loose, once he had him.'
'That mystifies me, also,' Victor Vail put in. 'The man is a murdering devil. I felt sure he would slay me.'
SWINGING OVER to the window, Doc Savage stood looking out. The street was so far below that automobiles on it looked like chubby bugs. Street lamps were pin points of light.
There came soft sound of elevator doors opening out in the corridor.
Monk waddled in. He was smoking a cigarette he had rolled himself. The stub was no more than an inch long, and stuck to the end of his tongue.
Monk drew in his tongue, and the cigarette went with it, disappearing completely in his cavernous mouth. His mouth closed. Smoke dribbled out of his nostrils.
Throughout the performance, Monk's little eyes had remained fixed on the sartorially perfect Ham. This bit of foolishness was just Monk's latest method of annoying Ham.
For Monk was the one person alive who could get Ham's goat thoroughly. It had all started back in the War, when Ham was known only as Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. He had been the moving spirit in a little scheme to teach Monk certain French words which had a meaning entirely different than Monk thought. As a result, Monk had spent a session in the guardhouse for some things he had innocently called a French general.
A few days after that, though, Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks was suddenly hauled up before a court-martial, accused of stealing hams. And convicted! Somebody had expertly planted plenty of evidence.
Ham got his nickname right there. And to this day he had not been able to prove it was the homely Monk who had framed him. This rankled Ham's lawyer soul.
'They're gonna clap you in the zoo one of these days!' Ham sneered at his tormentor.
The cigarette came out of monk's mouth, together with a cloud of smoke. From his lips burst a hoinck- hoinck sound — a perfect imitation of a pig grunting.
The next instant he dodged with a speed astounding for one of his great bulk. Ham's whistling sword cane just missed delivering a resounding whack on his bullet head. Ham was touchy about any reference to pigs, especially when made by Monk.
Monk would probably have continued his goading of Ham for an hour, but Doc interrupted his fun.
'What did you learn from Keelhaul de Rosa's men being held at the police station?' Doc inquired.
'Nothin'.' grinned Monk. 'They was just a bunch of hired lice. They don't even know where Keelhaul de Rosa hangs out.'
Doc nodded. He had half expected that.
'Ham,' he said, 'your legal work has given you connections with prominent government men in America and England. I want you to go at once and find out what you can about the liner Oceanic. Learn all possible of the crew, the cargo, and anything else of interest.'
Ham nodded, sneered elaborately at Monk, and went out.
HE HAD hardly gone when the phone rang. It was 'Johnny.'
Johnny's voice was that of a lecturer. He chose his words precisely, after the fashion of a college professor. As a matter of fact, Johnny had been both in his time. William Harper Littlejohn — for that was what his mother had named him — stood high on the roster of an international society of archaeologists. Few men knew more about the world and its inhabitants, past and present, than Johnny.
'I have your men located, Doc,' said Johnny. 'They halted their sedans before a low-class rooming house. Renny and Long Tom radioed me the location from the plane, where they were watching, and I arrived in time to see the men enter.'
Johnny added an address on New York's lower east side. It was not far from Chinatown.
'Be right with you!' Doc replied, and hung up.
Monk was already half through the door.
''Hey!' Doc called. 'You're staying here.'
'Aw!' Monk looked like a big, amiable pup who had been booted in the ribs. He was disappointed. He did love action!
'Some one has to guard Victor Vail,' Doc pointed out.
Monk nodded meekly, pulled out his makings, and started a cigarette as Doc went out.
DOC SAVAGE'S gray roadster was equipped with a regulation police siren. He had authority to use it. His careening car touched eighty several times.
A dozen blocks from his destination, he slowed. The wailing siren died. Like a gray ghost, Doc's car slipped through the tenement district.
He pulled up around the corner from the address Johnny had given.
A tall man was selling newspapers on the corner. The fellow was very thin. His shoulders looked like a coat-hanger under his plain blue suit. The rest of him was in proportion, incredibly skinny.
He wore glasses. The right lens of these spectacles was much thicker than the left. A close observer might have noted that this left lens was in reality a powerful magnifying glass. For the wearer of the unusual spectacles had virtually lost the use of his left eye in the World War. He needed a powerful magnifier in his business, so he carried it in his glasses for handiness.
The newspaper vender saw Doc. He came over. As bony as he was, it was a wonder he didn't rattle when he walked.
'They're still in the room,' he said. 'Third floor, first door to your right.'
'Good work, Johnny,' Doc replied. 'You armed?'
Johnny opened his bundle of papers like a book. This disclosed a small, pistollike weapon which had a large cartridge magazine affixed to the grip. A more compact and deadly killing machine than this instrument would be difficult to find. It was a special machine gun of Doc Savage's own invention.
'Fine,' Doc breathed. 'Wait on the street. I'm going up to that room.'
THE STEPS whined under the giant bronze man's considerable weight. To avoid the noise, he leaped lightly to the banister. Like a tight-rope walker, he ran up the slanted railing.
He took the second flight in the same manner, not troubling to see if those steps squeaked also. By using the banister, he avoided any electrical alarms which might have been under the steps.
A white rod of light lying close to the floor marked the bottom of the door he was interested in. He listened. His keen ears detected men breathing. One grunted a demand for a cigarette.
Doc Savage lurked outside the door perhaps two minutes. His mighty bronze hands were busy. They dipped into his pockets often. Then he turned and started up another flight of steps in the fashion of the first two.
The structure had five floors. A creaking hatch let Doc out on a tarred roof. He moved over to a spot directly above the window of the room in which his quarry waited.
A silken line came out of his clothing. It was thin, strong. One end he looped securely about a chimney.
Like a spider on a string, Doc went down the cord. His sinewy hands gripped the line securely. He reached the window.
Hanging by one thewed fist, he dropped the other hand into a coat pocket. He boldly kicked the window inward. Through the aperture his foot made, he threw the objects he had taken from the pocket. A roar of excitement seized the room interior.
Back up the silken cord, Doc climbed. He 'had no more trouble with the small line than he would have with a set of stairs. At the top, he replaced it inside his clothing. He seemed in no hurry.
Below him in the room, the excitement had died a mysterious death.
Doc ambled to the front of the building and seated himself on the parapet. Below, he could see the gaunt Johnny with his papers.
'Poi-p-e-r-s!' Johnny was bawling lustily. 'W-u-xtra! Latest poi-p-e-r-s!'
No one would have dreamed Johnny was actually doing all the bellowing to cover any sounds from within the building.
