Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A
Tags: action and adventure
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he favored. Monk was the direct sort.
The hairy chemist applied his rusty knuckles to the front door, which was a Kelly green whose surface was so cracked that an older mustard-hued coat of paint could be discerned behind.
Monk knocked three times, very loudly, while slipping from an underarm holster a peculiar pistol. This weapon was an intricate little gadget, with a number of knobs and horns, a compact ammunition drum set in front of the trigger, and a barrel approximately the diameter of a pencil.
This was a supermachine pistol, a product of Doc Savage’s inventive genius. It fired all manner of rounds, but rarely lead slugs owing to the bronze man’s admonitions against killing foes.
Despite his sometimes thick-headed directness, Monk also harbored several cautious bones in his body. If there was to be trouble, the homely chemist wanted to be prepared for it. He unlatched several safety catches, and placed one hand behind his back, concealing the powerful weapon, while the other fist made the ancient door shake in its frame.
A voice bellowed from within, “Diamond! Are you expecting callers?”
“No,” a cold voice returned.
Both voices were muffled by the thick old door that had once been the color of dried mustard.
Monk applied one cauliflower ear to the panel and attempted to discern more of the conversation.
“Should I answer it?”
“How do I know?”
“Somebody make a decision!”
There followed a rough argument about the issue of whether or not to answer the door.
Listening, Monk tried to make sense of this argument. It seemed rather vociferous for such a small matter. If this was an Old Sailors Home, visitors might not be common, but neither would they normally produce an issue of admittance.While Monk was focusing on his cauliflower ear, two grim gentlemen with guns had crept around from either side of the house, stole up behind him and pressed the hard muzzles of their weapons against his broad shoulder blades.
One man snatched the supermachine pistol out of Monk’s hand.
Here, the hairy chemist was taken completely by surprise. Normally, he would have whirled and brought the heads of the two men together, but he recognized the familiar prod of hard steel against his back, having had the drop gotten on him many times in the past.
“What’s doin’?” growled Monk.
“You tell us, brother.”
“I’m just payin’ a call on Raymond Lee. Know him?”
“No,” said one.
“Who is he?” chimed in the other.
“Maybe I got the wrong address,” Monk said hopefully.
“Maybe we should ask Diamond about that,” said the man who did not know who Raymond Lee was.
A key was produced, the door unlocked, and Monk was herded inside. The two hard gun barrels never left his shoulder blades, and the hairy chemist knew that if either or both discharged, his shoulder blades would crack like china plates.
“It worked!” said one.
“Yeah,” added the other, “he fell for our phony fracas like a ton of bricks—the dumb ape.”
“Watch who you’re callin’ a dumb ape,” yelled Monk. “I got feelings.”
“You feel the gun muzzles at your back, don’t you? Those are the only feelings you need to bother about right now.”
The smoky-haired gentleman who had called himself Raymond Lee came bounding down the stairs from above, took one look at Monk and groaned, “This is a hell of a note.” His Southern accent seemed to have escaped him.
“Who is he?” demanded one ambusher.
“Who is he!” echoed Raymond Lee. “Who do you think he is? This is the character we’ve been trying to get out of the way.”
Monk looked baffled. “Who? Me?”
Raymond Lee charged up to Monk and looked down at him like he had found a cockroach in his kitchen.
“This is Mayfair?” asked another gunman.
“It is.”
“I thought you gave him a bone to gnaw on.”
Raymond Lee growled, “He must be one of those guys who wolfs down his food and comes around looking for more.”
A gun barrel
The hairy chemist applied his rusty knuckles to the front door, which was a Kelly green whose surface was so cracked that an older mustard-hued coat of paint could be discerned behind.
Monk knocked three times, very loudly, while slipping from an underarm holster a peculiar pistol. This weapon was an intricate little gadget, with a number of knobs and horns, a compact ammunition drum set in front of the trigger, and a barrel approximately the diameter of a pencil.
This was a supermachine pistol, a product of Doc Savage’s inventive genius. It fired all manner of rounds, but rarely lead slugs owing to the bronze man’s admonitions against killing foes.
Despite his sometimes thick-headed directness, Monk also harbored several cautious bones in his body. If there was to be trouble, the homely chemist wanted to be prepared for it. He unlatched several safety catches, and placed one hand behind his back, concealing the powerful weapon, while the other fist made the ancient door shake in its frame.
A voice bellowed from within, “Diamond! Are you expecting callers?”
“No,” a cold voice returned.
Both voices were muffled by the thick old door that had once been the color of dried mustard.
Monk applied one cauliflower ear to the panel and attempted to discern more of the conversation.
“Should I answer it?”
“How do I know?”
“Somebody make a decision!”
There followed a rough argument about the issue of whether or not to answer the door.
Listening, Monk tried to make sense of this argument. It seemed rather vociferous for such a small matter. If this was an Old Sailors Home, visitors might not be common, but neither would they normally produce an issue of admittance.While Monk was focusing on his cauliflower ear, two grim gentlemen with guns had crept around from either side of the house, stole up behind him and pressed the hard muzzles of their weapons against his broad shoulder blades.
One man snatched the supermachine pistol out of Monk’s hand.
Here, the hairy chemist was taken completely by surprise. Normally, he would have whirled and brought the heads of the two men together, but he recognized the familiar prod of hard steel against his back, having had the drop gotten on him many times in the past.
“What’s doin’?” growled Monk.
“You tell us, brother.”
“I’m just payin’ a call on Raymond Lee. Know him?”
“No,” said one.
“Who is he?” chimed in the other.
“Maybe I got the wrong address,” Monk said hopefully.
“Maybe we should ask Diamond about that,” said the man who did not know who Raymond Lee was.
A key was produced, the door unlocked, and Monk was herded inside. The two hard gun barrels never left his shoulder blades, and the hairy chemist knew that if either or both discharged, his shoulder blades would crack like china plates.
“It worked!” said one.
“Yeah,” added the other, “he fell for our phony fracas like a ton of bricks—the dumb ape.”
“Watch who you’re callin’ a dumb ape,” yelled Monk. “I got feelings.”
“You feel the gun muzzles at your back, don’t you? Those are the only feelings you need to bother about right now.”
The smoky-haired gentleman who had called himself Raymond Lee came bounding down the stairs from above, took one look at Monk and groaned, “This is a hell of a note.” His Southern accent seemed to have escaped him.
“Who is he?” demanded one ambusher.
“Who is he!” echoed Raymond Lee. “Who do you think he is? This is the character we’ve been trying to get out of the way.”
Monk looked baffled. “Who? Me?”
Raymond Lee charged up to Monk and looked down at him like he had found a cockroach in his kitchen.
“This is Mayfair?” asked another gunman.
“It is.”
“I thought you gave him a bone to gnaw on.”
Raymond Lee growled, “He must be one of those guys who wolfs down his food and comes around looking for more.”
A gun barrel
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