Chapter 4 "Kill Doc Savage"

Pre-dawn darkness blanketed the small warehouse which Doc Savage had made his temporary base of operations. The building, paint peeling to the point of nearly being non-existent, numerous window panes broken, had the appearance of having been abandoned for some time. Fog rolled in off the bay as if expelled from a bellows and surrounded the ramshackle building. Long hours had passed since Doc Savage began his preliminary examination of the "stone men". Doc Savage had not learned much about the glass-like statues using the rudimentary equipment Doc had been able to secure late that night. He was more greatly hampered by the belief that if these figures were the famous geologists, inexplicably turned to stone, taking a sample of a figure might ultimately be harmful to the person. He was thus limited to samples of the "clothing" on the shiny statues. The bronze man was careful to cut away portions of glass clothing, using a small electric hand saw, the type used by surgeons to cut through bone, rather than attempting to break off a piece to analyze. He dared not risk damaging the statues. The man of bronze had learned that the glass-like material broke like glass, melted like glass, and re-constituted like glass. Simple chemical tests had revealed that the main constituents of the substance were silicon and oxygen, although minor impurities were also present. For all intents and purposes, the substance was glass. Doc learned nothing from this about how the transformation had been effected. Lucky Loo, damp from the fog, entered the warehouse through a door to one side of the warehouse's large bay door. He removed a newspaper from inside his jacket. The clothing had protected the early edition paper from the moisture in the outdoors air. He made himself comfortable in one of the wooden folding chairs in the bare room. Lucky had worked on short notice in preparing the building, and while not homey, the place was serviceable. Although he made a valiant effort, the worthy was not successful in getting his newspaper open quietly. Doc Savage seemed to not notice Lucky's arrival or the shuffling of papers. Johnny, beside the bronze man at a long table with a variety of instruments and chemicals on it, poked his head up and scowled at Lucky Loo. Lucky froze and smiled self-deprecatingly back. After a moment, the lanky geologist returned to his work. Lucky resumed unfolding his newspaper silently with renewed vigor, glancing at Johnny every few moments to see if the geologist had been disturbed. Finally, Lucky got the newspaper open and began reading it. "Aww," Lucky said loudly. Both Doc and Johnny looked up from the shiny samples before them on the long table. The bony geologists's face wore a frown. Doc's face showed no emotion. When Lucky saw the bronze man peering at him, he explained, "This rag has it that you're investigating something big, boss. They mention 'mysterious statues'!" "I'll be superamalgamated!" exclaimed Johnny. He knew of Doc's dislike of the press. It was his standing policy not to co-operate with reporters because an enemy might learn enough about the bronze man and his methods to cause him peril, perhaps fatal peril. Doc Savage gave no sign that he had heard anything the slightest bit upsetting, so Lucky Loo continued. "The article names the hotel you're staying at, even." The worthy frowned with displeasure. "You ought to sue them, boss," he added disgustedly. Lucky nearly fell out of his chair when Doc Savage replied, "They are merely reporting what I asked them to write." "What?" "There are precious little clues in this case, Lucky," Doc explained. "If the right person thinks we know more than we do, it might tell us a great deal, perhaps even as who that person is." "Shanks!" rang out the voice. The three most obvious things about the voice were that it belonged to a man; the man was accustomed to giving orders; and, the man who was accustomed to giving orders was very angry at the moment. "Shanks!" yelled the man again, his voice angrier than before, if that was possible. It shook with rage. The man stood from his desk quickly, newspaper clutched in hand, and walked briskly toward the single door of the room. Before he reached it, the door opened. There stood a man, dressed nattily in a dark suit, which was English-tailored. His hair, the color of a pecan kernel, was parted on one side and combed across the top of his head, held in place by a pomade. His moustache was long and drooped in a fashion a generation out of style. Although he was not unpleasant-looking, there was a hardness to the man's face--the kind of hardness which came from having the ability to do the types of things respectable people don't do, and then having done them. He was thin, but not bony. His forearms were too thick for his slender form, giving the dapper man a "Popeye the Sailor Man" look. Behind him were a following of men. They numbered more than a dozen and were an odd assortment. A few of them looked like the type a woman would like to invite home to meet her parents, but most were the kind you would cross the street to avoid making eye contact with. "Shanks," repeated the man. He held the newspaper in front of Shanks' face. "Explain this to me." There was iron in his voice. Hot iron. Shanks' arrival had done nothing to appease the one who had summoned him. "What, sir?" Military training was evident in Shanks' demeanor. He was attentive, and stood stiffly. "Doc Savage and Dr. Littlejohn are investigating some 'mysterious statues'. How did this happen?" He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, his rage was so great. "We had to--" began one of the men behind natty Shanks. Shanks cut him off. "The geologists were beginning to get suspicious, sir. I felt it best to act quickly--prematurely--rather than risk one of them escaping with his suspicions." The other's anger seemed to dissipate as rapidly as it had built. "You probably did the right thing, Shanks." "Thank you, sir." One soft-looking man piped up, "Doctor--" Shanks' boss exclaimed, "Never call me by that name." The man who had spoken up shrank back, his face looking like that of a dog which had just been swatted with a rolled-up newspaper. It seemed as though he had forgotten what he had been going to say. "Shanks," said the man in charge. "Send a couple of men to kill Doc Savage!" "With the stuff?" "No," said the other suddenly, as if surprised by the question. "Not with the stuff." Steak and eggs, a fairly common breakfast, could