Chapter 12

THE DISAPPOINTING PARCEL

JOHNNY STOOD as immobile as he could, for he had recognized the juvenile tone as belonging to white-bearded Dan Thunden, and common sense told him the cold thing against his neck was a gun snout. Hands slapped against his person and the superfirer pistol, his only weapon, was removed.

Johnny wore a bulletproof vest, a fact that Dan Thunden’s search disclosed.

“I’ll shoot you in the head,” advised the boyish-voiced old man.

“So you’re still working with them!” Johnny whispered back.

Dan Thunden cursed round, seafaring oaths under his breath.

“I’m wukkin’ on them, not foah them,” he gritted. “I laid aboard the lookout back yondah, and he won’t set his sail foah some time to come.”

“Then you and I had better work together,” Johnny said hopefully, his large words forgotten in the urgency of the situation.

“Old Dan Thunden is wukkin’ foaH himself,” Thunden whispered vehemently. “I didn’t know who you was when I met you befoah, but now I know you are one of Doc Savage’s outfit. Well, I don’t want any paht of you.”

“Listen,” Johnny began. “What — “

“Belay yoah jaw an’ walk up to that shanty,” Dan Thunden grated. “We are gonna do some listenin’.”

Johnny, feeling discretion the better part of foolhardiness, since the gun snout was a determined pressure against his neck, ambled forward and stopped against the shack wall. There were wide cracks between the boards which offered orifices for both eye and ear. Burning brightly on the open side of the ramshackle structure, the fire spilled light over the interior, and they could see plainly what went on within.

Johnny’s first look gave him a shock. Patricia Savage was not in sight.

Several men besides Santini, Hallet and Leaking were in the shack, among them the killer of the banker, Thackeray Hutchinson, who had masqueraded as an elevator operator.

Santini kicked litter aside on the floor and made a clean place on which he placed the mail parcel.

“We’ve had fits over this,” he said.

Fishing in a watch pocket beside the ribbon that crossed his chest so gaudily, he brought out a penknife with which to cut the tyings on the bundle.

After the string and outer wrapper of paper was removed, Santini lifted a folded square of heavy paper. He opened this. It crackled and fluttered in the breeze that eddied inside the shanty.

“Verameilte!” Santini exploded. “Indeed! Dan Thunden, the old goat, even sent his greatgranddaughter a map showing the island’s whereabouts!”

“You are sure it is the island?” asked the man who had killed Thackeray Hutchinson.

“Yes. Here is the island,” said Santini, and placed a finger on the map.

Johnny strained his eyes and made out the general location of the island — it was in the Caribbean, some considerable distance from Florida — then Dan Thunden gave his head a push to prevent him from seeing more. But Johnny had fixed in his memory the approximate location of the isle.

Inside the hut there was scuffling sound, a low, stifled cry. “The damn girl!” snarled Leaking.

“We no longer need her,” Santini said callously. “Shoot her!”

The man who had killed Thackeray Hutchinson leered, drew a revolver, spun the cylinder, then growled, “A knife won’t make as much noise,” and drew a long hunting knife from a sheath sewed to the inside of his vest.

Dan Thunden’s gun nudged Johnny’s neck.

“Walk,” breathed the young-voiced old man. “Quick! Befoah they ha’m mah granddaughtah.”

Johnny found himself urged around to the open front of the structure. Dan Thunden was going to use him as a shield — and the fact that he wore a bulletproof vest failed to ease Johnny’s mind a great deal.

“I couldn’t miss yoah-all from heah,” Dan Thunden called from the open end of the hut.

NOT A man inside the ancient building stood still at the ‘unexpected words, for it is human nature to start violently when surprised, an inheritance probably from tree-dwelling ancestors who found it necessary to leap for their lives at sounds of danger.

But only one man was foolish enough to try resistance. The killer of Thackeray Hutchinson held his knife in hand. He whipped back his arm to throw the blade.

Dan Thunden’s gun roared splittingly in Johnny’s ear, and its muzzle flame seared his neck.

The knifeman let fall his blade, took two or three bobblekneed steps, then put both hands over the spot where the top of his skull seemed to be torn off, and dived head-first to the sandy floor. He lay there, a red flood spilling out of the top of his head.

“He’s dead,” Dan Thunden advised the others meaningly.

Santini jutted his hands up and the others followed his example.

Then Johnny saw Pat Savage. She had been lying against the wall through the cracks of which they had peered, this accounting for the failure to discover her earlier. Ropes bound her arms and ankles and a strip torn from Ham’s natty topcoat had been used to gag her.

Dan Thunden gave Johnny a shove. “Get ovah with them, wheah I can watch you!”

Picking up the map which Santini had dropped, the whitehaired man hurled it out into the fire. Flames bundled it hungrily and it turned into a black crisp and a curl of yellow smoke.

“I should nevah have sent that to mah great-granddaughtah,” Thunden growled. “But I didn’t know but that we might find use foaH it. I guess all concerned can find the island if need be.” He paused to scowl at Johnny. “Except Doc Savage and his scuts, and we don’t want them in on it.”

