Doc savage 080 the k.., p.1
Doc Savage - 080 - The King Maker, page 1
The King Maker
By Kenneth Robeson
Published June 1934
Doc Savage Magazine #16
by Street & Smith Publications
Actual authors: Lester Dent & Harold A Davis
Table of Contents
I RICHES, RAGS, AND TERROR
II EXPLOSION IN THE NIGHT
III DEATH TIES A TONGUE
IV THE PRINCESS
V THE "OLD WOMAN"
VI THE RIVER STYX
VII THE FAT RESCUER
VIII MYSTERY EXPLOSION
IX THE MAKER OF KINGS TALKS
X THE "SEAWARD" TROUBLE
XI CASTAWAYS
XII THE PLANE
XIII BAT SHIP
XIV THE BRONZE MAN PLANS
XV THE CHINESE BUZZARD
XVI THE CALBIAN TOUGH GUY
XVII BOTEZUL TAKES CHARGE
XVIII THE TERROR CACHE
XIX THE SHOCK
XX TALE OF DECEIT
XXI THE DEATH STEEPLE CHASE
XXII LOCKED ROOM
XXIII THE HUNDRED PERILS
XXIV THE FIRE
XXV THE PLOT MASTER
I
RICHES, RAGS, AND TERROR
SIXTY or seventy pedestrians probably saw the silk-hatted gentleman get out of his resplendent town car in front of New York's finest skyscraper. Out of the sixty or seventy, nobody seemed to catch the significance of the man's pale face and lips drawn so tightly that they were blue.
"The lucky stiff," some onlookers possibly reflected.
Taking snap judgment on the silk hat and costly town car, most of the onlookers would have swapped places willingly with the top-hatted personage. In New York, such trappings signify an individual of importance, a somebody.
Had they known the truth, no amount of money would have inveigled an onlooker into changing places.
Maybe some of the spectators noted that the man's face was pale and grim. If so, they may have decided he was a business magnate with pressing responsibilities.
The truth was that the gentleman in the topper was scared. He was in the grip of an awful terror.
This frightened, very-much-dressed-up personage stalked rapidly into the vast and ornate lobby of the cloud-piercing building.
His town car waited. On its door was the coat-of-arms of the ruling house of the kingdom of Calbia, one of the Balkan countries of Europe. Probably nobody in the crowd knew it, but the uniform of the chauffeur designated him as no less than a general in the Calbian army.
Now there is something about ragged clothing and shabby attire that seems to label the wearer, the world over, as a person of lowly station.
This was why those rubbering at the swanky car and the silk-hatted man paid little attention to the old woman who entered the building at the same time.
She was very short, broad and stooped. There were wrinkles in her face, in which one could almost hide a lead pencil. A shawl was tied over her head, knotted under her chin. A rent in the top permitted a glimpse of gray hair. Her dress looked as if she had made it herself. Her shoes were shabby.
The man and the old woman--riches and rags, as it were--entered the same elevator.
"Call your floors," said the elevator operator.
"Eighty-six," came from the man in the silk hat.
"Eighty-six," the old woman echoed, somewhat shrilly.
The two passengers looked at each other. There was nothing in their expressions to indicate that they had ever met before.
"The eighty-sixth is Doc Savage's floor," the elevator operator offered, apparently by way of information.
The cage shot upward and stopped. Both passengers stepped out into a plain, yet rich, corridor. It was evident, from the way they looked around, that neither had ever been here before. They found their way to a door.
The door bore a name outlined in very small letters of bronze. They read:
DOC SAVAGE
Grasping the knob, the man in the silk topper tried to walk in. But the door was locked. He knocked with a brisk impatience--and the door opened.
The gentleman in the silk hat made a mistake which later cost him his life. He elbowed into the room ahead of the old lady. This act was anything but chivalrous.
So unusual was the appearance of the man who had opened the door, that both visitors jerked to a stop and stared.
