Part 5 (2/2)
”How did you get here?” Doc asked the young woman.
Her eyes snapped. ”In answer to an ad in a circus trade journal -- an ad offering a job to any one who could speak the language of the pinhead tribe of African natives.”
”You speak it?”
”I do -- a little. There were three pinheads with the Atlas Congress of Wonders. They were pitiful little fellows. They used to follow me around like three black dogs. I learned to speak some of their language.”
Doc Savage's features indicated neither belief nor disbelief. He asked, ”When did you come to New York?”
”To-day, by plane. I had been directed by telegram.” She thrust her fingers into a tiny pocket in her frock and brought out a folded yellow paper. ”Here it is” -- handing it to Doc.
Doc accepted the wire, and read the contents.
J MORRIS CARE OF GUIDE'S HOTEL TRAPPER LAKE MICHIGAN.
JOB YOURS STOP CATCH PLANE IMMEDIATELY FOR NEW YORK AND COME TO MY.
HOME ON HILL ROAD NORTH OF CITY GRISWOLD ROCK.
”Does Griswold Rock own this place?” asked Doc.
”A taxi driver told me he did,” the girl replied. Monk had been listening for the return of Habeas. Now he glanced at the girl.
”That name -- Griswold Rock -- sounds kinda familiar,” he said.
”Griswold Rock is president and chief stockholder of a small railroad which serves northern Michigan,”
Doc said. ”He is well known.”
”There are several men here,” said the girl. ”I don't think I saw Griswold Rock, though.”
”You said there were three pinheads with the Atlas Congress of Wonders,” Doc reminded the young woman. ”What became of them?”
”They disappeared. They wandered into the country, and that was the last heard of them.”
”How long ago?”
”Almost a year.”
”Then the circus did not go broke recently?”
”Oh, no, it went on the rocks months ago. I have been working in Trapper Lake as a waitress.”
With a slow gesture, Doc Savage indicated the high wall and the mysterious net of copper hawsers.
”Have you any idea about the meaning of all this?”
”No,” the girl shuddered, ”the place gives me the jitters.”
”SOMETHING MUST'VE happened to Habeas Corpus,” Monk groaned.
”You three stay here,” Doc directed. Then he was gone down the stairway into the lower regions of the house.
Reaching the library, he glanced about. The furnis.h.i.+ngs, while old-fas.h.i.+oned, were not cheap. Condition here, as elsewhere in the house, indicated months of cleaning neglected.
The library was empty of life.
Doc crossed to a ponderous desk which' was something of an antique. Letters littered the top of it. More letters, obviously containing advertising matter, had been flung upon the floor.
Doc ran through the epistles. All were addressed to the same individual: ”Griswold Rock.”
Doc read several missives. They pertained to routine operation of the railroad with which Griswold Rock was a.s.sociated.
One thing was evident from the text of the missives. Griswold Rock had been operating the railroad from seclusion. It seemed that he had not visited the offices during recent months, but had handled all business by letter, telephone and telegraph. Just why this somewhat peculiar condition should exist, the communications gave no hint, Doc left the library and continued his hunt.
Monk's pet pig should have returned long ago. The fact that Habeas had not appeared was ominous.
Doc Savage examined a kitchen, a dining room, and a large pantry without finding any one. He did,however, note an enormous food supply. This indicated some tremendous eaters were around.
Doc dropped to all fours and pressed an ear to the floor. The wood brought faint noises from somewhere in the house. But they were too vague to be located.
Glancing from a window, Doc noted ruts which seemed to be auto truck tracks, swinging from the great barred gate and terminating against one wing of the house. This particular wing was windowless, little more than a great wooden box.
The peculiarity of the construction was interesting.
Doc Savage worked in that direction. His intention was to investigate the box of a room.
A door barred his progress. He tested it with his shoulder. Judging from its solidity, the panel must be armored on the other side with sheet steel.
There was no peering through the keyhole. It was covered on the opposite side by a swinging s.h.i.+eld. This refused to move when Doc probed it with a slender metal instrument which he extracted from a pocket case.
Doc worked at the lock with his metal probe. He threw the tumblers, but the door still resisted. It must be barred on the inside.
Doc moved to a window, lifted it, poked his head out and surveyed the surroundings. He was under no delusions. Death was aprowl somewhere in this fantastic place, for all of the quietness in the air.
Doc saw no one. He clambered outside and, circling, he examined the wing of the house which was like a great box. At the end he found ponderous doors, closed tightly. Nowhere was there a crack to permit inspection of whatever was inside.
Doc tried his giant muscles against the panels. The wood only groaned.
The sun was low. The huge copper net overhead made a barred shadow pattern on the concrete walls, and on the sides and roof of the house.
Inside the house, Habeas Corpus began squealing terribly.
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