Chapter 5 "A Petrous Personage Revivified!"

The dark coupe sped away from the hotel, down Nob Hill, which was one of the swankier sections of the city. Elation filled the small interior of the vehicle. "We did it!" exclaimed the rat-faced gunsel. A porcine squeal of delight blew out of Babe like steam whistling from a tea kettle. He seemed not to notice the fact that the other had said "we" when in fact it was rotund Babe who had done the actual shooting. "He didn't suspect a thing," said pink Babe. "I'm surprised it was that easy, considering Savage's reputation." "Reputations are always overblown, Babe," observed the rodent-like thug cynically in his nasal voice. His thoughts turned to the prospect of his coming reward, his eyes lighting with greed. "We'll be set when we tell the boss." The pig-like Babe agreed, and the car disappeared from view around a corner. Both occupants of the speeding vehicle were oblivious to the dark sedan which was following them. At the famous hotel, a crowd had gathered around Doc Savage, who lay on the ground, breathing hard. The barrage of bullets had knocked the wind out of him. The bronze man felt his ribs beneath the lightweight bulletproof armor vest he habitually wore. One cracked, but probably not broken, he decided. Another couple tender. Definite bruising. Although the vest was a lifesaver many times over, high-velocity rounds, such as those used in the fabled tommy gun favored by gangsters a decade earlier, sometimes caused slight damage--such as Doc now felt--to the body. The clothing outside the vest, however, was invariably ruined. Ignoring the onlookers--some of whom seemed to be concerned citizens, but many were plainly gawking rubber-neckers--Doc Savage stood, and calmly entered the thirty-odd year old hotel with the intention of changing his tattered suit. Bony Johnny, driving the rented sedan Doc Savage had hired upon arriving in the city, maintained a respectable distance behind the dark coupe of the two gunsels. The small vehicle headed toward the waterfront, following a twisting, circuitous route. Since leaving the vicinity of the hotel, the automobile had slowed so as not to attract attention. The coupe drove onto the bridge which connected San Francisco to its sister city, Oakland. The lanky geologist's curiosity was piqued. It made him exceedingly inquisiturient, as he would put it. Midway between the two cities, the hunter-green automobile turned onto a ramp to the north, leaving the Bay Bridge. The coupe drove out onto a causeway, coming to a stop in the parking lot of the artificial island that had been the International Exposition which had opened the year before. The Exposition had closed earlier in the season, and the island was now abandoned but for the wrecking crews which had moved into the Administrative Building earlier in the month. The last of the concessioneers and sideshow equipment had departed at that time. Johnny, realizing he would be spotted if he followed the coupe onto the artifice, halted his automobile, parking on the small natural island to the south of the Exposition. He had no view of the inner area of the artificial island, no clue as to where the two rough-looking men had gone. Bony Johnny contemplated investigating on foot. Long minutes passed as the lanky geologist patiently watched the island. He idly fingered his monocle, wishing that this vehicle was one of Doc's, with a shortwave radio in it, so that he could contact the bronze man. And Johnny wouldn't have turned down the bulletproof armor-plating of Doc Savage's private automobiles, either. Finally, men began pouring from the island like angry ants. There were probably fewer of them than it seemed at first sight, Johnny decided. They drove several vehicles of differing types--none new--along the causeway and departed. Johnny reached for the handle on the door of the automobile, intending to search the ersatz island, when a lone vehicle departed the place. One figure was visible in the automobile. "A manifest insuperable potentiality!" the bony geologist exclaimed. "A petrous personage revivified!" Johnny Littlejohn got back into his automobile, as quickly as he was able, and drove away from the island, back toward the city. Head pivoting from side to side, bony Johnny searched single-mindedly. He spotted what he was looking for--a telephone booth. Tires screeched as he braked the automobile. The vehicle had scarcely stopped moving when the lanky geologist disembarked the gun-metal gray sedan, carelessly leaving the door open. His long, articulate fingers hurriedly dialed the number of the hotel where he and Doc were staying. Within a minute, Johnny was speaking to the hotel desk clerk when he suddenly felt himself seized by many hands. The bony geologist was pulled from the booth as if by an octopus. He struggled against the men, but could not free himself. Johnny recognized them as being among those who had left the island minutes earlier. Bony fists flew out against his attackers. Surprised voices let out yelps of pain. "This guy's a tough one for having no meat on him," exclaimed one of the thugs. Johnny soon realized they wanted to capture--rather than kill--him. He fought on silently but was born to the ground. The lanky geologist fought briefly there, valiantly resisting the hands upon him. Impatient hands soon turned to fists. Johnny's assailants finally subdued him. They picked his limp form up off the pavement, and carried him to a waiting automobile. Nearly all the men, out of habit, glanced about to make sure no witnesses had seen the violent event. "For a minute there, I thought we'd never get him off the ground," commented one of the verbose geologist's attackers, tenderly holding one side of his face. "That guy must have rawhide under his skin." As the bony geologist was bundled into the back seat of the sedan, the engine of the automobile started. One nattily-dressed man walked to the telephone booth and quietly replaced the dangling telephone receiver upon its hook. Shanks returned to the vehicle, and climbed into the rear seat beside the unconscious Johnny. He did not notice that the lanky geologist had apparently lost a button off his suit jacket sometime during the fisticuffs.

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