DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B
Tags: action and adventure
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officer in particular. He was not kind in his choice of words.
NOT many city blocks from this scene, an old woman was making her way through the maze that was Manhattan.
She was a frail thing. She craned her head upward often, her faded eyes seeking the imposing pinnacles of the great metropolis. A flowered hat shaded her fading eyes.
Sometimes, she would catch the eye of a passerby, and offer a friendly, “Hello.” This marked her as a newcomer to Gotham. Such pleasantries did not pass between strangers in New York City. Each time, she was coolly rebuffed.
When she came to a street crossing, the old woman seemed to find the speedy traffic daunting. Since she walked with painful slowness, this was understandable.
She waited a long time for the traffic to thin before venturing to cross.
Half the length of the block there was a store given over to the handling of camping equipment for boys, and in the window display was a pup tent, various kinds of packsacks, camp cook kits, and scouting uniforms. And the elderly woman discovered this window, stumbled over to it, and stood with her nose pressed to the window.
Her manner was pathetic, and her thin lips rolled in as if to keep back an emotion, and a trace of moisture came into her faded eyes. Her lips moved, but what she said was audible to no one but herself. “Poor Billy,” she was mumbling. “He liked to camp out.”
Finally, she dragged a handkerchief across her eyes and went on.
Soon she came upon a cop, big, hearty, and Black Irish to the bone. The cop’s name was Finnerty. He was the traffic cop who had had his uniform cap knocked off by the speeding limousine. The old woman did not know this; only that the cop looked friendly.
“Excuse me, sir,” quavered the old woman in a voice that had the flat twang of the far west. “I have lost my way to a doctor’s office.”
“Now, what’s his address?” the cop demanded in a bluff voice that made the old woman wince.
“I’m not certain,” said the old woman. “Savage is his name.”
“Doc Savage!” the officer exploded.
“Yes,” said the old woman, recoiling a little from the violence of the officer’s ejaculation.
“So that’s the fellow you’re hunting? Well, that makes a difference.”
Snatching his whistle, he blew a terrific blast, causing the halting of traffic. Motorists screeched to a stop. One was a little slow with his foot and slid into the intersection, interfering with crosstown traffic. Horns blared.
Red-faced, the traffic cop got in the middle of the tangle and undid the knot. After he had accomplished this—and incidentally bawled out the slow-to-react driver—the officer came back to the old woman.
“Let me walk you across the street, mother,” he said in a suddenly solicitous voice.
The old woman, blinking at the sight of both flows of busy Manhattan traffic standing still so she could cross safely, allowed the cop to pilot her to the other side.
“That kind of gives you an idea of how important the big bronze guy is,” the cop declared. “Even the mention of his name causes things to happen.”
“You—mean—”
“Sure, Ma’am; Doc Savage. The Man of Bronze. Clark Savage, Jr. No matter what name he goes by, everybody in this burg knows who Doc Savage is. Maybe everybody in the whole world, too.”
The old woman seemed not to know what to say to that.
Finnerty lifted a wind-reddened finger and aimed it between rows of buildings to one spire in particular.
“See that building there? It’s the tallest in the world.”
The old woman squinted hard into the snappish wind. “Yes.”
“That’s where you can find Doc Savage. Way up on the eighty-sixth floor.”
“It looks like a long walk,” the old woman said in a pathetic murmur.
“Take the trolley. Here comes one now.”
The cop lifted an arm and flagged down an approaching trolley car. He escorted the old woman inside and, wonder of wonders, dropped a nickel into the box for her.
“Thank you,
NOT many city blocks from this scene, an old woman was making her way through the maze that was Manhattan.
She was a frail thing. She craned her head upward often, her faded eyes seeking the imposing pinnacles of the great metropolis. A flowered hat shaded her fading eyes.
Sometimes, she would catch the eye of a passerby, and offer a friendly, “Hello.” This marked her as a newcomer to Gotham. Such pleasantries did not pass between strangers in New York City. Each time, she was coolly rebuffed.
When she came to a street crossing, the old woman seemed to find the speedy traffic daunting. Since she walked with painful slowness, this was understandable.
She waited a long time for the traffic to thin before venturing to cross.
Half the length of the block there was a store given over to the handling of camping equipment for boys, and in the window display was a pup tent, various kinds of packsacks, camp cook kits, and scouting uniforms. And the elderly woman discovered this window, stumbled over to it, and stood with her nose pressed to the window.
Her manner was pathetic, and her thin lips rolled in as if to keep back an emotion, and a trace of moisture came into her faded eyes. Her lips moved, but what she said was audible to no one but herself. “Poor Billy,” she was mumbling. “He liked to camp out.”
Finally, she dragged a handkerchief across her eyes and went on.
Soon she came upon a cop, big, hearty, and Black Irish to the bone. The cop’s name was Finnerty. He was the traffic cop who had had his uniform cap knocked off by the speeding limousine. The old woman did not know this; only that the cop looked friendly.
“Excuse me, sir,” quavered the old woman in a voice that had the flat twang of the far west. “I have lost my way to a doctor’s office.”
“Now, what’s his address?” the cop demanded in a bluff voice that made the old woman wince.
“I’m not certain,” said the old woman. “Savage is his name.”
“Doc Savage!” the officer exploded.
“Yes,” said the old woman, recoiling a little from the violence of the officer’s ejaculation.
“So that’s the fellow you’re hunting? Well, that makes a difference.”
Snatching his whistle, he blew a terrific blast, causing the halting of traffic. Motorists screeched to a stop. One was a little slow with his foot and slid into the intersection, interfering with crosstown traffic. Horns blared.
Red-faced, the traffic cop got in the middle of the tangle and undid the knot. After he had accomplished this—and incidentally bawled out the slow-to-react driver—the officer came back to the old woman.
“Let me walk you across the street, mother,” he said in a suddenly solicitous voice.
The old woman, blinking at the sight of both flows of busy Manhattan traffic standing still so she could cross safely, allowed the cop to pilot her to the other side.
“That kind of gives you an idea of how important the big bronze guy is,” the cop declared. “Even the mention of his name causes things to happen.”
“You—mean—”
“Sure, Ma’am; Doc Savage. The Man of Bronze. Clark Savage, Jr. No matter what name he goes by, everybody in this burg knows who Doc Savage is. Maybe everybody in the whole world, too.”
The old woman seemed not to know what to say to that.
Finnerty lifted a wind-reddened finger and aimed it between rows of buildings to one spire in particular.
“See that building there? It’s the tallest in the world.”
The old woman squinted hard into the snappish wind. “Yes.”
“That’s where you can find Doc Savage. Way up on the eighty-sixth floor.”
“It looks like a long walk,” the old woman said in a pathetic murmur.
“Take the trolley. Here comes one now.”
The cop lifted an arm and flagged down an approaching trolley car. He escorted the old woman inside and, wonder of wonders, dropped a nickel into the box for her.
“Thank you,
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