Лестер Дент - Death in Silver

"Doc?" asked Monk.

The question was unnecessary. Doc Savage had a remarkable voice— one which was powerful yet controlled, modulated, giving the impression of almost eerie strength. Unmistakable, that voice.

"I just saw an Extra edition of the newspaper," said Doc Savage. "Was your laboratory damaged by the explosion?"

"Some," Monk admitted. "But that isn't what I called about, Doc. There is something underhanded going on down here."

"We do not involve ourselves in anything the police can handle," Doc reminded.

"I figured you'd be interested," Monk explained. "You see, it's a queer business all along. First, there's nothing to show what caused the explosion. Or if there is, they haven't found it yet. Then a guy in silver murdered Clarence Sparks, a Winthrop employee."

"What is this?" Doc asked sharply.

"A bird dressed up in a sort of silver coverall suit and a silver mask shot Sparks with a bow-and-arrow just as we were about to question the fellow. Sparks seemed to know something."

"Did the killer resemble the strange silver-clothed figures who have recently committed a series of big robberies and who also sunk the Transatlantic Company's liner Avallancia?" Doc questioned.

"Sure," said Monk. "I think he was one of the gang."

Doc Savage was silent a moment as if engaged in thought. Then a weird , most unusual sound came from the telephone receiver. It was a sound defying description. It was a most unmusical trilling , a whistle … and yet not a whistle. Possessing a throaty exotic quality, it ran up-and-down the musical scale but without adhering to a definite time.

It might have been a wind whistling with ghostly quality through a ship's rigging. Or it might have been the song of some strange jungle bird.

Monk stiffened as be heard the sound. He had heard the eerie note many times before. It was the sound of Doc Savage the small unconscious thing which the bronze man did in moments of mental excitement. It usually came before some startling development. Often it marked Doc's discovery of some obscure fact which was later to possess great significance.

"Monk," Doc said, "have you noticed anything queer about the robberies these so-called Silver Death's-Headshave been committing?"

Monk began, "Well, their silver disguises … "

"Not that," Doc told him. "There is one strange point about the robberies themselves. Have you noticed?"

"No," said Monk. "What is it?"

"A number of men have been killed in the course of the thefts," Doc stated.

"Sure. But men are often killed during robberies."

"In each case, these men were prominent," Doc explained patiently. "And on 1-or-2 occasions, the thefts during which they were shot down were of a trivial nature. I can give you one very good example."

"Let's have it," Monk requested.

"2 weeks ago, a gang of the Silver Death's-Heads— 7 of them to be exact — held up a small filling station on Long Island," Doc announced. "The filling station was very small and never had more than a few dollars on hand. But a limousine had just driven into the station to fill up with gas. It was occupied by a wealthy man named Kirkland Le Page. He was shot and killed. The filling station attendant was lying on the floor of his station at the time and did not see what provoked the shooting. Le Page was driving his car himself."

"I remember," said Monk.

"Kirkland Le Page was vice president of Transatlantic Company, owners of the liner Avallancia which was later sunk by the Silver Death's-Heads," Doc stated.

"Blazes!" exploded Monk. "There's something BIG behind this!"

"Exactly," Doc agreed.

- — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

Monk stood silently in the telephone booth, mentally turning over what Doc Savage had just revealed. The homely chemist nodded slowly to himself. He would have been willing to bet that Doc had been on the verge of investigating the weird Silver Death's-Heads even if this afternoon's explosion had not occurred.

Monk opened his mouth to speak further … but things began to happen.

There was a stifled yell from the lobby behind Monk where Ham and the policeman stood. Feet pounded on the lobby floor. There was another yell. A shotbanged!

Monk tried to turn. His shoulder spread was vast, the telephone booth small. At first, he did not make it. He squirmed to get around.

The booth had glass windows. With a jangling crash, these caved in. Glass showered Monk. The homely chemist got a flash of a hand encased in a silver glove. The hand held a heavy automatic.

Silver glove and weighty gun were all that Monk saw. The weapon lashed for his head. He sought to duck. The booth was too small and the automatic came down full on the top of his nubbin-of-a-head.

Monk slumped and never felt the gun club down on his head twice again. The blows were murderously vicious!

Doc Savage heard the ugly sounds of the blows upon Monk's head. There had been no time for the homely chemist to replace the telephone receiver. And telephones are sensitive.

Doc listened closely. The noise had been distinct enough to tell what had happened. Over the wire came scuffling sounds and grunts which meant that Monk's bulk was being hauled from the booth. Then the telephone receiver in the booth must have been replaced. There was a with silence afterward.

Doc Savage had been bending over an expensively inlaid table as he conversed with Monk. He straightened, and his tremendous physical buildwas apparent to its fullest. The telephone and massive table seemed to shrink beside him. Yet it was only in comparison to these objects that his full proportions were evident.

So symmetrically was his giant framedeveloped that — seen at a distance and away from objects to which his size might be compared — he appeared no larger than other men.

But he would never be mistaken for another, this Herculean figure. His bronzemotif prevented that. His skin — remarkably fine of texture — had been turned a rich bronze hue by countless tropical suns. And his hair — straight and fitting like a metallic skullcap — was of a bronze color only slightly darker.

His face was regular, the lineaments having an unusual quality of handsomeness but in no sense possessing the somewhat effeminate prettiness often found in very handsome men.

The most striking feature, however, was his eyes . They were slightly weird, like pools of flake-gold stirred continually by tiny whirlwinds . They held an almost hypnotic quality, a compelling power.

The Receptionroom where this amazing bronze man stood was the outer office of his Headquarters and held only comfortable chairs and a massive safe. Adjacent was the Librarywith its thousands of scientific volumes, and the Laboratorywith an array of equipment nearly without equal.

Doc whipped into the corridor, his movements apparently unhurried but his speed great. A special elevator — a fast lift installed for his own use — lowered him 86 floors to the skyscraper basement. There he kept several automobiles — all of special construction — in a garage the existence of which was unknown to all but a few.