The Polar Treasure - Robeson Kenneth (лучшие книги читать онлайн .txt) 📗

Chapter 4

THE BLIND-MAN HUNT

BEWILDERMENT GRIPPED the assembled thugs. They could not comprehend that the bronze man had taken the place of Honkey, back at the uptown skyscraper. It was too much for them to believe that any one could be such a master of voice imitation as to fool them by emulating Honkey's hoarse growl.

They looked at the six of their comrades huddled senseless on the floor. A near-terror distorted their ugly faces.

The bronze man slowly pushed Honkey's cap off his head. The cap was none too clean. It was as though he didn't wish to wear it longer than was necessary.

For a brief instant. his finger tips probed in the bronze hair that lay down like a metal skullcap.

"Keep clawin' fer the ceilin'!" snarled the gang chief.

Doc's arms lifted obediently. His hands nearly touched the ceiling, indicating what a really large man he was.

"Search 'im!" ordered the leader.

Gingerly, four of the thugs advanced. They frisked Doc with practiced fingers. They found some silver coins and a few bills which had belonged to Honkey. These they appropriated. But they unearthed no weapon.

"De umpcha ain't got a rod!" they muttered. The fact that Doc wasn't armed seemed to stun them.

Their leader eyed the six limp hulks on the floor. He moved to the bedroom door. He whitened perceptibly when he saw the two sprawled on the bed.

"I don't savvy dis!" he shivered. "What messed dem guys up like dat?"

Suddenly his mean eyes narrowed.

"Hunt in his sleeves!" he commanded his men.

They did so — and brought to light a small hypodermic needle.

The leader grasped the needle fearfully between thumb and forefinger. He inspected it.

"So dis is what laid 'em out!" he leered.

The other villains stirred uneasily. They didn't fancy weapons such as this. A gun was more their style.

"Croak 'im!" they suggested.

But their boss shook his head violently.

"Ixnay!" he snapped. "Dis guy is just de umpcha we need. We're gonna make 'im tell us where old Victor Vail is!"

A marked interest now registered on Doc Savage's bronze features. He was obviously surprised.

"You mean to say you haven't got Victor Vail?" he asked.

The remarkable power of his great voice held the gangsters speechless for a moment. Then their leader spoke sneeringly.

"D'you t'ink we'd be askin' where de guy is if we had 'im?" he demanded. He scowled blackly. "Say, whatcha drivin at — askin' us if we got 'im?"

"Victor Vail was seized," Doc replied. "I naturally supposed you fellows had him. That is why I am here."

The thugs exchanged angry glares.

"Dat damn Keelhaul de Rosa crowd got 'im first, after all!" one grated.

This morsel was very interesting to Doc Savage. "You mean to say your outfit and Keelhaul de Rosa's outfit were both after Victor Vail?" he asked.

"Button de lip!" rasped the leader of the thugs. "I t'ink yer lyin' ter me about anybody gettin' Victor Vail!"

"Den why would he come here?" put in another fellow. "Don't be a nut! Dat's what the shootin' upstairs was. Yer remember we heard a typewriter turn loose. Dat's what scared us off."

Doc Savage gave the tiniest of nods. He understood now why the five captured by Monk and Ham had come dashing out of the elevators with their guns in hand. They had heard the machine-gun fire upstairs, and had become terrified.

"I wonder how Keelhaul de Rosa got ahead of us at de skyscraper?" mumbled the leader.

"He tried to grab de blind guy from under our snozzles at de concert hall, didn't he?" asked the other thug. "He drove off mighty fast in dat taxi, but he could've circled back an' followed de blind guy to dat skyscraper just de same as we did, couldn't he?"

Doc listened with interest to all this. These fellows must have arrived at the concert hall in time to witness the street fight. And they had been cunning enough to keep out of sight.

The leader swore loudly. "Cripes! Yer remember dat guy in a cab who had a trick mustache? De one dat was puffin' a cigar? He followed de roadster to de skyscraper, den went in right after dis bronze guy an' old Victor Vail. I'll bet dat was Keelhaul de Rosa!"

"What we gonna do?" growled a man. The leader shrugged. "Ben O'Gard will wanta know about dis. I'll go an' have a talk wit' 'im!"

This apprised Doc of another fact. These men were hirelings of Ben O'Gard!

Victor Vail had mentioned a strange feud between Ben O'Gard and "Keelhaul" de Rosa on the arctic ice pack. It was evident that this old feud still continued.

But what was back of it? Did Victor Vail's unconsciousness at the time of the disaster to the liner Oceanic, and his awakening with a queer smarting in his back, have anything to do with this mystery?

The leader of the thugs came over and confronted Doc. He looked small and unhealthy before the mighty bronze man. He held up the hypodermic needle.

"What's in dis?" he questioned.

"Water," Doc said dryly.

"Yeah?" sneered the man. He eyed the unmoving forms of his fellows on the floor, shuddered violently, then got hold of himself. "Yer a liar!"

"There's really nothing but water in it," Doc persisted.

The thug leered. His hand darted like a striking serpent. The hypo needle was embedded in Doc's corded neck. The implement discharged its contents into his veins.

Without a sound, the giant bronze man caved down to the floor.

"So it was only water in dat t'ing!" snorted the gangster straw boss. "Dat needle is what got our pals!"

He gave orders. The big bronze man was turned over, kicked a few times, and soundly belabored. He showed no signs of consciousness.

"Dat guy is harder'n brass!" muttered a thug, blowing feverishly on a fist with which he had taken an overly hard swing at the limp, metallic form.

"Watch 'im close!" commanded the leader. Then he pointed at a telephone on a stand against one wall. "I'm goin' to talk wit' Ben O'Gard in person. I'll either give you mugs a ring about what to do wit' the bronze guy, or come back myself an' tell yer."

The man now departed.

The other gangsters expended some minutes in seeking to revive their unconscious fellows. However, they had no luck.

They smoked. They muttered to each other, and one of their number took a post outside in the hallway as lookout.

Suddenly a shrill voice came from the room where the two thugs lay senseless on the bed.

"C'mere, quick!" it piped. "I got somethin' important!"

A number of gangsters rushed into the room. Others crowded about the door.

For a moment, not an eye watched the bronze figure of Doc Savage!

"Dat's funny!" declared a man, examining the pair on the bed. "He must've gone back to sleep! They're both out like a light now!"

"I never heard either one of dem guys talk in a shrill voice like dat," another fellow said wonderingly.

They came out of the bedroom, a puzzled group of villains.

Not one of them glanced at the telephone. So none noticed that a match had been jammed under the receiver hook, holding it in a lifted position!

The strong lips of Doc Savage began to writhe. Sounds came from them. Clucking, gobbling sounds, they were absolutely meaningless to the listening thugs. The sounds were very loud.

"What kinda language is dat?" growled a man.

"Dat ain't no language!" snorted another. "De guy is jest delirious an' ravin'!"