Chapter 10

THE PACKAGE TRICK

MANY CITIZENZ of New York City knew of the headquarters which Doc Savage maintained on the eighty-sixth floor of Manhattan’s most impressive skyscraper, for the newspapers had published that fact innumerable times. But not many citizens had seen the establishment. Had they done so, they would have been astounded.

The establishment consisted of an outer reception room and office which was sumptuously, but not gaudily furnished. Beyond this was a library which for completeness in its assortment of scientific books could be equaled perhaps by but one other library, its location unknown except to Doc Savage himself, being in a mysterious and remote spot which the bronze man termed his “Fortress of Solitude,” and to which he retired at intervals to study, none knowing his whereabouts, not even his five trusted aides.

Connecting with the library was an experimental laboratory, this also having an equal only in the second laboratory which the bronze man maintained at his “Fortress of Solitude.” The city laboratory held apparatus for almost every conceivable scientific experiment, as well as tools for the construction of the numerous devices for which Doc Savage found need.

Monk stood in the outer office, nudging Habeas Corpus gently in the ribs with a toe, and spoke his mind.

“That old yahoo, Dan Thunden, is sure a lick-splitting freak,” the homely chemist declared. “Imagine a gink a hundred and thirty-one years old being able to hop around like he can.”

Only beautiful blonde Kel Avery was listening, but she was audience enough, since Monk would talk all day if it would keep him in the company of a girl as attractive as this one.

Doc was issuing commands, having just finished writing a number of names and addresses on slips of paper.

“Here are some of the wealthy men whose names were in that file which we found in the offices of Fountain of Youth, Inc.,” the bronze man explained.

He distributed the slips to Long Tom, Renny, Ham and Johnny.

“Investigate,” he directed. “Those names were in the file for some reason, just as was that banker, Thackeray Hutchinson.”

Renny folded his paper slip with huge fingers. “Some of these birds should give us information,” he said.

“Be careful,” Doc admonished. “We do not want a repetition of what happened to Thackeray Hutchinson.”

“That guy got what was coming to him,” put in Monk, who had paused to overhear.

“What happened to him?” blonde Kel Avery asked curiously.

“He got shot between the eyes,” Ham told her.

“Oh!” The young woman gasped and sank into a chair.

“This hairy ape” — Ham indicated Monk with his sword cane — “thinks it was all right for a man to get killed.”

“Aw, he was an orphan robber,” Monk said uncomfortably, knowing very well Ham had deliberately put him before the movie actress in a calloused light.

“What about Pat?” Renny rumbled anxiously.

“We haven’t a lead to go on,” Doc pointed out. “We’ll have to see what turns up.”

The four men departed with their paper slips, intent on running down some information about Fountain of Youth, Inc.

Big Da Clima went to the water cooler, drank deeply from the gurgling fountain, then came back and stood in front of Doc.

“Me, I think I go out, not for long,” he said.

“Why?” Doc asked.

Da Clima shrugged muscle-bound shoulders, and said, “Business.”

“Very well,” Doc agreed.

Da Clima lumbered out toward the elevators.

Doc nodded at Monk. “Follow him.”

Monk grinned and waved Habeas Corpus back.

“Boy, do I hope this Da Clima gives me some excuse to tie into him,” leered the homely chemist. “I don’t like him.”

Monk went out.

KEL AVERY tried to wring muddy water out of her drying frock and asked, “You do not trust Da Clima?”

“Just a precaution,” Doc told her quietly. “And it gives Monk something to do. He would feel neglected if he wasn’t doing something.”

“You have a remarkable group of men,” said the young woman.

Doc bowed politely, suggested, “It is not advisable for you to leave here, since Santini and his crew must know about this headquarters. You can use the telephone and have fresh clothing sent up from a shop. There is an excellent one in the building.”

“Thank you.”

Doc Savage retired to the library where there was a second telephone — and while Kel Avery called the shop, the bronze man put in a call of his own to the post office officials. Much talk ensued, and he was transferred to several officials before he got full satisfaction.

He had to explain twice what he wanted, and he found it necessary to give the mail officials the number on a small card which he drew from a pocket.

The card which Doc used held the information that he was a fully commissioned postal investigator, and bore the postmaster general’s signature. This was one of many honorary commissions which Doc held.

Doc went next to the laboratory, where he switched on a short-wave radio telephone transmitter-and-receiver. This communicated to other short-wave sets in the automobiles used by his aides in their work.

Doc called Johnny, Long Tom, Ham and Renny in rapid succession — but only Johnny answered. The others were evidently interviewing their rich men.

“You have my unadulterated attention, Doc,” said bigworded Johnny.

“Listen,” said Doc.

Then he spoke rapidly in the Mayan dialect which he used to communicate with his men when conveying secret and important orders.

“Supermalagorgeous,” said Johnny when the conversation ended.

Doc went in and joined Kel Avery in the outer room. “You have arranged for my air mail package to come here?” asked the movie actress.

“It will be here in not more than twenty minutes,” Doc replied.

“You took quite a bit of time,” the young woman pointed out. “Did you experience any trouble?”

The bronze man seemed on the point of informing her of something unusual about the call he had made to the mail officials, but before the words formed, the outer door opened and Da Clima came stamping in.

“Me, I get two new ones,” said Da Clima, and threw back his coat, revealing in his shoulder harness a pair of heavy blue revolvers. “My other two ones, them feller at the airport they get,” he added.