be had at a reasonable price in many restaurants in the city. This being the restaurant in the expensive hotel where Doc Savage and Johnny Littlejohn were staying, steak and eggs were not reasonably priced. The hotel was a ritzy place, and the prices reflected that fact. Johnny joyfully chewed one of the remaining bits of his second steak, giving no hint that he had devoured one before it. He had missed dinner the evening before--the International Geologists League dinner--and was making up for it now. Ironically, of those in the small group, the thinnest of Doc's assistants ate the most. Doc Savage had finished his meal and was quietly sipping from his cup of coffee. They both showed evidence of their labors of the night, hair dishevelled, clothes rumpled. They sat at a table near one of the large plate glass windows of the restaurant. "It's occurred to me that some sort of mold could have been used to create the statues," Johnny commented between mouthfuls of steak. "But the exacting details of the statues almost certainly means that body casts would have had to have been used." Doc Savage agreed. "We know that there wasn't time to do so yesterday because of the times the other geologists checked in at their hotels," Johnny continued. "The time at which Little Jimmy Lannon registered rules out that possibility for him, at least. I'm sure the other times will support this theory, when we learn them from the police." It was probably coincidence that the two men who sat together in the dark-colored coupe resembled animals. One had the pointy nose, small eyes and large front teeth of a rodent. The other had the generous form, pink skin, and upturned nose of a pig. He wore a straw hat, the kind made famous by G-Men earlier in the decade. The coupe slowed to a stop on Mason Street, across from the restaurant where Doc Savage and Johnny were finishing breakfast. "There they are, Babe!" exclaimed the small rat-faced man. "This is going to be easy." "I don't know," replied plump "Babe", uncertain. "What if they go up to their room?" "They got to come down sometime," the other said, frowning. "You worry too much." The lanky geologist chewed another piece of meat thoughtfully, then swallowed it. "We can assume that the interval between Little Jimmy's telephone call and his arrival here in San Francisco was uneventful. We have no information to support any other conclusion." Johnny put the last piece of steak into his mouth. "And then we must consider when these body casts could have been taken. Were the geologists willing participants? If so, why? If not, why did none of them report an abduction during which the body casts would have been made? Were the geologists abducted without their knowledge? Did Little Jimmy suspect he had been abducted? Was that the reason for his telephone call?" The lean geologist swallowed his mouthful of meat. Stating his observations out loud brought Johnny no closer to solving the mystery, but there was some irrational assurance in doing so. "As improbable as it seems, the most reasonable theory is that these men were literally turned to stone." Rather than agreeing or disagreeing with the geologist, Doc Savage said quietly, "Do not act alarmed. We are being watched." It took force of will for bony Johnny to restrain himself from looking about. He had noticed no one observing them. Doc Savage raised his hand, summoning a waiter. "If they were going up to their room, they wouldn't a use house telephone, Babe," the rodent-like man assured his erstwhile partner. "They'd just wait until they got to their room to make the call." Pink-skinned Babe also saw the telephone a waiter had brought to Doc Savage's table. The bronze man spoke into the telephone receiver, but Babe and his rat-faced companion were too far away to make out what Doc Savage was saying. "Lucky, this is Doc Savage." Fatigue had dimmed none of the power in his voice, which was the envy of several radio performers. "Come to the hotel. Bring your own vehicle." Johnny heard a faint "yes, boss" after each of Doc's instructions. He smiled at Lucky's enthusiasm. "And be careful." "Yes, boss" came Lucky Loo's voice over the telephone. When the waiter had taken the telephone away, and Doc Savage was sure he was out of earshot, he said to Johnny, "This is what I want you to do..." "Where could they be?" Babe anxiously asked. His voice whined like a taut violin string being bowed. Doc Savage and Johnny had left their table near the window minutes earlier. "They must have gone up to their rooms." "Settle down, Babe," said the rat-faced man, assuringly. But there was strain in his voice as well. The car rattled badly as it sat there, engine running. It was an exhaust leak, and probably sounded worse than it was. The rodent-like gunman had started the motor when he had seen Doc and Johnny leave their table. Presently the figure of Doc Savage appeared in the doorway of the lobby of the ritzy hotel. He paused there. The two gunsels had a moment of panic when they thought the bronze man had spotted them, but he seemed oblivious to their presence. There was no one else near the door when Doc left the building and proceeded onto the sidewalk. "Where's that bag of bones who was with the bronze guy?" the rodent asked. "I don't know and I don't care," said Babe with sudden relief at seeing the man of bronze. "Shanks didn't say anything about him. Now's our chance. Let's go." Rat-face gunned the engine, wheeled the small automobile around in the street. Doc Savage showed surprise when Babe's door flew open. The porcine thug pointed a Thompson submachine gun at the man of bronze. Doc raised his arms. He held them up in front of his head, shielding his face. The gesture must have been a reflexive one. His arms would not--could not--stop the fifty caliber bullets of the "Tommy" gun. With a roar, lead began pouring from the muzzle of the gun. Babe aimed at Doc Savage's unguarded torso. He could not miss, did not miss. The full drum of ammo struck Doc in the chest. The hail of lead tore his clothes to shreds. The bronze man staggered back at the impact. Seconds ticked by. The drum emptied its lethal discharge. Doc Savage fell to the pavement. The gunmen's coupe roared away, exhaust blaring, tires squealing, leaving a cloud of smoke and a black trail of burnt rubber.

The Stone Death Written By: Jeff Deischer Dedicated to "Kenneth Robeson X" for his encouragement. The Stone Man is a work of fan fiction. Doc Savage is © Conde Nast Back to: Top of Page Index Page Home Page