Part 4 (1/2)

The young woman seemed to go to sleep on her feet. Her eyelids, with lashes more than a half an inch long, drooped. She swayed on her feet. Had Monk not leaped and caught her, she would have fallen.

Even in the act of springing to catch her, Monk did not release his breath. He still held it. Cheeks distended, face a little purple, he carried the young woman over and draped her in a deep chair.

Doc Savage, a close observer might have noticed, was also holding his breath. In not quite a minute he gave a small signal. They all began breathing normally again.

Doc now removed his coat. He pulled out the left sleeve, so that the lining showed. It held a small pocket.

From this Doc dumped a broken fragment of a thin-walled gla.s.s bulb. He had broken this by expanding his enormous biceps muscle.

The bulb had held a powerful anaesthetic gas. This was a substance Doc himself had perfected. It was remarkable in that it spread through the air almost instantly, producing sudden and complete unconsciousness.

After having been in the air for something less than a minute, the gas became harmless. Doc and his two friends had simply held their breaths during the time the stuff was dangerous.

Doc had spoken in the Mayan language, to give warning of what he intended to do. It was an ancient dialect of the Mayans. No more than a dozen men in the so-called civilized world understood it. Doc and his five friends spoke it fluently.

Back of their knowledge of the ancient Mayan tongue was a fantastic story. It was a tale which in itself explained something that was a mystery to the rest of the world-the source of Doc Savage's seemingly limitless wealth.

It was common knowledge that Doc spent millions. He built great hospitals. He financed industrial concerns, in order that they would not close down and throw their employees out of work. He had countless expensive philanthropies.

The fabulous gold h.o.a.rd of a lost Mayan race in a remote mountain valley in Central America was Doc's source of wealth. The Mayans, pure descendants of the ancients, had been lost to the world for centuries. In the valley was a great cavern, which held an almost limitless supply of gold, much of it as yet unmined.

To pay a debt of grat.i.tude, the Mayans were furnis.h.i.+ng this gold to Doc-but only on the condition that he should use it to do good in the world.

On each seventh day, should Doc be short of money, he had but to go to a powerful radio station at high noon, tune into a certain wave-length, and broadcast a few words in the Mayan dialect.

His message was picked up in the lost valley-on a radio set which Doc himself had left there. Several days later, a burro train invariably arrived at the capital of the mountainous Central American republic. Seldom were these caravans laden with less than four or five million in bullion.

”A young lady who met her match,” Monk chuckled, eyeing the sleeping girl in gold. ”It'll take an hour or so to wake up, won't it, Doc?”

Doc did not answer. Instead he drew a flat metal case from his pocket. He extracted two small vials. The contents of these Doc poured down the sleeping girl's throat.Scooping her up, he carried her into the bedroom.

HAM'S expensive suite in the Midas Club occupied half a dozen rooms. Some of these had private entrances on the corridor. It was to one of the latter that Doc carried the girl. He placed her on the bed.

Moving swiftly, Doc went to the hallway door.

Monk and Ham, watching him, thought he had tested to see if the door were locked.

Doc came forward quickly, grasped his two friends by the arms, and guided them into an adjoining room.

Monk was plainly reluctant to lose sight of the entrancingly pretty girl in gold.

”She's my idea of a lalapaloosa,” he said. ”Brothers, she sure is pretty!” He leered at Ham. ”She can spot a gigolo, too.”

Ham gritted his teeth, gripped his sword cane. The young woman's crack about his being a gigolo had hurt.

”Quiet, you fellows!” Doc directed.

The bronze man went to the telephone, picked it up, and gave a number. Ham and Monk knew instantly who was being called. They were very familiar with this number.

It was that of a hotel near the skysc.r.a.per which housed Doc's office. This hostelry was the dwelling of the other three members of Doc's group of five aids.

”Johnny?” Doc queried.

Monk and Ham traded somewhat startled expressions.

”Johnny” was William Harper Littlejohn, a geologist and archaeologist who had few superiors in ability. In the Great War Johnny had lost the use of his left eye.

It was to return the use of that eye that Doc had tonight performed a great surgical operation. Some individuals wondered why Doc, with his tremendous ability of a surgeon, had not earlier operated on that eye.

The fact was that Doc had been waiting for years in order that certain delicate muscles and nerves might strengthen sufficiently to withstand the operation.

Ham and Monk were astounded to realize that Johnny had quit the hospital so soon after his operation. The fact that he had, was no mean tribute to Doc's fabulous skill.

”How's the eye feel, Johnny?” Doc asked.

”Great!” Johnny said.

”O.K.,” Doc told him. ”Go to bed. Put Long Tom or Renny on the wire.”

”Listen, Doc, if there's some excitement afoot, I ain't agoin' to miss-”

”Hit the hay!” Doc ordered. ”It's a few days' rest for you, and no argument.”

”Well, all right,” Johnny grumbled. ”Here's Renny.”

A moment later the receiver in Doc's fist seemed about to fly to pieces under the impact of a great, roaring voice. It was as if a small lion had awakened in the receiver.

The tremendous tone belonged to Colonel John Renwick. ”Renny” was famed for two things: He was a great engineer, and he had two incredibly huge and hard fists, with which, he boasted, he could knock the panel out of any wooden door.”Renny, you and Long Tom drop over by my garage and pile into one of the cars,” Doc directed. ”Then drive on up here to this shack Ham calls home.”

”Something up?” Renny thundered.

”There is,” Doc told him.

Doc had been speaking in a loud, distinct voice. Now, he suddenly switched to a low tone which hardly vibrated the transmitter-and he spoke in the strange-sounding Mayan language.

”You men may be kidnaped on the way up,” Doc said in Mayan. ”Let yourselves be s.n.a.t.c.hed, and try to pump your captors. I'd like very much to know what's on their minds.”

DOC SAVAGE hung up the receiver. He stood beside the phone for several seconds. The cold winter wind howled faintly outside. Occasionally there were faint, clicking sounds against the window gla.s.s. These were made by wind-driven snowflakes.

As if he had been waiting for a certain length of time to pa.s.s, Doc came to life. He walked to the bedroom door, threw it open. He said nothing.

But not so Monk, who was at his elbow.