Quest of the Spider - Robeson Kenneth - Страница 13

Old Bunnywell seemed about to sob. "Oh, thank you."

"Forget it!" thumped Big Eric. "I want my employees to make a complaint against an executive of the company just as soon as they would against an office boy, or quicker!"

Silas Bunnywell shuffled out, all but hugging his money.

"It's about time for me to hand Horace Haas another trimming with my fists!" growled Big Eric. "I have to knock him into line about once a year."

"Here he comes now, dad," interposed Edna.

Horace Haas came in. One noticed first the light-yellow, double-breasted tea vest he wore. Second in prominence was an enormous diamond ring. Morning coat, striped pants, too-shiny shoes and spats were noteworthy, as well as a flashy cravat.

The least striking thing in all this flamboyance was Horace Haas, the man. He was just a weak-chinned, florid, watery-eyed and roly-poly fat man. His hair was very dark.

He was excited. He flourished a sheet of paper.

"Big Eric!" he barked loudly. "I got something important! Lookit! A letter come through the mail this morning from Topper Beed, the man who has been helping us against the Gray Spider!"

Big Eric took the letter. He gave it a glance.

"Read this!" he boomed, and thrust it to Doc.

Doc's golden eyes translated:

If you want to seize the Gray Spider, I can tell you where to get him. TOPPER BEED.

"Give me Topper Beed's address!" Doc commanded.

"He has a large sawmill equipment repair shop and secondhand store over beyond Canal Street," replied Horace Haas. He gave the exact address.

Haas stared at the mighty bronze man. His weak jaw fell slowly. His shifty eyes seemed to swell in their watery sockets. He was awed by the giant metallic figure before him.

"So this is the Doc Savage you told me you was goin' after!" he muttered to Big Eric.

Doc Savage moved silently for the door. "I am going to interview Topper Beed," he said grimly.

TOPPER BEED’S sawmill repair shop and secondhand store was not located far from the old French quarter. Beside the place, and easily accessible to a wharf on the Mississippi, lay what looked like a junk lot of the parts of scores of sawmills. Some of the stuff was in good shape.

No sign of life was apparent around the ramshackle sheet-iron building which housed the shop. The door was secured with a heavy chain and a padlock.

Doc Savage's sinewy bronze fingers worked for a moment with the padlock. They manipulated a steel tool that looked much like a darning needle, with a crook on the end.

The padlock opened. Doc entered the shop.

The place was built like an airplane hangar, although not quite as large. A sizable drill stood in one corner, an enormous forge and anvil in another. Grease and metal chips made a gum underfoot.

In one spot, water shone glassily on the greasy floor. It had been splashed there not many hours ago. Near the water stood a wooden tank. This had evidently been made by sawing in half a very large barrel.

The tublike tank was full to the brim with water. A coat of oil floated on the surface. Evidently it was the water used to temper metal after it had been worked with on the forge and anvil.

Doc stuck a pair of long-handled blacksmith's tongs into the tub—brought up the body of a man!

The form was stocky and muscular, with the rough red skin and calloused palms of one who has long worked with heat and metal.

The man had been stunned by a blow on the head, and held in the tank until he drowned.

Several letters reposed in an inner pocket. The addresses were still legible. They bore the name of Topper Beed.

The man had surfeited his life for his activities against the Gray Spider!

DOC SAVAGE soon quitted the shop. The killers had been either clever or lucky, for they had left no clue to their Identity.

As Doc came out of the shop, two men down the street hastily settled low in the car they were driving.

"We gotta look out for that guy, Lefty!" one said.

"And how!" breathed the other. "Don't go staring at him like he was Santa Claus! He might notice!"

The pair were Lefty and Bugs, the two lumber company detectives who were in the Gray Spider's gang—the same pair who had treacherously struck down Big Eric!

Only a few minutes ago, they had received rush orders from the Gray Spider to come here and pick up the trail of the bronze man.

"We're to croak 'im if we get the chance!" muttered Lefty. "We might cut down on him right now!"

"Too risky!" Bugs hastily protested. "There's a cop in the next block."

They watched Doc Savage enter his roadster.

Lefty glanced about uneasily, as if to make sure no one was near, then growled: "I wonder if the bronze guy found anything to show we scragged old Topper Beed?"

"We didn't leave no clues!" snarled Bugs.

Doc Savage was unaware of the two murderers of Topper Beed crouched in their car. The morning sun shone on the windshield of their machine in such a manner that the reflection made it impossible to see inside.

Doc's roadster carried him over to Canal Street, thence southward. It halted shortly before a concern which sold dictaphones.

Lefty and Bugs, following discreetly far to the rear, saw Doc enter the establishment.

"I wish to purchase several dictaphone recording cylinders," Doc informed a clerk. "I wish also to use a dictaphone for several minutes."

It was an unusual request, but the clerk complied.

Seating himself at a machine used for demonstration purposes, Doc clipped on one of his new records and proceeded to dictate a long message.

No one heard his voice. The machine recorded smoothly. Doc gave order after order, together with detailed instructions on how they were to be carried out.

He was delivering commands to his men—for he intended to dispatch the records to them by messenger.

"Keep in mind," he finished, "that should one word of these instructions reach the Gray Spider, it might easily mean immediate death and destruction to us all."

Doc made his records into a small package. Down the street a few doors, he entered a telegraph office and engaged a messenger.

On a paper, he wrote the name of a hotel and a room number. It was the hotel to which he had directed his four pals—the directions having been on the message he had left in invisible ink at the Danielsen & Haas offices. Monk, Renny, Long Tom, and Johnny would be waiting there.

The messenger stood on the curb and watched the giant bronze man enter his roadster and drive toward the Danielsen & Haas building.

WHEN Doc Savage was out of sight, the messenger got astride his bicycle. He carried his package carefully. He had been instructed to take pains not to drop it.

He eyed the address of the hotel, then tucked the paper in his tunic pocket. He pedaled on his errand.

Traffic was heavy on Canal Street. The messenger decided his shortest route was a left turn on Claiborne Avenue.

He veered over.

Suddenly an automobile whipped in front of his bike. He trod his coaster brake. No use! He hit the car head-on. His front wheel crumpled. He took a dive over the handlebars and banged his head against the car. Limp and unconscious, he dropped to the pavement.

By a miracle, the package he carried did not fall heavily enough to shatter the well-padded records inside.

"Nifty work Bugs!" chuckled one of the men in the car.

"Hold everything, Lefty!" rasped the other. "I'll grab the package the kid was carryin'!"