With that, he continued unwrapping the package. A box of thin, light wood came into view. It resembled a large cigar box, except that there were no printing or labels on it.

Expression expectant, the young-old man flipped the lid back. He tensed, gulped something unintelligible under his breath. His long-fingered hand dipped into the contents turning up flakes of greenish-gray leaves.

“This heah ain’t it!” he howled suddenly. “This heah stuff is just plain sage!”

So shocked was whitehaired Dan Thunden at the discovery that the box contained something other than he had expected, that his attention left his prisoners.

“Look out!” Johnny rapped.

He was too late. Santini leaped. His foot collided with Dan Thunden’s gun arm. The weapon spun away.

“Presto!” Santini yelled. “Haste! Grab him!”

Men piled on Dan Thunden. They were met with a whirlwind of blows, a dazzling display of fighting skill. The old man was an amazing acrobat and a fighting cyclone.

Johnny joined the fray by clouting a jaw with a bony fist. He failed to drop his quarry, due to his own haste, and was clouted back for his pains.

A man jumped astride Johnny’s bony back, locked legs around his middle and drubbed the back of Johnny’s head and neck with hard fists. Johnny fell backward on the fellow. The man who had been hit on the jaw jumped on Johnny’s stomach with both feet.

Pat Savage began to flip about, endeavoring to get rid of her bindings. Failing in that, she managed to trip a man who was running at Dan Thunden.

Thunden had felled three assailants with his bare fists. Then Santini danced around behind the old fellow and struck him a terrific blow alongside the ear. Thunden’s knees hinged; his eyelids fluttered.

Santini’s men took advantage of this weakness. They rushed, swarming over the whitehaired man and bearing him down. In a moment he was beaten fiat, gripped and held helpless.

Grinning, Santini got up, ran over and kicked Johnny twice in the head, after which the bony geologist was easily subdued. Santini stepped back and adjusted his ornate mustache. The ribbon across his chest was loose and he carefully fitted it back in place.

“Bueno!” he exclaimed. Then his pleasure faded as his eye lighted on the box. He went over and scooped up some of the greenish contents, let the flakes sift through his fingers, then straightened.

“This is not the stuff!” he snarled.

Dan Thunden, straining at the men who held lima’ growled, “This heah gal must have made a change.’,

Santini swore.

Pat made unintelligible noises through her gag.

Dan Thunden glared at Pat. “What did you do with the package that I sent you?”

Santini started at that. Dan Thunden had addressed Pat as if she were his greatgranddaughter, and this was a surprise to Santini, who had learned in some fashion that Pat was not Kel Avery.

Dan Thunden’s mistake was no surprise to Johnny. Had blonde Kel Avery not said that she had never seen her greatgrandfather? Old Dan Thunden did. not know Kel Avery by sight, and naturally had mistaken Pat for Kel.

Santini took a full breath. It was plain that he was going to advise Dan Thunden of his mistake.

Johnny said loudly, “Miss Avery, don’t tell them a thing! Whatever you do, don’t tell them a thing!”

Instead of speaking, Santini blinked. His expression showed that he bore half a conviction that Pat was Kel Avery.

“Mu-m-m-bur-r-r,” said Pat through her gag.

“Untie her and see what she says!” ordered Santini.

A man started toward Pat, but stopped very suddenly, for Pat had whipped up a gun in her bound hands. It was the weapon which had been kicked from Dan Thunden’s handat the start of the fight, and which Pat had managed to reach without being noticed.

“Mum-m-m-mw-urr-r-ah,” said Pat.

It was not hard to understand what she meant, and hands went up.

“EXQUISITE!” BREATHED Johnny, and sprang to undo the gag and free her wrists.

Pat made hacking noises when the gag was out.

“I came to New York for excitement,” she said. “Man, oh man, am I getting it!”

She stood erect, stamping her feet to restore cramped circulation, but keeping the gun level and determined.

 

“Why did you mail that package?” she asked Dan Thunden sharply.

The whitehaired man shrugged. “I was hopin’ you would see fit to become mah pahtnah.”

“What?” Pat demanded incredulously.

“You see, I needed money,” said Dan Thunden. “I was goin’ to meet you in Florida and tell you the whole story.” He paused to glare at Santini and the others. “But these gentlemen must have got the telegram you sent me tellin’ me you would go to Florida. Or did you send such a message?”

“The message was sent,” said Pat, evidently deciding she could get more out of him by pretending she was his greatgranddaughter.

“I nevah got it,” said Dan Thunden. “And that explains why I did not meet you in Florida. Did Santini send a man down theah to

Santini suddenly took a long chance. He stood near Dan Thunden at the moment. Leaping, he got behind the whitehaired man and shoved with all of his strength.

Dan Thunden was hurled toward Pat. Taken by surprise, and not wishing to shoot the old man, Pat jumped aside. That gave Hallet and Leaking their chance, working with wits almost as deft as Santini’s. They sprang quickly forward.

