The little incident had no bearing on Doc’s troubles with Kar, except that Doc wanted the paper to see what had been published concerning Jerome Coffern’s weird death — which proved to be nothing he did not already know.
It was such a thing as Doc did often. It was part of his creed, the thing to which his life was devoted — remedying the misfortunes of others.
It was a strange thing for a man to do who had just dealt cold and terrible justice to five murderers. But Doc Savage was a strange man, judged by the look-out-for-yourself-and-nobody-else code of a greedy civilization.
Doc turned into one of the largest apartment houses on that side of Central Park. He rode an elevator to the twentieth floor.
Here Jerome Coffern had lived alone in a modest three-room apartment which was filled almost entirely with scientific books.
The locked door quickly yielded to Doc’s expert wielding of a small hook which he made by bending the tongue of his belt buckle. He entered. He paused just inside the door, bronze face grim.
His golden eyes noted a number of things.
Jerome Coffern thought a great deal of his books, and he had a habit of arranging them just a certain distance from the rear wall of the bookcase. Yet they had a different arrangement now.
He kept chemicals on his library table, also arranged in a certain fashion. Doc knew the arrangement well. To one who didn’t know Coffern, they might look orderly now. But they were not in the right order!
The apartment had been searched!
Swiftly, Doc made a circuit of the place. His nimble fingers, his all-seeing eyes, missed little.
He found the evidence on the typewriter! Jerome Coffern had installed a new ribbon on the machine before starting an extensive document. The machine had written the complete length of the ribbon, then back a considerable distance. But where it had not overwritten, the lettered imprint of the keys was discernible.
Doc read:
And there, to Doc’s disgust, it ended. The rest was illegible. But Jerome Coffern had obviously written it.
Doc continued his search. Jerome Coffern had been a man of few intimate friends. In his personal papers was no reference to any one called Kar.
Oliver Wording Bittman, Doc recalled, was a taxidermist who made a specialty of preparing rare animals for museums. But the name of Gabe Yuder was unfamiliar.
Doc knew the address of Oliver Wording Bittman. It was an apartment house two blocks southward along Central Park.
Doc Savage, unable to find anything else of interest, hurried to interview Oliver Wording Bittman. There was a chance Bittman might have heard of Kar, through Jerome Coffern.
As Doc rode up in an elevator of Bittman’s apartment building, he mentally assembled what he knew of the taxidermist.
The material his memory yielded was all favorable to Oliver Wording Bittman. The man’s name was not unknown. He had a sizable display of rare animal life in the Smithsonian Institution. Walls of several famous clubs and hostelries were adorned with trophies he had mounted.
Best of all, Doc recalled his father had once spoken favorably of Bittman.
The taxidermist himself opened the door.
Oliver Wording Bittman was a man nearly as tall as Doc. But he was thin — so very thin that he looked like a skeleton and a few hard muscles. If a prominent jaw denotes character, Bittman had plenty. His jaw was strikingly large.
Bittman had dark, determined eyes. His hair was dark. His skin had been burned by the wind and sun of many climes. He wore a brown, well-cut business suit. Lounging mules were on his bony, efficient feet.
The only jewelry he wore was a watch chain across his waistcoat front. One end of this secured a timepiece. To the other end was fastened a small implement which at first glance looked like a penknife. Actually, it was a razor-edged taxidermist scalpel for skinning specimens.
Bittman twirled this scalpel about a forefinger.
'You are Doc Savage!' he greeted Doc instantly. 'I am indeed honored.'
Doc admitted his identity, but wondered how Bittman knew him. Bittman must have guessed the question.
'You may wonder how I knew you,' the taxidermist smiled. 'Come into the library and I will show you the answer.'
They moved through the apartment.
Oliver Wording Bittman certainly considered his own work decorative. And in truth, the fellow was an expert in his line. Many scores of rare animal trophies adorned the walls. A great Alaskan Kodiak bear stood in a corner, astoundingly lifelike. Skin rugs made an overlapping carpet underfoot. The workmanship on all these was fine.
They came to a large picture framed on the wall. In the lower left corner of the picture reposed a portion of a letter.
The picture was of Doc Savage’s father. The resemblance between parent and son was marked.
Doc stepped nearer to read the letter.
It was a missive from his own father to Oliver Wording Bittman. It read:
