Dent Lester - Trouble On Parade

After the passing of precisely 10 minutes, one of the hotel employees approached Doc Savage and his bodyguard Erle and stated, “It's okay to use the radio now. It is on the roof. Erle — Foreman says for you to take him up.”

There did not seem much sense since the view from everywhere on the island was equally marvelous in the hotel having a penthouse. But the builder of the place had optimistically installed one which — probably being seldom rented — had been turned into a radio shack. This was presided over by a thin cross-eyed young man who was rather officious.

He said, “You make a radiophone call about like you make a regular phone call. You just tell me the number you want and the city and I'll tell you when the connection is through.”

He pushed an ordinary telephone toward Doc Savage. Doc pretended to be rather confused.

“You say I just talk into this?” he asked.

“That's right,” the young man said. A flicker of relief had crossed his face.

“Thank you,” Doc said.

“Who do you want to talk to?”

“Mr. Andrew Blodgett Mayfair at Central 0-9000, New York City,” Doc said.

The radio apparatus was in another room which the cross-eyed young man now entered. There was a wait of about 5 minutes … then the young man put his head out of the door and said, “Okay, there's your number.”

Doc picked up the telephone and said, “Hello, Monk.”

The voice which answered him was female.

“Monk ain't here right now,” the female voice said.

It was an uncultured female — a tough-sounding one.

“Who is this speaking?” Doc asked.

“Gwen.”

“You are a friend of Monk's?”

The girl giggled. “That's right, Mister.”

That — Doc reflected — is a lie. And he knew something else as well.

He knew he wasn't connected with the mainland at all, because he had made enough radio-land line calls to recognize the difference in background sounds. The girl — whoever she was — was undoubtedly on Parade Island. But Doc feigned no knowledge of this.

“When will Monk return?” he inquired.

“Not right away, Mister. It'll be 3-or-4 hours, anyway. You want he should call you back?”

“No-o-o-o,” Doc said. “It might not be convenient. However, I wonder if you would take a message for Monk?”

“Sure thing.”

“Have you a pencil handy?… You have? Good. Take this down:

"Monk, the setup is what we figured. It looks like Foreman and his guests will pay plenty to have our memories lapse. They're worried. They think I'm here to turn them over to the Law. I plan to scare them some more, then drive a hard bargain. They're dangerous. If you don't hear from me by evening, tip off the FBI and we'll get credit for cleaning up another gang of crooks. Nobody will believe we tried to get them to pay off…

"Have you got all that down, Gwen?”

“I got it,” Gwen said . “I took it down in shorthand.”

“Monk can't read shorthand, baby.”

“I'll translate it for him.”

“Okay. Don't forget to see that Monk gets that information.”

“I won't,” Gwen promised.

“Goodbye,” Doc said.

The radio operator came out of the other room. Evidently he'd been eavesdropping because he was trying to conceal pop-eyed amazement.

“That'll be 5 dollars,” he said.

“Put it on my bill,” Doc ordered.

“Come on, Erle,” he directed his bodyguard.

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

Doc went to his room, commanding Erle to take up a position outside the door and admit no one. The room smelled strongly of smoke. But the air was now clear and the window was open. Doc surveyed the damage — which was considerable — and concluded it would be in the spirit of things if he demanded another room. He was picking up the telephone when the door flew open, admitting Foreman.

Stanley K. Foreman gave Doc a pleasant scowl.

“You handed us a hell-of-a scare,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Doc asked innocently.

“Get out of your sheep's clothing, Savage,” Foreman said. “I've always had a suspicion you were a crook. And now I'm glad to find out I was right.”

Doc shoved out his jaw and said, “Don't you call me a crook!”

Foreman laughed.

“Stop it! I'm wise. That radiophone call you just made … Who do you think you talked to?”

Doc feigned astonished rage.

“What did you do? If that blasted operator …”

“Gwen,” said Foreman with relish, “is the girlfriend of one of my guests.”

Doc retreated a step. “You mean I didn't talk to the mainland?”

Foreman snorted! “What kind of an ass do you take me for? You talked to a girl in this hotel. That's who you talked to!”

Doc pretended to ponder while at the same time doing what he hoped was a good job of registering alarm … then anger … then wrathful aggressiveness.

“All right, deceiving me hasn't got you a thing!” he declared. “I was going to carry this farther to get you in a more responsive frame of mind. But that's off. So we'll talk money.”

Foreman nodded. “How much money?”

“100,000 dollars,” Doc said. “And no haggling. Either you pay off in cash or Monk Mayfair — my associate — will tip off the FBI and your goose will be cooked.”

“That,” said Foreman bluntly, “is a deal.”

“Good.”

“I'll dig up the cash … pay you … and then you get the hell away from here! You make my guests nervous.”

Doc held up a hand. “Wait a minute! Not so fast. There's more to it than that.”

Sudden rage darkened Foreman's face.

“You made your own price. And if you think …”

“The price,” Doc said sharply, “is okay. But those 3 chiselers with me- Disappointed Smith, Mix Walden, and Si Hedges — have got to be disposed of. They know too much.”

He looked meaningly at Foreman and added, “Too much — by far! — to do either of us any good.”

“I see.” Foreman was relieved. “What do you want done with them?”

Doc shrugged. “Why not knock them off like you did part of that gang who came here in the lifeboat after the shipwreck?”

Startled, Foreman exclaimed, “Hey! Those people haven't been killed!”

“Well for God's sake, you must be an amateur!” Doc exploded. “You can't have them telling what they've found out!”

Foreman smiled coldly. “They won't talk. I've got them locked up. I can keep them a year if needed. And in a year, I plan to retire anyway and close this place up.”

“That doesn't sound like a smart idea,” Doc said doubtfully. “Where are you keeping them?”

“In the hotel basement.”

Doc scowled. “I still don't like it. They might break out of the basement.”

“They won't,” said Foreman, “break out of this basement.”

“You sound darned confident. But I don't know that I'm satisfied.”

“Stop worrying. They're safe.”

Doc rubbed his jaw vigorously as if in thought.

He said, “Tell you what you do. You grab Smith, Mix, and Hedges. Throw them into this basement of yours. I'll go along and see the place. If I think it's going to hold them, it's a deal.”

Foreman went to the door and spoke in low tones to Erle who left hurriedly, presently returning with a small army of assistants.

They proceeded to overpower Disappointed Smith, Mix, and Si Hedges.

Doc Savage stood by and watched the fracas which resulted. Disappointed Smith and Mix Walden put up a fight. But Si Hedges burst into tears.