“Bought two new revolvers, eh?” Doc said slowly. “They are not easy to purchase here in New York.”

“For the feller with the money, anything she easy,” grinned Da Cli ma. “At a hock shop. I get them, and I no need the license for to carry, either.”

Monk ambled in shortly, tossed a bundle of newspapers on the inlaid office table, said, “There they are, Doc,” as if he had been sent out to get the papers instead of to follow Da Clima. Then he ambled into the laboratory.

Doc joined Monk as soon as he could do so without attracting Da Clima’s suspicions.

“The mug went into a hock shop, stayed a while, then came back here,” Monk grumbled. “He didn’t do nothing else.”

“Call the police and tell them to have that pawnbroker’s license to do business taken away from him, for selling firearms to unlicensed persons,” Doc directed.

Monk nodded. “Any word from Pat?”

“None.”

DOC WENT back into the outer office while Monk used the inside phone to make his call about the pawnbroker who sold guns to unlicensed persons, and who was therefore undoubtedly a source of firearms to the underworld.

The clothing which Kel Avery had ordered came up, and a dressmaker accompanied the garments, ready to make any alterations which might be necessary.

Bedraggled and mudcaked, the light-haired young actress retired to the library, and was out again shortly, the frock having fitted her without changes.

“Now you look again like Maureen Darleen, the movie queen,” Monk grinned. “Not that you looked bad before, though.”

“Thank you,” the young woman smiled, then studied Habeas Corpus. “A remarkable-looking pet pig you have.”

“Habeas is quite a guy,” Monk admitted. “Speak to the Hollywood heart-throb, Habeas.”

“Monk, I think she’s a queen,” said Habeas. Entrancing Kel Avery looked somewhat stunned, then realized Monk had used ventriloquism to make the homely pig apparently speak, and burst out laughing. But she sobered very suddenly.

“I’m worried about that other girl — Pat,” she said uneasily. “What do you — think — they’re doing to her?”

“Probably trying to buffalo her into telling them where the box your great-granddaddy Dan Thunden sent you can be found,” Monk guessed.

“I’ll give up that mysterious box in an instant if it will get her freedom,” Kel Avery said grimly.

“The mailmen with the box should be here shortly,” Doc put in.

Kel Avery eyed the bronze man curiously, then said, “Just as Da Clima came in, you started to tell me something about the call which you made to the air mail officials about their sending my package here. What was it? Or have you changed your mind?”

Doc Savage smiled. “I haven’t changed my mind,” he said. Then, before continuing, went to the window and looked down from its tremendous height into the street. He was silent a moment as if in thought, then began, “What I was going to tell you

He fell silent, then pointed down through the window.

“An armored mail truck is pulling up in front,” he said. “It must be bringing your package.”

Kel Avery ran over to the window. “You told them to use an armored truck?” she asked.

“Of course.”

Then Doc stiffened. The young woman glanced down and also became rigid, while Monk and Da Clima came over quickly, stared, then grew slack-jawed and attentive. The street below was brightly lighted.

“Oh, oh,” breathed Kel Avery in a small, horrified voice.

AN UNIFORMED postal carrier carrying a package, had gotten out of the truck and had started for the skyscraper entrance. But at the same time three men had stood erect m an open touring car which was parked near by.

The men lifted their arms and threw what resembled glass bottles. The containers struck the sidewalk at the feet of the postal men and burst, making wet smears on the concrete. These wet splashes seemed to evaporate with startling suddenness. Bright street lights made this visible.

“Gas!” breathed Monk, the chemist.

The vapor, whatever its nature, was potent, for both postal men collapsed within a few moments. Another carrier, springing out of the truck with a revolver, apparently came under the spell of the gas, for he also went down.

One of the men sprang out of the touring car and ran forward.

“Santini’s gang!” Monk groaned. “He’s holding his breath. Doc, can’t we do something?”

“Quiet!” Doc rapped.

The man far below reached the recumbent postal carriers, stooped and seized the package which one had been carrying. Then he galloped back to the touring car and dived inside. The machine was moving almost as he hit the cushions.

“There goes the package!” gritted Monk.

“Them damn feller, they sure the smart guys!” Da Clima growled, and swung for the door.

“Wait!” Doc barked.

There was a ring of authority to the bronze man’s voice that brought the excited Da Clima up and caused him to return, his expression puzzled, to the window, where he peered downward again.

The touring car was rolling more swiftly down the street. Monk wrenched up the window, roaring, “I can hit ‘em with my superfirer pistol!”

“No,” Doc told him.

Monk spun around. “Doc, have you gone nuts?” But before the bronze man could possibly make answer, the homely chemist looked sheepish, then began to grin.

“Doc, you pulled a fast one,” he accused. “What was it?”

“Have a look.” Doc pointed.

Down in the street, a small undistinguished coupe was darting in and out through traffic in a manner that made it plain to the watchers above that it was following the touring car.

Those in the open car could hardly tell they were trailed, due to the intervening taxicabs and pleasure cars.

“Johnny’s coupe!” Monk barked.

“Exactly.”

“But how did he

“I got him on the short-wave radio at the time I called the postal officials,” Doc explained. “Johnny was to follow the mail truck, and if anything came up, he was to use his own judgment.”

“This may lead us to Pat,” Monk grinned.

“Let us hope.”