The individual was little taller than a half-grown boy. He came near being as wide as he was high. His hands swung on great beams of arms well below his knees, and they were covered with hairs which resembled rusty shingle nails. This gorillalike fellow's face was phenomenally homely. He frowned at the gentleman in the silk topper, showing dislike of the way the man had shoved in ahead of the old lady.
"Doc Savage?" the silk-hatted one demanded imperiously.
"I'm Monk," grunted the apish one. "I mean--I'm Andrew Blodgett Mayfair."
His voice was tiny, childlike, a ludicrous tone for such a mountain of hair and gristle.
"Tell Doc Savage that Baron Damitru Mendl wishes to see him at once," commanded the pompous man.
Monk did not seem impressed. He glanced past the silk hat, frock coat, and morning trousers to the shabby old lady.
"You wanta see Doc Savage, too?"
"Please, sir," she quavered.
She appeared to be overawed by the magnificence of the office, with its sumptuously comfortable chairs, its impressive safe, and a huge, finely inlaid table.
"Just a minute," said Monk, tiny-voiced. He crossed to a door, opened it and stepped through, closing the panel behind him.
He was in a great room, which held literally hundreds of huge bookcases. These were crammed with tomes.
Monk advanced. He stopped when he could see the bronze man.
This man of bronze occupied a chair under a reading lamp. The chair was massive, yet it seemed small, so Herculean were the proportions of the man sitting in it.
The muscular development of the bronze man was something to arrest attention. Like great cables, sinews wrapped his frame. Their size, and the way they seemed to flow like liquid metal, denoted a strength bordering on the superhuman. These sinews, in repose, were not knotty, but were more like bundled piano wires on which a thin bronze skin had been lacquered.
"Two persons to see you, Doc," said Monk. "One is a guy in a silk hat who seems to think he's somebody. He shoved in ahead of the other one, a kinda ragged-lookin' old lady."
Doc Savage glanced up. This movement emphasized the most impressive thing about him--his eyes. The orbs might have been pools of fine flake-gold. The gold flakes, appearing to be always in motion, caught little lights from the reading lamp.
"The gentleman has bad manners, eh?" The bronze man's voice was pleasant and low, but obviously capable of great volume and tonal change.
"You said it."
"Use your own Judgment, Monk."
Monk ambled back into the outer office, furry hands brushing his knees. He executed a polite bow in the direction of the shabby, elderly woman.
"Doc'll talk to you first," he said kindly.
"Thank you." She started for the door.
Baron Damitru Mendl snapped, "I am the Calbian ambassador to the United States. My business is important!"
Monk frowned. "You could be the king, and it wouldn't make any difference around here."
When she entered the ample library and saw Doc Savage, the old woman's mouth sagged open. She was more than a little impressed by the bronze giant.
"Doc Savage?" she quavered. "I've heard a great deal about you and the wonderful things you do. You help poor people who are in trouble, don't you?"
Doc Savage's nod and the tone of his reply were calculated to put her at ease. "Something like that," he said.
"My poor son," said the visitor rapidly. "He's crippled. The doctors say they can't help him. I've heard that you can do many things better than any other man. I read in the paper that you are one of the greatest chemists in the world, and that nobody knew as much about electricity as you do. But, above everything else, is your skill as a surgeon. I want you to help my boy!"
Doc Savage said nothing. The tiny lights flickered in the flake-gold of his eyes.
"I know you can help him," quavered the elderly lady. "You see, his legs--"
"It will be better to make the diagnosis myself," Doc Savage put in quietly.
"Then you'll help him!" The elderly visitor sounded as if she were about to burst into delighted tears.
"Where is he now?"
"In my room at 7832 East Fourteenth Street."
The tiny lights in the bronze man's eyes seemed to grow a bit more brilliant.
A box of apparatus, replete with knobs and dials, stood on a stand at his elbow. A microphone was attached to this. Leaning over, the bronze man flicked the switch, then spoke into the microphone.
The elderly woman seemed startled when she heard his words. To her, it was plain the syllables were not understandable. They were in some weird, not unmusical, guttural language.
