Doc Savage: Glare of the Gorgon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 19) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A
Tags: action and adventure
Ads: Link
small favors,” he told himself forlornly.
Long Tom judged that more than an hour had passed, inasmuch as Janet Falcon had shrugged off the anesthetic effects of the mercy bullets, and was back on her feet. But that was all he understood. Why the woman had been so recalcitrant and why she didn’t wish to speak to him remained a baffling mystery. Her fiancé had been murdered visiting Doc Savage. It stood to reason she would want to know the whys and wherefores.
Instead, she had disappeared into the night, to hide out like a common criminal.
It took another twenty or so minutes for Long Tom to feel up to standing, and when he did, he weaved a little. Experimentally, he attempted to walk to the wash room, barking one bony shin against an end table, but managed to stumble to the sink, where he drew running water. This he splashed on his face, which helped somewhat.
Long Tom had flipped on the lights upon entering. This enabled him to make his way back to the rather dilapidated horsehair chair and dig out the strange gun which he had brought with him.
The pistol was apparently in good working order. It could be seen that the curled ram’s horn magazine still jutted from the grip. A numerical indicator told that the weapon held a significant quantity of ammunition.
Ordinarily, Long Tom would have made a thorough search of the woman’s apartment, looking for clues. But he did not feel that he possessed the mental presence to do so.
Instead, he decided to take his leave, return to his hotel and get word to Doc Savage. Doc would know what to do next.
But Long Tom Roberts was destined not to return to his hotel that evening. Just as he was making his way to the door, the vestibule buzzer sounded again.
At first, the sound hardly penetrated his headache. He had a faint ringing in his ears, which did not help, either.
Finally, the noise got through and Long Tom diverted to the wall panel housing the inter-communicator.
“Who is it?” he asked foolishly. Realizing that it was probably not the wisest thing to answer someone else’s door, he made a sour face.
A gruff voice barked, “Police. Let us up. It’s about Ned Gamble.”
Long Tom could hardly decline to admit a Chicago police officer. So he pressed the electric door-release button, and went to the apartment door. This he threw open.
Clinging to the door frame, the pale electrical engineer awaited the arrival of the police.
The two men who stepped off the elevator wore plainclothes and the stolid expressions habitual with city detectives. One sported the heavy beard growth of a man sorely in need of a shave.
“Are you the cops?” Long Tom asked.
The blue-jawed arrival nodded curtly and demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
“Thomas J. Roberts, one of Doc Savage’s men.”
Hearing that declaration, the two men acquired startled expressions. No doubt they had heard of Doc Savage. Few in the civilized world had not.
Instead of greeting Long Tom as a respected associate of the Man of Bronze, the two stolid-looking men drove their hands into their overcoats and drew out stubby revolvers.
“In that case,” one snarled, “you’re coming with us.”
“Am I under arrest?” stammered out Long Tom, taken by surprise.
“You’re going to wish you were,” said the other. “We ain’t cops, wise guy.”
Now Long Tom was really flummoxed. “Who are you birds?”
“I’m called Blackie, and this here’s Blue. We are a team—kind of like a vaudeville act.” He wiggled his revolver barrel, whose barrel had been bulldogged until it protruded barely an inch in front of the fat cylinder. “There are six lead honeys in there, brother!” he confided laconically. “Every one has been scratched on the nose and rubbed in garlic.”
Long Tom gulped, found his voice.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
“Makes blood poisoning,” Blackie elaborated genially. “Gangrene. You get slugged with one of these and you’re same as in the dead
Long Tom judged that more than an hour had passed, inasmuch as Janet Falcon had shrugged off the anesthetic effects of the mercy bullets, and was back on her feet. But that was all he understood. Why the woman had been so recalcitrant and why she didn’t wish to speak to him remained a baffling mystery. Her fiancé had been murdered visiting Doc Savage. It stood to reason she would want to know the whys and wherefores.
Instead, she had disappeared into the night, to hide out like a common criminal.
It took another twenty or so minutes for Long Tom to feel up to standing, and when he did, he weaved a little. Experimentally, he attempted to walk to the wash room, barking one bony shin against an end table, but managed to stumble to the sink, where he drew running water. This he splashed on his face, which helped somewhat.
Long Tom had flipped on the lights upon entering. This enabled him to make his way back to the rather dilapidated horsehair chair and dig out the strange gun which he had brought with him.
The pistol was apparently in good working order. It could be seen that the curled ram’s horn magazine still jutted from the grip. A numerical indicator told that the weapon held a significant quantity of ammunition.
Ordinarily, Long Tom would have made a thorough search of the woman’s apartment, looking for clues. But he did not feel that he possessed the mental presence to do so.
Instead, he decided to take his leave, return to his hotel and get word to Doc Savage. Doc would know what to do next.
But Long Tom Roberts was destined not to return to his hotel that evening. Just as he was making his way to the door, the vestibule buzzer sounded again.
At first, the sound hardly penetrated his headache. He had a faint ringing in his ears, which did not help, either.
Finally, the noise got through and Long Tom diverted to the wall panel housing the inter-communicator.
“Who is it?” he asked foolishly. Realizing that it was probably not the wisest thing to answer someone else’s door, he made a sour face.
A gruff voice barked, “Police. Let us up. It’s about Ned Gamble.”
Long Tom could hardly decline to admit a Chicago police officer. So he pressed the electric door-release button, and went to the apartment door. This he threw open.
Clinging to the door frame, the pale electrical engineer awaited the arrival of the police.
The two men who stepped off the elevator wore plainclothes and the stolid expressions habitual with city detectives. One sported the heavy beard growth of a man sorely in need of a shave.
“Are you the cops?” Long Tom asked.
The blue-jawed arrival nodded curtly and demanded, “Who the hell are you?”
“Thomas J. Roberts, one of Doc Savage’s men.”
Hearing that declaration, the two men acquired startled expressions. No doubt they had heard of Doc Savage. Few in the civilized world had not.
Instead of greeting Long Tom as a respected associate of the Man of Bronze, the two stolid-looking men drove their hands into their overcoats and drew out stubby revolvers.
“In that case,” one snarled, “you’re coming with us.”
“Am I under arrest?” stammered out Long Tom, taken by surprise.
“You’re going to wish you were,” said the other. “We ain’t cops, wise guy.”
Now Long Tom was really flummoxed. “Who are you birds?”
“I’m called Blackie, and this here’s Blue. We are a team—kind of like a vaudeville act.” He wiggled his revolver barrel, whose barrel had been bulldogged until it protruded barely an inch in front of the fat cylinder. “There are six lead honeys in there, brother!” he confided laconically. “Every one has been scratched on the nose and rubbed in garlic.”
Long Tom gulped, found his voice.
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
“Makes blood poisoning,” Blackie elaborated genially. “Gangrene. You get slugged with one of these and you’re same as in the dead
Similar Books