Pat shrilled angrily and fired, but her arm was knocked up and the bullet merely clouted rotten wood out of the ceiling. Santini ran in and got her gun.

Johnny struck Santini in the face. Whirling, Santini put the muzzle of the gun against Johnny’s chest and pulled the trigger until the gun was empty.

The reports were deafening in the shack. Johnny was knocked back, spinning, by the force of the slugs. Coat fabric over his chest smoked and dripped sparks. He fell flat on his

back and lay there, eyes widely open, all of his gaunt length immobile.

Dan Thunden, still stumbling from the shove which had propelled him at Pat, got his balance and whirled, but saw the odds were against him, for Santini’s thugs already had their guns out.

Head down, Dan Thunden plunged outside. A Santini gunman shot at the white-whiskered form flying through the firelight, but Thunden only leaped higher into the air and went the faster, until he was lost in the darkness and the stunted brush of the beach.

Four men, struggling together, held Pat.

“What a life!” Santini gasped.

A MAN ran over to examine Johnny.

“Let him go,” snapped Santini. “I shot him many times in the heart.”

Leaking swabbed at perspiration running off his face in fast drops.

“Boss, I move we shake the dust of this place,” he puffed. “Things are getting too tough. This skinny guy you shot is one of Doc Savage’s outfit, and that means hell. This Doc Savage will move the earth to get the guys who rubbed out his pal.”

“Only too true,” put in Hallet nervously. “Kidnaping that bronze man was one thing. Killing one of his men is another. Savage is a wizard, and the United States is going to be too warm for us.”

Pat said, “You birds are just getting wise to yourselves!”

A man slapped her over the mouth. She bit him. The man cursed, lifted a gun.

“No!” yelled Santini. “She is the one who knows where the other box is!”

“But she ain’t old Thunden’s greatgranddaughter!” objected Leaking.

“Maybe we make the mistake and she is Kel Avery,” said Santini. “Did you not see the old goat accuse her of making away with the parcel?”

“Maybe,” Leaking admitted. “But we got word — “

“Never mind the ‘buts,’ ” Santini rapped.

After that, there was a brief pause during which no one seemed to know what to do next, and it was obvious every one was thinking desperately.

Santini’s swarthy face lighted. His sharp mustache ends shot up in the air as he grinned. He swung a hand around his head and brought it down on a thigh with a great smack.

“Bueno!” he yelled. “Good! Excellent! Wonderful!”

“I hope it is,” Leaking said pessimistically.

“It is,” Santini laughed. “The one great idea, I have. We will take the plane and go to the island. Doing that, we will be away from this Doc Savage. We will get a supply of — ” He stopped and eyed the surrounding night, and did not finish.

“What about the girl?” Leaking questioned.

“We take her along,” Santini grinned. “We make her tell where that parcel go to. It may be we do not find the — ” He paused again and scowled at the night. ” — we do not find what we want on the island, then this box be very valuable indeed.”

“Not a bad idea,” Leaking admitted.

With that, Pat was hauled, kicking and striking, out to the beach and thrust into the giant seaplane.

“Boss,” a man addressed Santini.

“Si,” snapped the chief. “What eating you?”

“When we reach this island and find the storeroom, do we get to use the stuff ourselves?” the man asked.

Santini hesitated, shrugged. “Of course. Si, Si.”

The man who had asked the question expanded Visibly and slapped his chest solidly, delightedly.

“I feel like a guy who had just been promised a million,” he smirked.

The canvas jackets were wrenched off the motors; selfstarters whirred, clanked, and the exhaust stacks spilled sparks, smoke and noise.

With every one aboard, the plane wallowed away from the beach. Hammering motors put the big craft on step, and it took the air.

INSIDE THE tumbledown beach shack, Johnny stirred slightly. He shut his eyes and moaned; several times he sought to arise, and at last succeeded. Propped up shakily, he tore open his coat, vest and shirt.

The bulletproof vest which he wore was of mail, not rigid armor plate. It was a vest designed by Doc Savage for himself and his men to wear continually, and therefore it was light, intended to save them only from an occasional bullet.

Impact of the revolver slugs at close range had stunned Johnny, rendering him helpless, and he had lain there, at no time unconscious, but unable to fight effectively and knowing it.

He had heard all that was said.

Getting up on his Łfeet, he wavered outside, fell down, then got up and propped himself against the shack. There was a roaring in his ears and he coughed a crimson spray, but it was not until the roaring went away slowly that he realized it was motors of Santini’s enormous plane which he had been hearing, and that the craft had seemed to recede to the southward over the Atlantic Ocean.

Johnny peered around, unsteady on his feet, trying to find some trace of Dan Thunden. But there was none, and he was still peering fruitlessly when a fast car made noise on the beach road and headlights waved a white glare.

It was Doc Savage’s armored delivery truck, and it stopped near by. Doc and the others unloaded.

Monk ran up and stared curiously at Johnny.

“Do you know any cuss words?” Johnny asked thickly.

“Hell, yes,” Monk said.

“Then cuss some for me,” Johnny mumbled, and fell forward on his face.