Doc Savage switched off the apparatus, then glanced at his guest.
"The matter of your son will be looked into," he stated.
"What did you say into that box of a thing?" the old woman asked, surprisingly enough.
Doc Savage seemed not to hear the inquiry. He bowed her politely to the door.
The success of her mission seemed to have moved the elderly woman to an ecstasy of delight. Once she was in the outer office, she a
The baron glowered at her.
"Doc Savage is helping me!" squealed the crone.
Then she opened the hands which she had been kneading together. The homely Monk was behind her. Doc Savage was still in the library. Hence, neither saw what the old woman's cupped palms held.
Baron Damitru Mendl saw it, however.
The object was a small red marble.
At the sight of the red marble, Baron Damitru Mendl became starkly pale. He actually trembled. His eyes protruded.
"Doc Savage is helping me!" shrilled the old woman.
Repetition of these words had a startling effect upon Baron Damitru Mendl. He whirled, grabbed up his silk hat and fled the office. Once in the corridor, he thumbed an elevator button furiously, and when the cage arrived, literally dived inside.
The elderly woman took a second cage a moment later.
Doc Savage appeared in the door which connected outer office and library. The size of the door emphasized his giant proportions.
"Thought we had another visitor, Monk."
Monk scratched the bristles atop his bullet of a head. "We did have, Doc, but I guess the guy flew into a rage because we interviewed the old woman first. He walked out on us."
Monk was an intelligent, observing individual. He was, in fact, conceded to be one of the greatest of living chemists. His reputation in that field was world-wide.
But Monk had not seen the red marble.
Down in the lobby, the old hag was hobbling toward the street. Chuckles came from her wrinkled face.
"Ce frumos!" she cackled. "How beautiful! That Doc Savage is not the mental wizard these Americans seem to think he is."
The words were spoken in the language of the Balkan kingdom of Calbia.
Outside the crone scampered down the street. More muttered words came.
"Ma bucor! I am pleased. I very cleverly made Baron Mendl think I had enlisted the aid of Doc Savage. The fool! He now believes Doc Savage to be against him."
II
EXPLOSION IN THE NIGHT
BARON DAMITRU MENDL climbed into his costly town car and sank back nervously on the rich cushions.
"Ce plictisitor!" he groaned in Calbian. "How vexing! General, look! See that old hag?"
The town car had the most modern of equipment. One could not yell at the chauffeur; there was a microphone in the rear, which actuated a loud-speaker beside the driver.
"I see her," said the chauffeur, who wore the uniform of a Calbian general.
"Follow her!"
The town car crept forward. But the trail was a short one. The crone ducked suddenly into a crowd about a subway entrance and lost herself thoroughly although Baron Damitru Mendl got out and searched.
Returning to the town car, Mendl perched on the cushions and tangled and untangled his hands nervously.
"I have heard a great deal about this man, Doc Savage," he said. "They say he is a muscular marvel and a mental wizard who devotes his life to the strange business of helping those who are in trouble."
"Doc Savage has a remarkable reputation, your highness," agreed the general, who seemed to be a confirmed "yes-man." "But who was the old wench?"
"I went to Doc Savage to enlist his aid in preserving my own life," replied Mendl. "In Savage's office, the old hag ran up to me and cried out, 'Doc Savage is helping me!' Then she exhibited a red marble."
The general in the driver's seat started violently. "A red marble."
"Exactly, general! The red marble proves that the old crone is a secret agent--one of my enemies."
The general wiped a slight dew of perspiration off his forehead. "I suggest we leave this vicinity at once, your highness."
"An excellent idea!" Baron Mendl nodded vehemently. "Drive to my hotel. I must send a radiogram, then take all possible measures to protect myself."
The long town car went into motion without a jar.
BARON DAMITRU MENDL had a suite of rooms in the hotel which was conceded by almost every one to be New York's most fashionable hostelry.
