Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray
Tags: action and adventure
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concern, Mr. Starr.”
Starr smiled broadly, displaying massive, horse-like teeth. “Call me Gloomy.”
A sudden thought struck the Count. “By chance can you fly an airplane?”
“Sure as shootin’. Can ride a horse, too.”
“We have—er—a disposal problem. Would you be interested in attending to it for us?”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“What else?”
“Way you gents talk, I kinda question the currency. No offense.”
“None taken, I assure you.” The other bowed in courtly fashion. With his cane, he pointed to the brick structure by the water’s edge. “The aircraft sits in that hangar. We will wait for you here.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Gloomy Starr, packing the sheeted form over one shoulder and bearing it into the boathouse.
Minutes passed, then a green-and-white float plane scooted out and took to the skies, engine howling.
They watched the aircraft through field glasses. The pilot showed moderate skill at flying, but that was all that was required for the task at hand.
Before long, a sheeted bundle came tumbling out of the plane. It made a white splash in the surface of the Sound. Then the plane came about and ran toward them.
“When he lands, we will kill him, of course,” said Pippel, who was looking rather greenish after the severe manhandling Monk Mayfair had given him.
The Count frowned. “No. He will be useful.”
Pippel’s face twisted. “We cannot—”
A gloved hand was raised. “Silence. He sticks out like a sore thumb. He will provide good American company on the voyage south.”
Pippel nodded. He was beginning to comprehend the trend of things. His expression told that he did not like it, but he understood his leader.
“Yes, mein Herr Graf,” he said crisply, his back stiffening as if in salute.
Chapter XI
CAY BOUND
THE ARISTOCRAT CALLED the Count advanced to meet Gloomy Starr upon his return. The landing was not smooth. Pancaking, the float plane hit hard, all but dipped a wingtip into the choppy waters of Long Island Sound. The hapless pilot, in attempting to taxi toward shore, managed to stub the craft’s pontoons against a group of half-submerged rocks.
The final result was that the hulking man was forced to abandon the stricken seaplane and swim back toward land.
The Count asked coolly, “It went well?”
“You saw how well with your own eyes,” replied Gloomy laconically. “Sorry about your ship. I was always better at take-offs than landings.”
“You mean that your piloting skills did not, in truth, include seaplanes,” clucked the Count.
“Now that you mention it, yeah,” admitted Gloomy sheepishly.
“No matter, the plane was a rental, and we are done here. I was referring to the disposal operation, by the way.”
Gloomy shrugged gigantically. “You saw that, too.” From his dull expression, cold-blooded murder was neither a new experience, nor especially nerve-jarring.
The Count smiled unreservedly. “I did, indeed. By the way, my name is Rumpler. Now we must be off.”
Turning, he gave orders in a guttural language.
The speed with which the men gathered up their fallen was remarkable. They were carried into the house, which was plainly rented for the purpose of sheltering the group.
Instantly, clothes were packed and suitcases thrown into the trunk of the waiting vehicle. Another car—a sedan—was wheeled out of the attached garage.
“Where to?” asked Gloomy Starr.
“Steamship docks,” he was told.
“And after that?”
“You will be told at the appropriate time.”
Gloomy Starr went over to the blonde who was very subdued.
“And who might you be?”
“None of your business,” snapped the woman.
Gloomy scrutinized her with intensely dark eyes.
“Have we met before?”
“I doubt it,” the blonde said frostily.
“I didn’t think so,” Gloomy muttered.
“I normally keep better company,” she added sarcastically.
The Count spoke up. “Miss Hale presents a special
Starr smiled broadly, displaying massive, horse-like teeth. “Call me Gloomy.”
A sudden thought struck the Count. “By chance can you fly an airplane?”
“Sure as shootin’. Can ride a horse, too.”
“We have—er—a disposal problem. Would you be interested in attending to it for us?”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
“Dollars?”
“What else?”
“Way you gents talk, I kinda question the currency. No offense.”
“None taken, I assure you.” The other bowed in courtly fashion. With his cane, he pointed to the brick structure by the water’s edge. “The aircraft sits in that hangar. We will wait for you here.”
“Glad to oblige,” said Gloomy Starr, packing the sheeted form over one shoulder and bearing it into the boathouse.
Minutes passed, then a green-and-white float plane scooted out and took to the skies, engine howling.
They watched the aircraft through field glasses. The pilot showed moderate skill at flying, but that was all that was required for the task at hand.
Before long, a sheeted bundle came tumbling out of the plane. It made a white splash in the surface of the Sound. Then the plane came about and ran toward them.
“When he lands, we will kill him, of course,” said Pippel, who was looking rather greenish after the severe manhandling Monk Mayfair had given him.
The Count frowned. “No. He will be useful.”
Pippel’s face twisted. “We cannot—”
A gloved hand was raised. “Silence. He sticks out like a sore thumb. He will provide good American company on the voyage south.”
Pippel nodded. He was beginning to comprehend the trend of things. His expression told that he did not like it, but he understood his leader.
“Yes, mein Herr Graf,” he said crisply, his back stiffening as if in salute.
Chapter XI
CAY BOUND
THE ARISTOCRAT CALLED the Count advanced to meet Gloomy Starr upon his return. The landing was not smooth. Pancaking, the float plane hit hard, all but dipped a wingtip into the choppy waters of Long Island Sound. The hapless pilot, in attempting to taxi toward shore, managed to stub the craft’s pontoons against a group of half-submerged rocks.
The final result was that the hulking man was forced to abandon the stricken seaplane and swim back toward land.
The Count asked coolly, “It went well?”
“You saw how well with your own eyes,” replied Gloomy laconically. “Sorry about your ship. I was always better at take-offs than landings.”
“You mean that your piloting skills did not, in truth, include seaplanes,” clucked the Count.
“Now that you mention it, yeah,” admitted Gloomy sheepishly.
“No matter, the plane was a rental, and we are done here. I was referring to the disposal operation, by the way.”
Gloomy shrugged gigantically. “You saw that, too.” From his dull expression, cold-blooded murder was neither a new experience, nor especially nerve-jarring.
The Count smiled unreservedly. “I did, indeed. By the way, my name is Rumpler. Now we must be off.”
Turning, he gave orders in a guttural language.
The speed with which the men gathered up their fallen was remarkable. They were carried into the house, which was plainly rented for the purpose of sheltering the group.
Instantly, clothes were packed and suitcases thrown into the trunk of the waiting vehicle. Another car—a sedan—was wheeled out of the attached garage.
“Where to?” asked Gloomy Starr.
“Steamship docks,” he was told.
“And after that?”
“You will be told at the appropriate time.”
Gloomy Starr went over to the blonde who was very subdued.
“And who might you be?”
“None of your business,” snapped the woman.
Gloomy scrutinized her with intensely dark eyes.
“Have we met before?”
“I doubt it,” the blonde said frostily.
“I didn’t think so,” Gloomy muttered.
“I normally keep better company,” she added sarcastically.
The Count spoke up. “Miss Hale presents a special
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