Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B
Tags: action and adventure
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if trying to place him in his memory. If he succeeded in this mental inventory, the results were not written upon his horsey features.
Those chores accomplished, the wonderfully efficient men exited, locking all doors. They drove off in the two machines, heading toward Manhattan.
Gloomy Starr was packed into the town car with the blonde. She looked unhappy. Miserable might capture her mood most descriptively.
She was dabbing her red eyes with a handkerchief, obviously fighting back tears.
“She seems kinda upset all of a sudden,” commented Gloomy.
The Count replied, “I have just broken to her the regrettable news about poor Pippel.”
The blonde woman squeezed her eyes shut. Pain was evident on her pale features. Taking the tear-moistened handkerchief in her trembling hands, she twisted it in her silent agony. In that way, she seemed to get a firm grip on her composure.
Gloomy regarded her with something akin to sympathy. “What got you into this mess, Missy?” he asked.
“I made the mistake of trying to reach Doc Savage,” she returned stiffly.
“Doc Savage,” said Gloomy Starr, as if tasting the name. “Think I’ve heard of him.”
“Many have,” the blonde said vaguely.
“What be your first name?”
“Honoria.”
“Nice name,” said Gloomy, and left off the conversation. He seemed to drift off into thought as the vehicles made their determined way toward the city.
THE MATADOR was scheduled to depart the Manhattan steamship docks at four in the afternoon, stopping at Havana, Curacao, and points south until reaching Sao Paulo, Brazil. It was as popular run and had become even more so since the frantic day two years before when, with the outbreak of war in Europe, passenger liner companies had called back to their home ports all trans-Atlantic vessels. Once the frantic scramble had been completed, the steamship companies had been forced to look south, passenger travel to Europe being out of the question for the foreseeable future.
It was not much of a vessel, but she looked shipshape—if one overlooked the scabs of rust distributed here and there over her dark hull.
Preparations were well under way for departure. There was a lot of scurrying on deck and the gangplank was already unchained and accepting passengers.
The aristocratic Count purchased one ticket from the steamship agent and handed the brown envelope to Gloomy Starr.
“Once you smuggle her on board,” he said out of earshot of the girl, “you will hear from a man named Burch. Karl Jon Burch.”
“Who is he?” asked Gloomy.
“A contact on the boat. While you will be watching over Miss Hale, he will be watching over you. And we will loiter here to make absolutely certain that you board this rather rusty vessel.” Again the Count offered his charming Continental smile that conveyed superficial warmth and nothing of the genuine article.
“I getcha.”
The Count grew earnest. “Nothing must prevent Miss Hale from reaching Brazil safely. Is that fully understood?”
“Completely,” said Gloomy, collecting Miss Hale, then piloting her to the baggage area, where he intended to acquire a steamer trunk.
Miss Hale seemed to go along willingly, if reluctantly.
After they were gone, the Count left his men on watch and went to a pay telephone. There, he dropped a nickel in the slot. Reaching the operator, he asked briskly, “Yes, I would like to be connected to a long-distance party. Collect. Inform the other party that Count Rumpler is calling him.”
After providing the operator with the number, the suave gentleman waited patiently while the call was put through. He examined his walking stick, noted a nick in the fine wood, and frowned with unconcealed displeasure.
Eventually, the connection was made.
“This is V-Mann-Fueher Rumpler,” reported the Count, whose name was not really Rumpler. “The immediate problem has been resolved. Regrettably, Haupt-V-Mann Pippel had to be liquidated. We are preparing to steam for
Those chores accomplished, the wonderfully efficient men exited, locking all doors. They drove off in the two machines, heading toward Manhattan.
Gloomy Starr was packed into the town car with the blonde. She looked unhappy. Miserable might capture her mood most descriptively.
She was dabbing her red eyes with a handkerchief, obviously fighting back tears.
“She seems kinda upset all of a sudden,” commented Gloomy.
The Count replied, “I have just broken to her the regrettable news about poor Pippel.”
The blonde woman squeezed her eyes shut. Pain was evident on her pale features. Taking the tear-moistened handkerchief in her trembling hands, she twisted it in her silent agony. In that way, she seemed to get a firm grip on her composure.
Gloomy regarded her with something akin to sympathy. “What got you into this mess, Missy?” he asked.
“I made the mistake of trying to reach Doc Savage,” she returned stiffly.
“Doc Savage,” said Gloomy Starr, as if tasting the name. “Think I’ve heard of him.”
“Many have,” the blonde said vaguely.
“What be your first name?”
“Honoria.”
“Nice name,” said Gloomy, and left off the conversation. He seemed to drift off into thought as the vehicles made their determined way toward the city.
THE MATADOR was scheduled to depart the Manhattan steamship docks at four in the afternoon, stopping at Havana, Curacao, and points south until reaching Sao Paulo, Brazil. It was as popular run and had become even more so since the frantic day two years before when, with the outbreak of war in Europe, passenger liner companies had called back to their home ports all trans-Atlantic vessels. Once the frantic scramble had been completed, the steamship companies had been forced to look south, passenger travel to Europe being out of the question for the foreseeable future.
It was not much of a vessel, but she looked shipshape—if one overlooked the scabs of rust distributed here and there over her dark hull.
Preparations were well under way for departure. There was a lot of scurrying on deck and the gangplank was already unchained and accepting passengers.
The aristocratic Count purchased one ticket from the steamship agent and handed the brown envelope to Gloomy Starr.
“Once you smuggle her on board,” he said out of earshot of the girl, “you will hear from a man named Burch. Karl Jon Burch.”
“Who is he?” asked Gloomy.
“A contact on the boat. While you will be watching over Miss Hale, he will be watching over you. And we will loiter here to make absolutely certain that you board this rather rusty vessel.” Again the Count offered his charming Continental smile that conveyed superficial warmth and nothing of the genuine article.
“I getcha.”
The Count grew earnest. “Nothing must prevent Miss Hale from reaching Brazil safely. Is that fully understood?”
“Completely,” said Gloomy, collecting Miss Hale, then piloting her to the baggage area, where he intended to acquire a steamer trunk.
Miss Hale seemed to go along willingly, if reluctantly.
After they were gone, the Count left his men on watch and went to a pay telephone. There, he dropped a nickel in the slot. Reaching the operator, he asked briskly, “Yes, I would like to be connected to a long-distance party. Collect. Inform the other party that Count Rumpler is calling him.”
After providing the operator with the number, the suave gentleman waited patiently while the call was put through. He examined his walking stick, noted a nick in the fine wood, and frowned with unconcealed displeasure.
Eventually, the connection was made.
“This is V-Mann-Fueher Rumpler,” reported the Count, whose name was not really Rumpler. “The immediate problem has been resolved. Regrettably, Haupt-V-Mann Pippel had to be liquidated. We are preparing to steam for
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