Doc Savage - Terror and the Lonely Widow Part 3

"I got more promises."

"We already had those," Renny said.

Doc nodded. He dropped into a contemplative, and uneasy, silence. The car turned right under an elevated, the tires made hard, b.u.mping sounds on rough cobbled pavement and the b.u.mpings slowed as they caught a red light. They waited out the light beside a chestnut vendor's cart. "Red-hot chestnuts?"

the peddler said hopefully. The cart had a plaintive, whimpering whistle. Doc Savage wondered who would be insane enough to buy hot chestnuts on such a blistering hot day, and while he was wondering this, two customers made purchases.

Doc drove on. He was disturbed. The talk with Was.h.i.+ngton had not been satisfying. It should havebeen-he had received the a.s.surances he wanted. But he had suddenly realized, while talking, that the man in Was.h.i.+ngton was terribly tense. The man's concern had driven Doc into anxiety himself. He had not wanted this to happen. He was convinced that, while some men might do their best when frightened, this was not true of himself.

His quarrel with Chapman was an unpleasant symptom. It was a symptom that Chapman, who was noted for his steel nerves, was distraught. It was also, Doc decided wryly, something to be alarmed about. He had never, in tackling anything, been so conscious of urgency this early in the game. It was, almost literally, the feeling that everything-much more than his life-was at stake.

He was struck, sickeningly, by the feeling he'd had when questioning Worrik-that the things he did, said, thought, were pitifully inadequate in the face of the stupendous horror that could materialize. These things-what he did, said, thought-seemed so small. They were, he thought wryly, as silly as drinking a cold bottle of soda pop to cool off before stepping into a volcano. But he was not, he was sure, underestimating the fabulous nature of the thing. It was silly to compare the importance of a thing to the ending of the world, the wiping out of a race, to horrors like that. The comparison was ridiculous. But he found himself making it, and shuddering.

HAM BROOKS, wearing coveralls with MIKE'S ELECTRIC SHOP across the back, and carrying a green metal tool box, walked past their parked car without seeming to see them. He entered a small restaurant.

"I don't like that," Renny muttered. "He figures he's being watched, apparently."

Doc said, "You and Monk keep an eye on the neighborhood. I'll talk to Ham."

The restaurant, not a lunchroom, had tables covered with red-and-white checked cloths, and the same pattern was in the matching wallpaper. The effect was gaudy and carnival. Ham was the only one in sight.

"Take that chair," Ham said. "You can see the house. It's across the street. The one with the bra.s.s doorknocker."

Another rooming-house, Doc decided. But this one looked neat, precise, had a touch of elegance and distinction. He ran his eyes over the windows, noticing that the draperies were all of a style. Apartments would have different styling in drapes. A straight rooming house.

"Not a bad-looking place," he said.

Ham said, "It looks better than it has sounded the last twenty minutes."

"What do you mean?"

"Renny and I put the killer in there," Ham explained, "about two hours ago. In other words, he came straight here after he knocked off Worrik. He's on the second floor, room 209. There's no telephone in that room."

"How did you find that out?"

"The guy came out and bought a newspaper about an hour ago. Guess he wanted to see if the killing was in print yet. It gave me a chance to see what room he went to when he went back in. The telephone part I got from the telephone company. Only a hall phone. I put that on the fritz. I didn't have any way of tapping it right then. I don't think tapping would do any good now."

"Why not?""There's been goings-on in there." Ham scowled thoughtfully at the house across the street. People went in and out. More went in than came out. Twenty minutes ago, somebody let out a yell, and somebody did some shooting. Three shots. Out of two guns, or one shot out of one gun and two out of two more of the same, but different calibre. Shots were kind of jammed together. Ten minutes went by. No fuss, no uproar, no more yells or shots. Then some of the people who had gone in came out. None of them were the one who killed Worrik. Some of them may have been 'roomers', and some probably weren't, and I didn't know who was who and I didn't follow anybody. Last seven or eight minutes, place has been like a tomb."

"That all?"

"That's all the facts."

Doc looked at Ham intently. "Got any guesses to go with them?"

Ham nodded. "Civil war," he said. "You know we heard there were two factions involved in it. Maybe we heard right. What do you want me to do?"

