Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B
Tags: action and adventure
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then reversed direction. He shadowed the individual to the ship’s dining room, and watched him go in.
It would not do to follow him inside since he had already eaten and been recognized as Jury Goines by the steward. Second helpings were probably not frowned upon, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself.
Doc spent the next twenty minutes trying to look busy while he waited for the bald man to reemerge.
Finally, the hairless fellow stepped into view, and took a beeline back in the direction from which he had originally come.
Moving as quietly as possible, Doc shadowed him, staying far behind, until the man came to his cabin on the B deck, port side.
Pausing to take a quick look around before entering, he saw Doc Savage rolling along, the coil of rope heavy over one shoulder, and studied him momentarily before stepping inside.
Doc took note of the cabin number—Twelve-B—and passed on, deciding that he had accomplished as much as he was going to in the guise of Seaman Goines.
The bronze man went directly to Ham Brooks’ cabin.
Chapter X
CONFUSION
BY THIS TIME, Monk Mayfair had wakened.
His first act was to check the back of his head by feel. The bandage from the bludgeoning he had earlier suffered was still in place. He winced at the sharp pain touching it brought.
There was no other wound, he discovered by gingerly groping around.
Going to the washroom mirror, Monk looked himself over and discovered no bruise or lacerations. That was when he felt a soreness on his neck.
“Doc done this,” he said at last. The memory of his last conscious thoughts flooded back. Monk weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds and the unseen person who had arrested his headlong flight had stopped him cold. He had not been struck upon the head, yet he had lost consciousness with almost instantaneous speed.
All that spelled Doc Savage, who apparently had robbed the homely chemist of his natural senses by pressing down on the nerve centers of his virtually non-existent neck and applying surgical pressure.
Monk spent half a minute growling into the mirror, expressing his anger, but the raw emotion soon evaporated. As much as he resented being waylaid, Doc Savage was his chief. He could not remain upset with him for long. Their association was too deep and significant.
“Aw, I’ll just take it out on that shyster somehow,” he told himself.
Ambling to the door, he expected it to be locked. It was not.
Since it was dark, Monk slipped out, looking both ways before exiting.
It was obviously night, and the ship well underway. Monk had already realized that from the way the cabin had lurched and sank as it rode the heaving waves of the open Atlantic.
Upon reaching the weather deck, Monk noticed the steadily blowing wind and the feel of the ocean.
“Uh-oh,” he said to himself. “Storm brewin’.”
It was the hairy chemist’s notion to seek out Doc and Ham, but he had not progressed very far when he realized that he had no inkling of their cabin numbers. This created a quandary.
Modest brow furrowing, Monk peered about. Had he not been insensate for so long and suffering from a mild concussion before that, the apish chemist would have sooner realized that he was barging about without benefit of a disguise. Not that it was an easy thing to mask his inordinately long forearms and apish outline. Hardly. A circus tent could not conceal his gorilla-like physique.
Monk would have turned around and retreated to his cabin if it were not for his nose.
The homely chemist’s nose was a mashed-down thing that might once have projected more forcefully, but it had taken repeated batterings from horny-knuckled fists over the years. It had also been broken several times and pounded flat a time or two, which added to its simian configuration.
Despite all the damage that had been done to his nostrils over an active career, Monk’s sense of smell verged on the animalistic. Hesitating on the lower deck, he caught a whiff of a
It would not do to follow him inside since he had already eaten and been recognized as Jury Goines by the steward. Second helpings were probably not frowned upon, but he did not wish to draw attention to himself.
Doc spent the next twenty minutes trying to look busy while he waited for the bald man to reemerge.
Finally, the hairless fellow stepped into view, and took a beeline back in the direction from which he had originally come.
Moving as quietly as possible, Doc shadowed him, staying far behind, until the man came to his cabin on the B deck, port side.
Pausing to take a quick look around before entering, he saw Doc Savage rolling along, the coil of rope heavy over one shoulder, and studied him momentarily before stepping inside.
Doc took note of the cabin number—Twelve-B—and passed on, deciding that he had accomplished as much as he was going to in the guise of Seaman Goines.
The bronze man went directly to Ham Brooks’ cabin.
Chapter X
CONFUSION
BY THIS TIME, Monk Mayfair had wakened.
His first act was to check the back of his head by feel. The bandage from the bludgeoning he had earlier suffered was still in place. He winced at the sharp pain touching it brought.
There was no other wound, he discovered by gingerly groping around.
Going to the washroom mirror, Monk looked himself over and discovered no bruise or lacerations. That was when he felt a soreness on his neck.
“Doc done this,” he said at last. The memory of his last conscious thoughts flooded back. Monk weighed about two hundred and sixty pounds and the unseen person who had arrested his headlong flight had stopped him cold. He had not been struck upon the head, yet he had lost consciousness with almost instantaneous speed.
All that spelled Doc Savage, who apparently had robbed the homely chemist of his natural senses by pressing down on the nerve centers of his virtually non-existent neck and applying surgical pressure.
Monk spent half a minute growling into the mirror, expressing his anger, but the raw emotion soon evaporated. As much as he resented being waylaid, Doc Savage was his chief. He could not remain upset with him for long. Their association was too deep and significant.
“Aw, I’ll just take it out on that shyster somehow,” he told himself.
Ambling to the door, he expected it to be locked. It was not.
Since it was dark, Monk slipped out, looking both ways before exiting.
It was obviously night, and the ship well underway. Monk had already realized that from the way the cabin had lurched and sank as it rode the heaving waves of the open Atlantic.
Upon reaching the weather deck, Monk noticed the steadily blowing wind and the feel of the ocean.
“Uh-oh,” he said to himself. “Storm brewin’.”
It was the hairy chemist’s notion to seek out Doc and Ham, but he had not progressed very far when he realized that he had no inkling of their cabin numbers. This created a quandary.
Modest brow furrowing, Monk peered about. Had he not been insensate for so long and suffering from a mild concussion before that, the apish chemist would have sooner realized that he was barging about without benefit of a disguise. Not that it was an easy thing to mask his inordinately long forearms and apish outline. Hardly. A circus tent could not conceal his gorilla-like physique.
Monk would have turned around and retreated to his cabin if it were not for his nose.
The homely chemist’s nose was a mashed-down thing that might once have projected more forcefully, but it had taken repeated batterings from horny-knuckled fists over the years. It had also been broken several times and pounded flat a time or two, which added to its simian configuration.
Despite all the damage that had been done to his nostrils over an active career, Monk’s sense of smell verged on the animalistic. Hesitating on the lower deck, he caught a whiff of a
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