Part 5 (1/2)
Doc saw the face behind the gun -- the visage of the man who had killed Carl MacBride.
A split second before the gun discharged, Doc veered left.. The bullet chopped shrilly at the s.p.a.ce he had vacated. Seeming not to slacken his pace at a”, the bronze man gained a sheltering corner of the house.
FROM THE top of the wall came an abrupt, almost deafening moan. Monk and Ham had put their supermachine pistols in action.
The rifleman ducked from view so quickly, that he was unhit.
Monk and Ham hastily made the grappling hook fast and slid down the silk cord. They used care not to touch the charged copper cables. Monk had his pet pig under an arm.
Ham came up, sword cane unsheathed. Monk lumbered on his heels. The pig, Habeas, trailing Monk, was as excited as the simian chemist.
”We'd better get inside,” Doc said crisply. ” That fellow may try to use his rifle from another window.”
The bronze man reached a window and gave the sash a rap with his palm. Gla.s.s fell with a brittle clanging. Doc crawled in through the opening.
Ham and Monk kept at his heels. The homely chemist grabbed Habeas by an ear and hoisted him inside.
The room in which they found themselves was large, apparently a smoking room. The chairs were upholstered in leather; the furniture was ma.s.sive, dark. A thick layer of dust reposed over everything.
Cigarette stubs were scattered about with great carelessness for the well-being of the furniture. Not for a long time had the place received a cleaning.
Doc yanked open a door. It gave into a hallway. This, too, needed cleaning.
The men went down the hallway, making no attempt at silence, except when pausing to use their ears.
But no sound did they hear; nor did they see any one.
They came to the room from which the rifle had been fired. An empty, high-powered cartridge sh.e.l.l lay on the floor. It reeked of burned powder.
The rifleman had fled.
A scuffling sound led the trio toward the upstairs regions. They mounted stairs which were carpeted.
From the carpet nap their feet knocked up little puffs of dust. It had been long uncleaned. At the top they found a corridor lined with many doors. Pa.s.sages branched off from it.
”You'd think this place was a hotel,” Monk breathed.
To their left a door opened. The bright metal snout of a pistol poked out.
A determined feminine voice said, ”Don't move!”
Chapter 8. THE EX-LION-TAMER.
THE YOUNG woman was tall. A plain traveling frock set off the enticing curves of her form almost as effectively as would have an evening dress.
Her hair was her really striking feature. Young women with attractive figures were fairly common. Not so hair such as this. It was the shade of steel. And the young woman's eyes were as metallic as her hair.
Doc acted while her command still echoed. His hand drifted with blinding speed to Ham's sword cane.
Surprise had slackened the dapper lawyer's clutch on the weapon. Doc swept it from his hand and flung it, hilt first.
The hilt hit the girl's gun hand. She squealed and dropped her gun, then sought to recover it.
Lunging, Doc scooped up the gun before she got it. His fingers banded the young woman's wrist, not tightly enough to inflict pain, but with a firmness which prevented her flight.
The girl threw back her head and shrieked. There was splintering terror in her voice.
”I'll do it!” she wailed. ”I'll do it!”
That she was genuinely frightened, Doc could tell by her trembling. Her firm muscles quivered under his clutch.
”Where's the fellow who shot at us?” he demanded. The girl looked surprised. Her struggling ceased.
”What -- what -- ” She seemed bewildered. ”You mean -- you're not one of them?”
”Who are you?” Doc asked her.
The girl stared distrustfully. She seemed a bit more at ease when Doc released her wrists.
”My name is Jean Morris,” she explained.
The name meant nothing to Doc. This was the first time he had heard it ”I'm a circus lion-tamer by profession,” Jean Morris elaborated. ”My last job was with the Atlas Congress of Wonders. It went broke in Michigan.”
”Not at Trapper Lake?” Doc asked sharply.
”How did you know?”
”Do you know a man named Carl MacBride?” Doc queried, instead of answering her.
The girl's burnished-steel head shook a negative. ”No.”
Monk now addressed Habeas Corpus. ”Go hunt 'em, Ha. beas. Hunt 'em up!”
The pig trotted off.
The girl stared after the pig, surprised at the unlovely porker's prompt obedience.
”I got 'im trained until he's better'n a bloodhound,” Monk grinned.
Doc entered the room from which the young woman had accosted them. It was a bedroom, bleakly furnished. The mattress was missing from the bed; there were no curtains at the windows. Long disuse was apparent everywhere.
Doc crossed to a windowly in need of was.h.i.+ng. Looking out, he found he could keep an eye on the gate.
Monk stationed himself in the door, apparently waiting for the return of his pig, Habeas Corpus.