"Right here is as good a place as any for you," Doc said. "Watch the place, and use your own judgment about anything that happens"

Ham lifted the green metal tool box to the chair beside him and opened it. There were two revolvers and a tear gas pistol-the big shotgun calibre one like the police use-inside. He saw a waiter coming, and dropped a napkin over the box. "How's your spaghetti?" he asked the waiter. DOC SAVAGE crossed the sidewalk to the car, eyes wary, the flesh crawling between his shoulder-blades. He asked Renny, "Know where the back door of the place is?"

"Sure."

"Watch it. Any other ways in or out?"

"There's probably a skylight, or some way to the roof. There usually is."

"I'm going in that way, Doc said. Any other routes?"

"Not that I know about."

Monk wanted to know, "Am I an orphan? What do I do?"

"You stick right here in the car where you can follow anybody who looks as if he needed it."

Four houses from the house they wanted there was a window with a sign in it that said HAIRDRESSER.

The door of that house therefore should be unlocked, Doc reasoned. It was. He climbed long, narrow flights of stairs that were, after the hot outdoors, dark and cool and faintly perfumed with insect spray. He lost no time and made as little noise as possible. The hatch that gave access to the roof was not hard to find. Most of these houses had them, and in most of the houses they were in the same spot.

As he crawled across the rooftops, heat reflected up from the black tar in suffocating waves. It was as if he were on the top of a stove. The palms of his hands became as black as stovelids. The tar stuck to his hands, knees, and perspiration skittered down into his eyes, stinging. All the houses here were four stories high. Walkups. To get from one roof to another, it was only necessary to climb over a low wall.

This was very simple, except that it made him a conspicuous target. But no one yelled at him or shot at him.The roof hatch into the house he wished to visit was, as one would expect it to be, locked. But there was the skylight. Not all the houses had skylights, but this one had. The putty around the gla.s.s did not give him much trouble, but he broke the point of his knife on one of the glazier's tips. Once he reached the latch, the skylight opened almost soundlessly.

All this was carried out in hair-raising suspense. Because of the intense sunlight outdoors, he couldn't tell what was under the skylight, whereas anyone inside could see him. He would make a wonderful target.

He eased inside, hung by his hands, and was about to drop when he realized with horror that the skylight was over a large circular stairway well. Had he let go, he would have fallen four floors, bouncing, probably as he fell, off stair banisters. The remedy was simple. He swung himself forward and landed in the hall.

He made a little noise enough to cause a door to whip shut down the hall. He moved back against the wall, wasting no time, watched the door that had closed, waited.

Nothing happened. Nothing seemed about to happen.

The hallway was no darker than it should have been, but it seemed so. It was cool. The air in it was still and cool, like breath in the lungs of a corpse.

The door that had closed did not open. Doc, trying to decide what to do, felt that his hair was surely going to stand on end. This was the fourth floor. Ham said the killer of Worrik was-or had been, prior to the shooting and other trouble-on the second floor. Should he go down? He did not like the idea of someone who might be dangerous, being above him.

He went to the door, stood well to one side so a bullet through the panels wouldn't be apt to find him, and tapped on it with fingertips.

Nothing happened.

"Open up!" he ordered in as low a voice as would reach through the door.

To his astonishment, the door was at once by a blue-eyed fat man who was s.h.i.+rtless and very frightened.

"You live here?" Doc demanded.

"Y-yes." The fat man's chin twitched like a rabbit's nose.

"What happened around here?"

"I duh-don't know," the fat man stuttered. "A shuh-shooting, I think. Somebody-some woman-told me to stay in here until the police came if I didn't want my head shot off. Are you a cop?"

"No, I'm not a cop," Doc said. He looked as fierce as possible. "You better keep out of sight."

The fat man vanished.

It was a nice rooming house. The carpet on the stairs was not threadbare. It felt as soft as gra.s.s. Light from the skylight spilled down the shaftway of the spiral stairs, and the stairway, painted white and its walnut s.h.i.+ning, was spot lighted gaily. Doc realized with horror that, in coming through the skylight, he must have made a shadow that had reached clear to the ground floor.