The national flag of Calbia was displayed in front of this hotel, alongside the United States colors. The presence of the Calbian emblem had a meaning. It indicated that an important diplomatic personage was a guest of the hotel.
The flag was out in honor of Baron Mendl, Calbian ambassador to the United States.
Baron Mendl went directly to his room, secured a radiogram blank and wrote out a message. He addressed it simply to a stateroom number on a liner which was now crossing the Atlantic from Europe. The communication read:
FIRST-CLASS CABIN 36
LINER S S MONTICELLO, AT SEA
AGENT FROM CALBIA HAS ENLISTED AID OF DOC SAVAGE AGAINST US STOP
HAVE OBSERVED OTHER SECRET AGENTS WATCHING ME STOP
BELIEVE MY LIFE IN DANGER STOP
LEAVING CITY STOP WILL ADVISE YOU MY WHEREABOUTS LATER.
BARON DAMITRU MENDL.
As an afterthought, Baron Mendl drew a small brown code book from a pocket and converted the message into a secret cipher. He burned the first copy painstakingly, crushed the ashes, and threw them out of the window. Then he went down to the hotel wireless telegraph office and filed his coded missive.
His movements marked by an apprehensive haste, he packed his luggage. Bellboys, made unusually spry by the prospect of handsome lips, loaded his bags into the town car.
"We are going on the yacht, general," Baron Mendl informed the driver.
Along the upper shore of Manhattan Island, on the Hudson River side, are a number of swanky yacht clubs. To one of these, Baron Mendl went. The town car was left in the yacht club garage.
Baron Mendl and his chauffeur boarded a seventy-foot, Diesel-engined, seagoing palace. The boat had lines of speed, while mahogany woodwork and brass fittings lent an air of luxury to it. Native Calbians composed the crew, with one exception--the first mate, who was a freckled, red-headed New England Yankee.
"Mr. Lacy," Baron Mendl addressed the red-headed mate. "Put all hands to searching the yacht. Look for bombs, or stowaways."
Twenty minutes later, the red-headed mate made his report. "No bombs. No stowaways," he stated.
"You are positive, Mr. Lacy?" persisted Baron Mendl.
"Plumb certain. We even probed the water tanks."
Baron Mendl surveyed the sky. The sun was just dropping below the horizon. A profusion of clouds promised an extremely dark night.
"Cast off," directed the Calbian ambassador. "Head southward through the bay, and straight out to sea."
The trim vessel got under way, took the middle of the river, picked up speed, and swept past the warehouses and wharves which fringe the Hudson's banks. The sun disappeared entirely, and after a brief dusk, black night came.
The yacht was just nosing into the open sea as complete darkness fell.
"Extinguish all lights," commanded Baron Mendl.
"That's agin' the law, sir," the mate, Lacy, protested.
"Lights out!" snapped Baron Mendl. "Otherwise my enemies, using an airplane or a speedboat might spot me."
The red-headed Lacy had been holding his curiosity fairly well, but now it got the better of him.
"What's going on here, anyway?" he demanded.
"You were hired to take orders, not to ask questions," he was informed sharply.
Lacy grumbled, and departed to switch off the lights. Masthead lights, running lights--even the illumination in the cabins was turned off. A silent wraith in the thick murk, the yacht ran out to sea.
Lacy, consumed with curiosity, and still smarting from Baron Mendl's rebuke, stood in the bows with binoculars jammed to his eyes. He had appointed himself as extra lookout.
Lacy was in the bows when he heard the hissing sound. It was shrill, that hiss, and unlike anything he had ever heard before. He could not tell exactly from where it came.
He started to turn, got half around--and the whole Atlantic ocean seemed to go to pieces. There was a flash--so brilliant that its lights ran into his eyeballs as if it were molten metal.
Lacy had a split-second impression that the yacht and the surrounding sea were both going to jump high into the sky and that the yacht had separated into many pieces for its jump.
Then an explosion-hurled timber slammed against Lacy's red-thatched head, and he became unconscious.
