Лестер Дент - Death in Silver

"So there isn't any such thing as the Silver Death's-Heads !" Ham snapped.

Monk knotted an enormous, bristle-covered fist and grated, "You were the first one to get that idea, you nitwit shyster!"

Then Monk grimaced and hit the door panel with his fist. The wood splintered and gave a trifle. It splintered more extensively under a second blow … then collapsed, making a bole large enough to pass the apish chemist's hairy hand. Standing well clear of the door, Monk groped for the key, found it in place, and unlocked the panel. He shoved it open.

Ham started through with sword cane in hand.

"Wait, stupid," Monk growled and shoved the dapper lawyer back.

From a holster — so cleverly padded under an armpit that it was unnoticeable — Monk drew a weapon bearing close resemblance to an overgrown automatic pistol. But it was no automatic.

It was a supermachine pistol, product of Doc Savage's mechanical genius. A weapon which fired at an incredible speed, discharging — instead of regulation lead slugs — thin-walled composition bullets which carried an anesthetic compound producing quick, harmless unconsciousness.

Machine pistol in hand, Monk jumped through the door. Considering that a murderer had just entered the room, his act might have seemed reckless. But Monk wore a bulletproof vest which protected his entire body. He knew gunmen of the modern type do not often shoot at a man's head.

Ham trailed the homely chemist. He, too, wore one of the bulletproof vests which were so light and thin as to be unnoticeable under their clothing and was not at all uncomfortable. These vests were also a product of Doc Savage's mechanical skill.

Both men jerked up inside the room. Their jaws sagged. Their eyes — roving — widened in amazement.

"Well, I'm a camel's uncle!" Monk breathed. "Where'd he go?"

Ham shook his head slowly and turned his sword cane in his hands for their quarry was nowhere in the room! Both the outer windows were down. And the lawyer knew that this skyscraper had a wall sheer and smooth — impossible for even a so-called "human fly" to scale by ordinary methods.

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Charging around the room, Monk jerked a rectangle of expensive tapestry from the wall, scowled when he saw there was no aperture back of it, and flipped the carpet up. Nowhere was there a trapdoor.

"The windows are unlocked," Ham pointed out.

"But that bird in silver couldn't have … " Monk swallowed the rest, ran to a window, and wrenched it up. He looked out, seemed stunned but said nothing.

Ham leaped to his side. Together they peered down.

"We must be getting very dumb," Ham said disgustedly.

"Speak for yourself!" Monk growled, then placed a hand on the windowsill and vaulted through the opening, out into space.

Without hesitating, Ham followed, instinctively using care not to disrupt the neat hang of his garments. It was a rare occasion when Ham forgot his clothing.

Perhaps 6 feet below the window was a wide ledge. For the moment, the 2 men had forgotten that the skyscraper was set back — pyramid fashion — at intervals. And one of these setbacks was at the level of the Seven Seas offices. The killer must have fled by this route after closing the window behind him to confuse his pursuers.

Monk pointed, "He went this way!"

City grime was smeared on the roof of the set-back, soot and dust which retained footprints plainly. The 2 men followed the tracks around the skyscraper. They disappeared into a window on the opposite side.

Monk and Ham clambered through the window and found themselves among mops, buckets, and window-washing paraphernalia. The room was obviously one used by janitors. There was no trace of the weirdly garbed slayer.

A corridor was beyond the storeroom, this being deserted for the moment. Not until Monk emitted an angry roar did anyone appear. Then 2 policemen popped out of the offices of Seven Seas.

"What's going on here!" snapped an officer.

"Where'd that killer go?" Monk demanded.

The cop gulped. "Killer …! Say, what're you talking about?"

And that was the first inkling the police had of the slaying of unfortunate Clarence Sparks. For the meek-spirited billing clerk was dead, the arrow having punctured his heart. They found that out when they examined him.

Where the killer had gone remained a mystery through the course of the next 15 minutes. Then an excited call came up from the basement regions. A fireman had been found knocked senseless in the basement.

Monk and Ham hurried down.

The fireman had thick blond hair. That possibly preserved his life for the blow he had received over the head — judging by the bruise — had been terrific. A policeman was waiting for a doctor to revive the fellow.

"Let me do it," said Ham. "I have an infallible system."

Ham unsheathed his sword cane. The onlookers said that the tip was coated for a few inches with a brownish substance which was slightly sticky. This was a drug mixture which produced senselessness when a victim was pricked.

With a fingertip, Ham removed a bit of the drug from the sword and applied it to the tongue of the unconscious fireman. The stuff in small quantities was a stimulant. But if administered in quantity, it produced senselessness.

The fireman revived almost at once.

"What happened to you?" Ham demanded.

"Aye not bane know," mumbled the fireman, feeling his blond head.

"Who hit you?" Ham persisted.

"He bane a feller all dressed up in shiny suit," was the reply. "Aye just see him … then bop! He hit me with gun."

The room where they stood was a concrete inferno far below the street where the great oil-burning boilers roared, generating steam for the radiators and hot water for the washrooms.

Moved by a thought — he was sharp in spite of Monk's habit of terming him a nitwit shyster — Ham went over and peered into one of the fireboxes. He started violently … moved to use his sword to probe in the heat … then changed his mind and employed a cleaning bar.

Out of the firebox Ham brought a crinkled mass that had once been silver metallic cloth.

"The suit the murderer was wearing," he declared.

"Then it is someone in the building," Monk growled. "The fellow burned his rig because the police have the doors blocked and are not letting any one out."

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Unnoticed, a man was standing in the background near the door. He was a scrawny fellow, bedecked with grease stains and dirt, and garbed in the green coveralls which the janitors of the building wore. It was because he was one of the janitors that he was receiving no attention.

He deserved attention. No hint of the fact showed on his features, but he was catching every word that was being said. He had a stupid face, anyway. It was almost without a jaw, being round with small features, and having a sickly gray color. His whole head was very much like an old, white rubber ball which had been handled with grimy fingers. He wore a costly wristwatch.

The fellow glanced over his shoulder as if anxious to get out of the boiler room. Shortly, he did leave. But he took his time so that no suspicion was attached to his departure.

Finding his way to a telephone, he called a number. A voice — a coarse, whispering voice, obviously disguised — answered.

"This ain't goin' so hot," said the man in janitor regalia.

"What is wrong, Bugs?" asked the whispering voice.

"Two of Doc Savage's men are snooping around," reported 'Bugs', his round, pale face close to the transmitter.