Part 4 (1/2)
”We had the televisor from your office to the bas.e.m.e.nt garage turned on while we were working on a car,” Monk said. ”We thought you might want us or something. It was lucky we did. We saw the killing, and got a good look at the guy who did it. We caught sight of him as he left the building.”
Doc nodded. ”I figured you would have the televisor-phone turned on.”
Monk was puzzled. He scratched his k.n.o.b of a head and eyed the giant bronze man curiously. ”Wonder why that guy.was killed,” he offered.
”To shut his mouth, obviously,” Doc Savage replied. ”The killer may have been a hired slayer. That's why I allowed him to escape -- so you fellows could trail him to the man who hired him, if any.”
Monk nodded as he waddled along. His legs were so bowed that his gait was grotesque; he seemed momentarily on the verge of taking to all fours.
”Any idea what's behind it?” ”Remember the mysterious advertis.e.m.e.nts which have been appearing in newspapers recently?” Doc queried.
”You mean that 'Beware the Monsters!' stuff?”
”That's it. Those ads were mailed to newspapers all over the country. They were postmarked, every one of them, as being mailed from Trapper Lake, Michigan.”
MONK SQUINTED his small eyes. He had known of the ”monster” advertis.e.m.e.nts, but had not been aware that they had been mailed from Trapper Lake. Doc, he realized, had unearthed this fact in the course of his usual checking on things which 'night be of sinister nature.
”Why'd the murdered man want to see you, Doc?”
”Possibly concerning the mysterious death of a trapper named Bruno Hen, near Trapper Lake,” Doc replied. ”He had a clipping concerning the Bruno Hen death in his pocket.”
”What about Bruno Hen's death?”
”'He perished, according to the report of the local officers, in a mysterious tornado which struck on a moonlight night, and did nothing but demolish Bruno Hen's shack and tear a path to the nearby lake.”
”Queer tornado!” Monk grunted.
”A neighbor claimed there was no tornado. His name was Carl MacBride -- the man who was killed at our office door.”
”Huh! If not a tornado, what did he claim it was?”
”The clipping didn't say.”
Monk squinted ahead. His small eyes in repose were nearly invisible so deeply were they sunk in their pits of gristle.
Hill Road at this point was seldom traveled, due probably to the fact that its macadam surface was uncomfortably roughened by the weather. Untended brush made a wall on either side.
”That shyster lawyer, Ham, should be waiting along here somewhere,” Monk declared, his small voice pitched even lower than usual.
The gentleman to whom Monk referred in such undignified terms promptly stepped out of the brush. He was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, one of the most astute lawyers ever to be graduated from Harvard.
”You homely missing link!” Ham whispered irately at Monk. ”One of these days I'm going to skin you and make a red fur rug!”
Ham was slender, slim-waisted, quick-moving. His clothing was absolute sartorial perfection. He was a tailor's dream.
In his right hand Ham carried a black cane. Ham was rarely seen without this.
The unlovely Monk turned an innocent look on the enraged Ham.
”Always threatenin' me!” he complained in low tones. ”What's on your mind now?” Ham shook his cane in the air and turned purple. He was not, however, making undue noise with his dramatics.
”You left that infernal pig behind and had him follow me around!”
Monk seemed grieved.
”Habeas Corpus must be takin' a fancy to you,” he groaned. ”I never thought that pig would stoop so low as to a.s.sociate with a shyster lawyer.”
At this point, Habeas Corpus walked out of the brush. A more astounding-looking specimen of the pig family than Habeas would be difficult to find. The pig was under-sized, razor-backed. He had the legs of a dog and ears so large as to resemble wings.
Habeas eyed the dapper Ham, emitted a friendly grunt and ambled toward the lawyer. Ham launched a spiteful toe at the pig. In dodging this, Habeas displayed an agility as surprising as his appearance.
Habeas was Monk's pet. The homely chemist had trained the pig until the porker seemed to possess a near-human intelligence.
Doc, low-voiced, interrupted what amounted to a perpetual quarrel. ”Where's the killer, Ham?” he asked.
”He went into a funny-looking place over the hill.” Doc noted the appellation, ”funny-looking.” Both Monk and Ham had used it.
”What do you mean -- funny-looking?”
Ham, like many orators, had a habit of making gestures when he spoke. He gestured now, although his words were whispered.
”We're in the country,” he said. ”There's no reason for anybody having a high wall around his place. But there's one around this joint. It's at least forty feet high.”
”Forty!”
”Every inch of that.” Monk entered the conversation with his small voice. ”I ask you, Doc -- what does any one want with a forty-foot wall out here in the country?”
”I walked around the place,” Ham said, scowling at Habeas Corpus. ”There's only one entrance. That's secured by the strongest steel gate I have ever seen.”
Doc Savage did not comment on the somewhat startling revelations. He went forward.
Monk and Ham trailed him. They exchanged throat-cutting looks. Actually, either of them would have sacrificed his life for the safety of the other, should necessity for such an act materialize.
The pig, flopping big ears at Monk's heels, grunted contentedly.
”Put on the m.u.f.fler, Habeas,” Monk directed.
Obediently, the pig fell silent.
Chapter 7. THE ELECTRIFIED NETAS.
DOC and his two aids topped the hill, the mysterious wall came into view.
”Some joint, eh?” Ham suggested.
The wall was so high as to conceal whatever lay behind it. A somber barrier of gray, it was altogether forbidding.