Лестер Дент - The Fantastic Island

As the machine-gun swiveled down to rake Long Tom, the automatic in Doc's hand barked . The single bullet damaged the hand of the gunner. The man squalled and let his weapon clump to the ground. The second machine-gunner swung the snout of his death-dealing gun on Doc, holding down the trigger and slicing a leaden pattern through the fog-drenched birches.

But the gun cut out before the leaden stream reached Doc. Another coolly-directed bullet from the bronze man's automatic took care of that. The gunner cursed, let his weapon drop, and wrung his injured hand.

From behind the brick house — now lost in the fog — sounded the throaty roar of 2 automobile motors exploding into life. There was a grinding of gears, clashing shifts into second, then a rapidly diminishing sound as the cars rammed into distance.

"Watch this pair," Doc called to Long Tom.

Doc's prodigious strides carried him in a matter of seconds back to the house. As he had feared, all 10 of his attackers were gone. He searched the house. It was empty. The uninjured men had loaded the unconscious members into the cars and decamped.

Doc did find one thing — a hastily scrawled note signed:

"Boris Ramadanoff."

The note read:

Next time it will be different! We will use more than our fists!

Long Tom came up with 2 prisoners.

"Stay here and watch this place," Doc directed. "Move your car up close to the house where we can keep in touch with each other through the shortwave radio set while I tail those vanished cars."

But Doc did not chase the autos. The bronze man's coupe — each car used by his aides and their 86 thfloor Headquarters as well — was fitted with shortwave telephone receiving&transmitting apparatus. As Doc flung inside his car, he concealed switches under the dash.

Static crackled from the radio loudspeaker. And then the excited voice of Colonel John Renwick — renowned engineer, the last of Doc's 5 aides — boomed out of the diaphragm.

"Renny" was doubtless speaking from the skyscraper Headquarters .

Doc lifted a microphone from a concealed hook.

"Listening," he said.

Renny's voice roared.

"Better get back to Headquarters quick, Doc. There's the Devil to pay!"

As the bronze man hurled his car down the driveway, he spoke back through the microphone. The radio apparatus functioned while the car was in motion, of course.

"What precisely has happened?" he asked over the air.

Renny's voice bawled out of the loudspeaker. "That queer centipede that disappeared after clawin' up the elevator starter. Well, it showed up again!"

"Did you manage to kill it?"

"Yes, but too late. It attacked another man."

"Yes?"

"The man died, Doc!"

"Are you positive the victim was killed by the centipede's bite? Except in the case of the aged or infirm, death rarely results from …"

"Nothing aged or infirm about this victim, Doc. He was a 30-year-old, 200-pound cop. He took about 6 breaths — that's all — after the bug got him. He died in my arms."

"That was too quick for a hypodermic to have done any good. Watch yourself, Renny."

Doc spoke quietly. But Renny understood that the bronze man had delivered a warning that an ordinary man would have yelled.

"Is there anything else?" Doc Savage questioned.

"No. Except there's a guy here waiting to see you."

"Who is he, Renny?"

"Some Russian-sounding name — Boris Ramadanoff."

From his radio speaker, Renny heard a weird note — an almost soundless musical trilling . He thought it was some static manifestation at first, but almost instantly he identified the sound as that subtle emanation peculiar to Doc Savage in moments of stress or surprise.

"Doc," Renny thumped, "what is it?"

The bronze man countered with a question of his own. "How long has Boris Ramadanoff been there?"

"Long as I have, anyhow — 10 minutes."

"Describe him."

"Old-fashioned little guy with a black cutaway coat and a black Czar-of-Russia mush all over his map. Talks with an accent. What's the excitement, Doc?"

Doc complied: "A man claiming to be 'Boris Ramadanoff' sought to kill me a few moments ago. Sit tight, Renny. We have good reason to believe that the lives of Johnny and all those who went after him — and maybe our lives as well — depend upon what we do within the next few hours."

- — — — — — — — — — — — —

As Doc stepped out of his elevator on the 86 thfloor and entered the Headquarters' Receptionroom, a remarkable man shifted his towering bulk out of a comfortable leather chair and lumbered forward. Alongside any one but Doc Savage, this individual would have been considered enormous.

This man had a long, puritanical face that was shrouded in gloom as though he had lately returned from a funeral and contemplated going to another. As a matter-of-fact, the expression was habitual whenever he was expecting action, which was most of the time. Queerly enough, it meant he was happy. His fists swung restlessly at his sides. Hugefists they were. Larger than Monk's and rivaling the flint-padded claws of a Kodiak bear.

The big-fisted man was 'Renny' — Colonel John Renwick, an engineer who had possibly built dams and bridges in more parts of the World than any man alive. And knocked out more door panels with those appalling fists.

Renny's hand waved toward a little man who had sprung up from a chair and was in the middle of a courtly bow.

"This is Boris Ramadanoff," Renny announced.

The black-bearded little man continued to make bows. "I am prostrated," he said in precise English. "From the Colonel here, I have just learned that you met with trouble from a man posing as myself."

"Do you have an address on Redbeach Road?" Doc asked, cryptically

"But yes! The number is 33."

"Within the last hour at that address, several men — one of whom claimed to be 'Boris Ramadanoff' — did try to trap me," Doc admitted.

The little man's eyes gleamed. "Was he a bullet-headed fellow with close-cropped hair?"

"The one who claimed to be Ramadanoff? Correct."

"I know of him. I repeat it, Sir, I am prostrate! To think that you should be set upon by thugs in my own home! The truth is that I have many enemies. Doubtless they took possession of my house, their intent being to apprehend you in the belief that you could furnish them with information regarding my whereabouts. Accept my most profuse apologies."

Doc nodded. "You wished to see me?" he suggested.

"From South America, I have come to see you!" The little man bowed again and with a quick bird-like motion, he thrust a leather folder toward Doc.

"This establishes your identity," Doc said to Boris Ramadanoff as he handed back the papers. "And now … "

"I seek your aid, Sir," Boris said earnestly. "I need it desperately. Lives hang in the balance. I will come quickly to the point. In the Galapagos Archipelago, there is an unknown island upon which my brother — the Count Ramadanoff — has set himself up as master of life-and-death over every living thing, causing ships to be wrecked and forcing the seamen to dig the circular pits."

"Why the pits?" Doc questioned.

Boris shrugged eloquently. "That is a profound mystery to me. The Count Ramadanoff — my brother — transported all his worldly possessions from our native land to this island before the revolution. He brought with him artisans who built a castle. But of that original company, I alone remain. He has killed them all. His real motive for such horrible deeds, I do not know."