Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page A

problem.”
    Gloomy pursed thick lips. “She does, does she?”
    “We can’t kill her, much as we would prefer to.”
    Gloomy cocked a quizzical eyebrow. “No? Why not?”
    “It is a long, tedious story, but your job will be to get her out of the country.”
    “A kidnap job, eh?”
    “If you want to call it that. We wish you to take the young lady to the South Street docks, book passage for the two of you on the packet steamer Matador. ” The Count favored Gloomy with a speculative eye. “Have you got that?”
    “Matador, right. Bound where?”
    “Brazil. That is as far south as the Matador travels. That should be good enough.”
    “And when I get her there?”
    “Check into the Alhambra Hotel and wait there until you hear from us.”
    “Sounds simple enough.”
    “It is simple. And it will pay a cool three grand. Collectable at the Brazilian end.”
    Gloomy grinned. “I’m game, gents.”
    “And so there are no untoward complications, we will escort you to the docks and see you off,” explained the Count.
    “Right kind of you,” Gloomy Starr returned.
    “Nothing kind about it,” returned the Count. “We have no margin for failure.”
    Glints of interest came into Gloomy Starr’s scar-surrounded eyes.
    “And where are you gents gonna be in the meanwhile?” he asked.
    “We have a destination of our own in mind.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yes. One not found on any map.”
    Curiously, Gloomy Starr looked like he wanted to ask another question. But a problem came up that prevented the asking of it.
    “Count,” a man said. “Pippel is not feeling right.”
    “Let me attend to him.”
    Gloomy followed the noble into another room where the Count went over to a man on a couch. It was that man who wore a rust-colored overcoat, the one called Pippel. He looked ill. His face was pale and his breathing labored. He grimaced with each intake of breath.
    “What is wrong, my Ernst?” asked the Count in a solicitous tone.
    “I—I think my ribs were stove in by that verdammt ape.”
    “That is too bad. You cannot be moved. And if you cannot be moved, you cannot come with us to the cay.”
    Gloomy Starr perked up. “Cay?”
    He was ignored.
    “I would be safe on the cay,” grunted Pippel with effort.
    “But we will be safer with you out of the picture. I am sorry, Ernst.” And with those words still on his tongue, the Count drew his double-barreled derringer from a vest pocket and shot Pippel through the skull. The double report was muffled. The pillow on which the dead man’s head had been resting slowly changed color.
    Gloomy Starr said angrily, “Was that necessary?”
    “Very,” said the Count, pocketing the smoking pistol. “You object, Mr. Starr?”
    “You’re kinda free with your lead slugs and your men’s lives,” Gloomy pointed out. “Since I’m one of them, that kinda gives me an itch I wanna scratch right now.”
    The Count smiled bleakly. “Since you will be going to Brazil on our behalf, I think you will be perfectly safe there, Mr. Starr. So long as you do not return before instructed to.” The suave man smiled in a friendly manner. “You see?”
    Having dismissed the concern, the Count turned to address the others, who had looked on with stiff, unemotional faces. “Now, it is high time that we departed. Yes?”
    The men gathered up their things, and one of them took rubbing alcohol and a chamois and began going over the doorknobs, light switches, and other smooth surfaces.
    “Clean everything up that could have been touched, rough or smooth,” directed the Count. “That iodine-vapor method the American police use will bring out fingerprints on almost everything.”
    The men fell to work at once. They were very efficient, as if they had covered their tracks in this organized manner many times before.
    Watching them, an interested gleam came into the eyes of the pugilist who called himself Gloomy Starr. The pugilist paid special attention to the supervising aristocrat, as