He was not shot at, yelled at, nor set upon. He reached the second floor and found 209. That was the room the killer was supposed to be in.He knocked.

"Yeah?" a voice said.

It was a woman's voice.

"Open up," Doc requested.

"Who are you?"

"A pal," Doc said. "A very good pal. I think a cop is going to show up here before long. Or are you interested?"

"Go away," the voice of the woman advised, before you get your ears shot off."

Doc Savage stepped back hastily, sank to a knee, and looked to see how much of a crack there was under the door. It was considerable of a crack. Nearly half an inch. Out of his pocket he took a flat case about the size and shape of a cigar case, which held, instead of cigars, gla.s.s phials about the size of cigars. He uncorked one of these, poured it so that the contents, as much as possible, would flow into the crack below the door. He fanned the tear gas rapidly with his hat to make more of it go under the door.

Most of it did.

When the tear gas began to sting his eyes, he walked down the hall to where the air was clearer, and waited. He could hear someone coughing in the room. It sounded like only one person. The woman.

When he thought it was safe, he went back, kicked the lock out of the door, and went in. The woman, who was quite young and pretty, was not completely blinded. She saw him coming toward her, and, in endeavoring to run away, inadvertently stumbled over the body of the dead man on the floor.

Chapter V.

THE girl was carrying a revolver, and before she could get to her feet, or decide to take a shot at him, Doc secured the gun.

He opened the windows. It didn't help much. He had to go out in the hall again to relieve his smarting eyes. There seemed to be a draught of air from the hall into the room and out of the open window, so he was able to stand close to the open door, in the hall. From this point, he could see the girl.

She got to her feet and backed against a wall. She had not said anything, and did not say anything now.

She twisted her fists in her eyes, decided that wasn't helping, and clenched her hands together and suffered. Doc looked at her in amazement.

She was in her twenties, probably somewhere in the middle of them-he wasn't quite sure about this; she did look younger. She would, he judged, weigh about the same as Hedy Lamarr. He had no idea what Miss Lamarr would weigh, but the comparison, considering the figure, seemed very suitable. This girl, though, was a wheaty color, somewhat of a blonde, only more golden.

"Anyone else in there with you?" he demanded.

She didn't answer.

He changed position so that he could observe the dead man...This, Doc concluded, was the murderer of Farrar who had fired the shot. Whoever had handled the shooting of the man had done a businesslike job. One in the head and two in the heart.Doc returned his attention to the young lady. She seemed quite upset.

"The tear gas will blow out of there in a little while," he told her helpfully. "Then I can come in."

"Are you a policeman?" she asked.

"Would it make a difference?"

"That could be."

"I'm not."

"You're not a policeman?"

"No."

"What," she asked, "would you consider worth your while to let me walk out of here?"

"You're in no shape to walk anywhere, and won't be for half an hour."

"You could put me in a cab."

"I would need to think it over," he said. "And I would need to know a little more than I know get now.

Quite a lot more."

Downstairs, the front door had opened, sudden and hard. Feet came across the down stairs hall, began hitting the stair steps. At least five pairs of feet, it seemed to Doc.

He went into the room. He pulled the door shut, although that wouldn't do much good if anyone wanted in, since he had kicked out the lock. He went over and shoved his head out of the window.

Below him, a uniformed policeman drew a bead on his head with a service revolver. Doc withdrew hurriedly, not liking the excited expression the officer wore.

The door flipped open. A voice said, "This is the police!" A patrolman came in, a plain-clothes man, another patrolman, Lieutenant McGinniss bringing up the rear.

"For G.o.d's sake! McGinniss said when he saw Doc Savage. He looked at the body, peering at it intently with his head c.o.c.ked to one side, bird-like. He pointed at Doc and told a patrolman, "Slap the handcuffs on him." Then he advised Doc, "I'd like to see the Army, the Navy and the FBI get you out of it this time."

DOC SAVAGE offered no comments. He did not feel that commenting would do him any good.

Lieutenant McGinniss was in a bad humor.

McGinniss walked around and around the body, like a rooster circling a toad, then asked, "Anybody know the remains?"

No one admitted they did.

"What about you, sister?" McGinniss demanded.

The girl looked at him woodenly.