connection with the suicide be not revealed to the newspapers.
Doc was thus left free to depart for the Central American republic of Hidalgo to investigate the mysterious legacy his father had left him.
Back up in the eighty-sixth-floor lair, Doc made plans and gave orders looking to their execution.
To waspish, quick-thinking Ham, he gave certain of the papers which had been under the brick in the laboratory.
“Your career as a lawyer has given you a wide acquaintance in Washington, Ham,” Doc told him. “You’re intimate with all the high government officials. So you take care of the legal angle of our trip to Hidalgo.”
Ham picked back a cuff to look at an expensive platinum wrist watch. “A passenger plane leaves New York for Washington in four hours. I’ll be on it.” He twirled his black, innocent-looking sword cane.
“Too long to wait,” Doc told him. “Take my autogyro. Fly it down yourself. We’ll join you at about nine this morning.”
Ham nodded. He was an expert airplane pilot. So were Renny, Long Tom, Johnny, and Monk. Doc Savage had taught them, managing to imbue them with some of his own genius at the controls.
“Where is your autogyro?” Ham inquired
“At North Beach airport out on Long Island,” Doc retorted.
Ham whipped out, in a hurry to get his share done. “Renny,” Doc directed, “whatever instruments you need, take them. Dig up maps. You’re our navigator. We are going to fly down, of course.”
“Righto, Doc,” said Renny, his utterly somber, puritanical look showing just how pleased he was.
For this thing promised action. Excitement and adventure aplenty! And how these remarkable men were enamored of that!
“Long Tom,” said Doc Savage, “yours is the electrical end. You know what we might need.”
“Sure!” Long Tom’s pale face was flaming red with excitement.
Long Tom wasn’t as unhealthy as he looked. None of the others could remember his suffering a day of illness. Unless the periodic rages, the wild tantrums of temper into which he flew, could be called illness. Long Tom sometimes went months without a flare-up, but when he did explode, he certainly made up for lost time.
His unhealthy look probably came from the gloomy laboratory in which he conducted his endless electrical experiments. The enormous gold tooth he sported directly in front helped, too.
Long Tom, like Ham, had earned his nickname In France.
In a certain French village there had been ensconced in the town park an old-fashioned cannon of the type used centuries ago by rovers of the Spanish Main. In the heat of an enemy attack, Major Thomas J. Roberts had loaded this ancient relic with a sackful of kitchen cutlery and broken wine bottles, and wrought genuine havoc. And from that day, he was Long Tom Roberts.
“Chemicals,” Doc told Monk.
“Ok,” grinned Monk. He sidled out. It was remarkable that a man so homely could be one of the world’s leading chemists. But it was true. Monk had a great chemical laboratory of his own in a penthouse atop an office building far downtown, only a short distance from Wall Street. He was headed there now.
Only Johnny, the geologist and archaeologist, remained with Doc.
“Johnny, your work is possibly the most important.” Doc’s golden eyes were thoughtful as he looked out the window. “Dig into your library for dope on Hidalgo. Also on the ancient Mayan race.”
“You think the Mayan angle is important, Doc?”
“I sure do, Johnny.”
The telephone bell jangled.
“That’s my long-distance call to England,” Doc guessed. “They took their time getting it through!”
Lifting the phone, he spoke, got an answer, then rapidly gave the model of the double-barreled elephant rifle, and the number of the weapon.
“Who was it sold to?” he asked.
In a few minutes, he got his answer.
Doc rung off. His bronze face was inscrutable; golden gleamings were in his eyes.
“The English factory says they sold that gun to the government of
Doc was thus left free to depart for the Central American republic of Hidalgo to investigate the mysterious legacy his father had left him.
Back up in the eighty-sixth-floor lair, Doc made plans and gave orders looking to their execution.
To waspish, quick-thinking Ham, he gave certain of the papers which had been under the brick in the laboratory.
“Your career as a lawyer has given you a wide acquaintance in Washington, Ham,” Doc told him. “You’re intimate with all the high government officials. So you take care of the legal angle of our trip to Hidalgo.”
Ham picked back a cuff to look at an expensive platinum wrist watch. “A passenger plane leaves New York for Washington in four hours. I’ll be on it.” He twirled his black, innocent-looking sword cane.
“Too long to wait,” Doc told him. “Take my autogyro. Fly it down yourself. We’ll join you at about nine this morning.”
Ham nodded. He was an expert airplane pilot. So were Renny, Long Tom, Johnny, and Monk. Doc Savage had taught them, managing to imbue them with some of his own genius at the controls.
“Where is your autogyro?” Ham inquired
“At North Beach airport out on Long Island,” Doc retorted.
Ham whipped out, in a hurry to get his share done. “Renny,” Doc directed, “whatever instruments you need, take them. Dig up maps. You’re our navigator. We are going to fly down, of course.”
“Righto, Doc,” said Renny, his utterly somber, puritanical look showing just how pleased he was.
For this thing promised action. Excitement and adventure aplenty! And how these remarkable men were enamored of that!
“Long Tom,” said Doc Savage, “yours is the electrical end. You know what we might need.”
“Sure!” Long Tom’s pale face was flaming red with excitement.
Long Tom wasn’t as unhealthy as he looked. None of the others could remember his suffering a day of illness. Unless the periodic rages, the wild tantrums of temper into which he flew, could be called illness. Long Tom sometimes went months without a flare-up, but when he did explode, he certainly made up for lost time.
His unhealthy look probably came from the gloomy laboratory in which he conducted his endless electrical experiments. The enormous gold tooth he sported directly in front helped, too.
Long Tom, like Ham, had earned his nickname In France.
In a certain French village there had been ensconced in the town park an old-fashioned cannon of the type used centuries ago by rovers of the Spanish Main. In the heat of an enemy attack, Major Thomas J. Roberts had loaded this ancient relic with a sackful of kitchen cutlery and broken wine bottles, and wrought genuine havoc. And from that day, he was Long Tom Roberts.
“Chemicals,” Doc told Monk.
“Ok,” grinned Monk. He sidled out. It was remarkable that a man so homely could be one of the world’s leading chemists. But it was true. Monk had a great chemical laboratory of his own in a penthouse atop an office building far downtown, only a short distance from Wall Street. He was headed there now.
Only Johnny, the geologist and archaeologist, remained with Doc.
“Johnny, your work is possibly the most important.” Doc’s golden eyes were thoughtful as he looked out the window. “Dig into your library for dope on Hidalgo. Also on the ancient Mayan race.”
“You think the Mayan angle is important, Doc?”
“I sure do, Johnny.”
The telephone bell jangled.
“That’s my long-distance call to England,” Doc guessed. “They took their time getting it through!”
Lifting the phone, he spoke, got an answer, then rapidly gave the model of the double-barreled elephant rifle, and the number of the weapon.
“Who was it sold to?” he asked.
In a few minutes, he got his answer.
Doc rung off. His bronze face was inscrutable; golden gleamings were in his eyes.
“The English factory says they sold that gun to the government of
Similar Books
