Лестер Дент - Death in Silver

The whispering one swore. "I saw that in an Extra edition of a tabloid newspaper. What-on-Earth got those two involved in the affair?"

"One of them — named 'Monk' — has a chemical laboratory on top of the building," Bugs advised.

This called forth more sibilant profanity .

"If I had known one of Doc Savage's men had a place on the building, we would have used other methods on old Winthrop," grated the distant whisper. "Doc Savage is the last man on Earth we want on our necks at this stage of the game! Savage is almost inhuman. He is a mechanical wizard, a scientific genius, and a man as strong as Hercules. And he applies all of his abilities to helping other people out of trouble. He goes in for big stuff. Something like we are pulling would be his meat!"

"Boss," Bugs muttered, "there's somethin'' else."

"What?"

"A clerk must've been listenin' outside old Winthrop's door when … well, you know. And he overheard stuff. I don't know how much because I croaked him before he could tell it all to Doc Savage's two men."

"You damned fool!" snarled the other. "There was nothing said in that telephone talk which would give me away!"

"How was I to know that?" Bugs whined. "I was afraid he had a line on us. I had my silver outfit on. And I got hold of an old bow-and-arrow and let him have it."

"Oh, you idiot!" the whispering man groaned. "Right in front of 2 men who are as brainy as they come. Doc Savage does not have any mental blanks working for him like I seem to have!"

"Aw," Bugs mumbled. "I got away, banged a fireman over the head, and burned my silver outfit so they couldn't find any fingerprints or where it was made or maybe trace the cloth."

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Several seconds of silence followed this. The distant mastermind seemed to be giving deep thought to the affair. Impatient at the delay, Bugs began speaking.

"If we just hadn't bumped old Winthrop," he said. "That was … "

"That was necessary!" the distant voice finished for him. "Winthrop was a man who would not hesitate to swindle an orphan if it could be done legally. That fooled me. The old nut had his own screwy idea of honor. Or maybe he was afraid of the Law. Anyway, he was going to tell the police all about us. And he knew plenty — especially about the job we had done in his shipyard!"

"Well, Savage's 2 men are snooping," Bugs muttered. "What're we gonna do about that? Let it ride, huh? They ain't got a line to go on."

"They'll get a line, don't worry," grated the whisperer. "Doc Savage's men are wizards. And that fellow Savage himself is positively inhuman! We must do something!"

"What?" Bugs wanted to know.

After a pause, the other said, "Listen to this."

Following that, there was a chain of rapid commands with Bugs mumbling frequently that he understood. An expression of evil pleasure overspread his unhealthy moon of a face as he heard the plans unfolded. He consulted his remarkably high-priced wristwatch.

"That oughta fix 'em!" he grinned finally.

Hanging up, he made his way back through the corridor labyrinths of the great building until he located Monk and Ham. Lurking in the background unnoticed, he kept an eye on Doc Savage's 2 aides.

Bugs was waiting for something. He eyed the watch often.

As for Monk and Ham, they had given up all hope of the blond fireman furnishing any valuable information. The fellow had seen only a grotesque figure in silver . The ashes of the silver garment — a shapeless sediment of metal and cinders — furnished no clue.

"Even Doc couldn't learn anything from this!" Monk complained, indicating the garment.

Ham started to nod … then refrained, since agreeing with Monk on any subject was against his policy.

"We're killing time!" snapped the dapper lawyer. "Why don't we go upstairs and look over the explosion scene."

"The police have done that," Monk grunted.

"They have not found what caused the blast," Ham pointed out.

That seemed to settle the question, and they started mounting stairs because the elevators not yet being in working order.

The skyscraper had not one basement but three, one below the other. And the boilers were in the lowermost level, deep in the solid bedrock of Manhattan Island and probably below the surface of the nearby East River, which at this point was very wide — actually a neck of New York Harbor.

The 2 men reached the second basement and encountered a police officer. The cop had the rank of Lieutenant. But he was deferential for Monk and Ham held honorary police stations far above his own. Doc Savage and all of his men held these honorary commissions issued out of gratitude for past services in aiding the law enforcement agencies of the city.

"We have learned something," reported the Lieutenant. "I knew you gentlemen would want all information as quickly as we got it."

"Shoot," Monk invited.

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The police officer explained rapidly: "We are entirely mystified as to the cause of the explosion which killed Winthrop, although a more intensive search may turn up some clue. We are overlooking no bets. The blast might have been a bomb launched in some manner from a plane. In checking up, we learned that a planewas flying over the river — very near the building — at the time of the explosion. Too, there was a man on the river in a motorboat."

No one paid attention to Bugs who was loitering within earshot.

"Any way of identifying the plane?" Monk asked the policeman.

"You would be surprised how people notice things like that when something grabs their attention," replied the officer. "I suppose some persons wondered if the plane had dropped a bomb. Anyway, we have several witnesses who got the number on the lower wing surface of the plane."

"Great!" grunted Monk. "You're checking?"

"You bet! And moreover, 2-or-3 dock workers identified the motorboat which was on the river. There was one man in the boat, and he may have seen the plane drop a bomb."

"It's pretty foggy," Monk pointed out.

The officer nodded, fumbled in a uniform pocket, and produced a notebook. He thumbed through the leaves.

"Gilbert Stiles is the owner of the plane according to the check we made on the numbers," he said. "Stiles keeps the plane for his personal pleasure. The man in the boat was a fisherman named" — he stumbled over the pronunciation — "named 'Gugillello Bellondi' or something like that. The flier lives on 85 thStreet in Jackson Heights, and the fisherman on Sand Street in Brooklyn."

Bugs — who had overheard all of this — turned surreptitiously, fumbled out a sheet of paper and a pencil stub, and put down the name of Gilbert Stiles and Gugillello Bellondi. He added data on their residences. Bugs did not put much trust in his memory.

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Accompanied by the police lieutenant, Monk and Ham mounted the stairs into the top-most basement.

"We had better ring Doc in on this," Monk suggested, eying Ham.

Ham said, "I had the same idea before you did."

In the skyscraper lobby were a number of telephone booths. Monk entered one of these; found the outside connections undisturbed by the blast; and called the number of Doc Savage's Headquarters .

The Headquarters was a strange aerie on the 86 thfloor of the most impressive skyscraper in uptown New York. The bronze man spent much of his leisure there. Actually, Doc Savage allowed himself no leisure in the accepted sense. All of his time was spent in research, in experiments, in study. There was a fabulously-equipped Libraryand Laboratoryin the Headquarters .