Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray
Tags: action and adventure
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hell are you to rough me up like this?” demanded the other.
“Monk Mayfair, famous chemist, and even more famous as a Doc Savage associate. Now hand over that blasted quarter!”
The accosted man did not know what to think or do, but finally the quarter was produced. Monk dropped it into the slot, where it produced a satisfactory clink signifying acceptance by the mechanism.
Shoving the individual outside, Monk closed the door, and continued holding the line.
Finally, the dispatcher came back on the line, and reported that the fare was deposited in Brooklyn. “Here’s the address.”
Lacking anything with which to write it down, Monk committed it to memory, asking, “What kind of joint is it?”
“According to Harry,” the dispatcher said, “it’s an Old Sailors Home.”
“Old Sailors Home? That doesn’t sound quite right.”
“That’s what Harry said.”
“Thanks,” Monk said, slamming down the receiver and barging out.
On his way out the revolving front door, he got tangled up with the man from whom he borrowed the quarter.
“You got the coin okay?” demanded Monk.
The man grinned. “I asked for a dollar, and he gave it to me, so I made seventy-five cents on the deal.”
Monk moaned, “That means I owe that shyster a whole dollar.”
“Take it up with him. It’s between the two of you now,” returned the man, tipping his hat and taking off.
Grumbling to himself, “This has not been my finest twenty-four hours,” the hairy chemist jumped into the back of a cab and said, “Take me to the Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn.”
“Never heard of any such place,” replied the cabbie, looking puzzled.
Monk recited the address, and the car got into gear and took off into busy Manhattan traffic.
As the taxicab wended its way through vehicular traffic, the driver became talkative.
“I have a cousin in the Navy, and another cousin in the Merchant Marines, and I never heard of any Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn, or for that matter anywhere in these parts.”
Monk frowned and muttered darkly, “Well, we will soon see about that.”
“In fact,” said the cabbie expansively, “I got a dollar in my pocket that says there is no such place.”
“I have not been doin’ so hot with my money lately.”
“Does that mean you won’t take me up on it?”
“Take an I.O.U.?” asked Monk hopefully.
“Since you’re Monk Mayfair, I guess I will.”
Monk shoved a furry paw forward and they shook hands awkwardly. After that, the driver grew more intent upon reaching his destination.
THE SIGN in front of the decrepit building said in faded gold letters against a black background, OLD SAILORS HOME.
The driver muttered some choice profanity, and said, “The fare is three dollars, so you owe me two bucks.”
Monk suddenly realized he did not have the two dollars. He made an effort to fish around in his pockets, but the only thing he produced were three steel war-issue pennies, at which the driver sneered.
“Say, what is this? Are you trying to beat the fare on top of taking me for a dollar?”
“Tell you what,” suggested Monk. “Just drive back to Doc Savage headquarters and say to Ham Brooks that I borrowed three dollars off you. That way you get the full fare back. How’s that?”
“Fishy, I calls it. Mighty fishy.”
“Unless you want to call a cop, and let him sort it out,” countered Monk, “that’s the best I can offer you, pal.”
The cabbie sighed. “I guess I will take it.” Reaching behind to throw open the rear door, he snarled, “Now out , deadbeat.”
It was about the noon hour, and a working day for those who still toiled on Saturdays, so the residential area was rather on the deserted side. The Old Sailors Home had once been a residence. It obviously had been rededicated to a rest home for retired seamen.
Monk considered how best to attack the situation and decided that barging up to the front door and knocking was the most direct approach, and so it was the one
“Monk Mayfair, famous chemist, and even more famous as a Doc Savage associate. Now hand over that blasted quarter!”
The accosted man did not know what to think or do, but finally the quarter was produced. Monk dropped it into the slot, where it produced a satisfactory clink signifying acceptance by the mechanism.
Shoving the individual outside, Monk closed the door, and continued holding the line.
Finally, the dispatcher came back on the line, and reported that the fare was deposited in Brooklyn. “Here’s the address.”
Lacking anything with which to write it down, Monk committed it to memory, asking, “What kind of joint is it?”
“According to Harry,” the dispatcher said, “it’s an Old Sailors Home.”
“Old Sailors Home? That doesn’t sound quite right.”
“That’s what Harry said.”
“Thanks,” Monk said, slamming down the receiver and barging out.
On his way out the revolving front door, he got tangled up with the man from whom he borrowed the quarter.
“You got the coin okay?” demanded Monk.
The man grinned. “I asked for a dollar, and he gave it to me, so I made seventy-five cents on the deal.”
Monk moaned, “That means I owe that shyster a whole dollar.”
“Take it up with him. It’s between the two of you now,” returned the man, tipping his hat and taking off.
Grumbling to himself, “This has not been my finest twenty-four hours,” the hairy chemist jumped into the back of a cab and said, “Take me to the Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn.”
“Never heard of any such place,” replied the cabbie, looking puzzled.
Monk recited the address, and the car got into gear and took off into busy Manhattan traffic.
As the taxicab wended its way through vehicular traffic, the driver became talkative.
“I have a cousin in the Navy, and another cousin in the Merchant Marines, and I never heard of any Old Sailors Home in Brooklyn, or for that matter anywhere in these parts.”
Monk frowned and muttered darkly, “Well, we will soon see about that.”
“In fact,” said the cabbie expansively, “I got a dollar in my pocket that says there is no such place.”
“I have not been doin’ so hot with my money lately.”
“Does that mean you won’t take me up on it?”
“Take an I.O.U.?” asked Monk hopefully.
“Since you’re Monk Mayfair, I guess I will.”
Monk shoved a furry paw forward and they shook hands awkwardly. After that, the driver grew more intent upon reaching his destination.
THE SIGN in front of the decrepit building said in faded gold letters against a black background, OLD SAILORS HOME.
The driver muttered some choice profanity, and said, “The fare is three dollars, so you owe me two bucks.”
Monk suddenly realized he did not have the two dollars. He made an effort to fish around in his pockets, but the only thing he produced were three steel war-issue pennies, at which the driver sneered.
“Say, what is this? Are you trying to beat the fare on top of taking me for a dollar?”
“Tell you what,” suggested Monk. “Just drive back to Doc Savage headquarters and say to Ham Brooks that I borrowed three dollars off you. That way you get the full fare back. How’s that?”
“Fishy, I calls it. Mighty fishy.”
“Unless you want to call a cop, and let him sort it out,” countered Monk, “that’s the best I can offer you, pal.”
The cabbie sighed. “I guess I will take it.” Reaching behind to throw open the rear door, he snarled, “Now out , deadbeat.”
It was about the noon hour, and a working day for those who still toiled on Saturdays, so the residential area was rather on the deserted side. The Old Sailors Home had once been a residence. It obviously had been rededicated to a rest home for retired seamen.
Monk considered how best to attack the situation and decided that barging up to the front door and knocking was the most direct approach, and so it was the one
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