bars but of riveted plates. It looked forbidding. There was a square aperture in the gate for a watchman to peer through. Above the gate, a sign read:

WINTHROP'S SHIPYARDS

PAINE L. WINTHROP, PRESIDENT

Doc Savage advanced swiftly and put an eye to the square opening in the gate. The shipyard was beyond, grotesque in the fog with its cranes, material piles, and moving booms. There seemed to he no work under way.

Just inside the gate, a man was sprawled on his back, one arm angled across his face in an attitude of grisly slumber. The shoulder of his rough suit was sodden with crimsonleakage from his head.

Doc gave the door a shove. It was unlocked, swung back quietly, and let him in. He examined the man.

The fellow was old, work-stooped, and gray-haired. On his breast was a watchman's badge. Doc felt his wrist although he could see that the man still breathed. Some type of bludgeon — perhaps a revolver barrel — had beaten the watchman down.

He would be unconscious for some time judging from the nature of the wound, but was in no immediate danger.

Doc advanced into the shipyard. There was some breeze here. The fog eddied and swept past in nebulous streamers like marching ghosts. Moisture had been deposited on the packed earth, and this slime bore tracks.

Reasoning that the freshest prints were those of the sinister men in silver garb, Doc followed them. The tracks progressed in a direct manner which indicated a definite objective. They ended at the door of a massive brick building, evidently housing the offices.

Doc waited outside, listening. Gray fog around about made his great frame seem larger, more formidable. The gloom of early evening was pressing down, bringing the clammy murk of a water-logged catacomb.

A trial of the door showed it was locked. But a moment's work with a thin steel probe tripped the tumblers. A professional locksmith would have been slightly stunned at the swiftness with which the lock was solved.

Inside was denser murk. And mingled with it was the faint heat from radiators which bubbled against the fog chill. There was a desk, telephone, and hard wooden waiting benches. A flyspecked calendar was crooked on the wall.

Doc advanced, passed through an open door, and found worn wooden steps which led upward. But he did not mount immediately. Instead, he dipped a hand into a pocket and brought out what might have been mistaken for a handful of black clover seed. He strewed some of this on the floor of the outer office. Then he went up the stairs.

At the first landing he found a door, open. Beyond was an office, fitted up more luxuriously. The desk drawers were open, the papers within littered up as if they had been gone through hastily.

A curl of smoke arose from a metal smoking stand which stood beside the desk.

Doc went over to it. The smoldering objects were old cigar and cigarette stubs which had been ignited by hits of burning paper dropped into the stand. The bronze man examined the charred paper fragments.

Blueprints, he decided. The print had been torn into fractional sections, each burned separately, and the ash crushed. Even his consummate skill was unequal to telling what nature of diagram had been on the blueprints.

The burning had been done within the last few minutes, however. And the care with which it had been done indicated sinister motives.

Doc dropped the ashes. He stood very still, listening.

Prom below came a loud report!It was like a shot. 3 more followed. There was a cry — strangled, inarticulate.

Doc Savage did not go back down the stairs but instead whipped to a window. He managed to get it up without noise that could be heard downstairs. From inside his clothing came an object he always carried — a thin, stout silk cord, affixed to the end of which was a folding grapple of lightness and strength.

The grapple — hooked to the inner edge of the windowsill — held his weight as he slid outside and down the silk line. He went slowly, supported by the incredible strengthin his metallic hands.

A few feet to the left of the spot where he touched the ground, there was a window. It allowed a look into the reception room.

The glass pane was grimy. That with the fog and darkness made vision difficult, the outlines inside hazy. But there was one point cleaner than the other sections of the glass.

Through the clear section, Doc could distinguish — his flake-gold eyes peered closely — a small, flat automatic pistol, a Vest pocket.25 caliber gun. A thin hand encased in a suede glove held it.

Doc brought out a handkerchief, doubled it, and spread it over his knuckles but did not wrap it around so that it would interfere with his fingers. He struck! Glass splintered. The cloth protected his knuckles but did not interfere when his arm went through the window and his corded fingers gripped the gun hand.

Coat fabric over the bronze man's arm bulged slightly as great muscles exerted tension. Inside, a shriek piped out! The gun fell from a hand made nerveless by the steel pinch of Doc's fingers.

Doc knocked more glass out of the window, found the lock, twisted it … then released his victim long enough to get the sash up and hound inside.

The victim was on all fours, clawing for the dropped automatic. Doc nudged the weapon away with a toe.

The womanon the floor — not until he had seized her gun arm had Doc been sure it was a woman — looked up angrily and gritted, "Why didn't you just shoot me? That's what you tried before!"

She was a vision in suede! Not only were her gloves suede, but also her pumps and the pert, saucy riding beret — a wealth of brown hair. Her frock was almost the gray of the suede, making — with her gray bag — an ensemble studied yet extremely striking.

The garments set off some intriguing curves. And the picture was aided by a pair of exquisite eyes, a nose bordering on the retrousse, and rosebud lips which trembled a little with rageand fear .

Doc gave the beauty an impersonal eye. Then he glanced at the floor.

On the boards of the floor lay the numerous particles which resembled black clover seed, just as Doc had left them. Except in 4 spots where there were scorched spots. It looked as if firecrackers had gone off on the floor.

The entrancing young woman got to her feet. In doing so, she stepped on one of the clover seeds. There was a loud reportas it exploded. She jumped and glared at Doc.