Chapter 18
Deadly Shipyard
When a person stands surrounded by the concrete and steel and glass mountains rearing skyward among the streets of Manhattan, he has a hard time imagining that there is a world of trees and grasses and wild animals where a building of any type is a rarity.
Yet cross the Hudson River from the City and head southwest to Newark, New Jersey, and continue on a ways, and you'll enter the brush-covered hill country. There's a feeling of solitude there, and the inhabitants -- the human inhabitants -- are few and far between.
In a cabin situated within heavy woods, while Doc Savage began his initial exploration of the tunnels underneath the barn standing in an out-of-the-way meadow ourside Norfolk, Harry Portman sat at a rough table cleaning his plate with a slice of folded white bread.
Curly Wolfe, Harry's most recent client, had brought Harry here after spiriting the unconscious Black Cat Jackson from the clutches of Doc Savage's men, Monk and Ham. Harry had been held under guard at a Brooklyn hotel room while that occurred. With the beautiful Jackson woman secured, two of Curly's men escorted Harry to this out-of-the-way lodging, first stoping off at a country store to purchase enough food and supplies to last the private eye a few weeks.
The cabin was used throughout the year by hunters. Or had been before the war. The place looked long-untenanted and uncared-for when Harry set foot inside. The big detective gathered that Curly Wolfe had previously rented the cabin from Mr. Burl "Bug" Masters, owner, manager, and operator of Bug's Store, the source of the groceries that Harry had just consumed.
His plate successfully sopped, Harry popped the piece of bread into his mouth, then slurped coffee and smacked his lips with relish.
Relish, he thought. Mmmm. Too bad his supplies included none of that.
Harry had expressed his misgivings about hiding out this way.
Curly Wolfe's rebuff had been to the point. "Who's paying you?"
"You are," Harry answered.
"Then you're still workin' for me," Curly Wolfe proclaimed. "And what I say goes. You're stayin' hid out till I say so. You ain't hurtin' nobody by doin' that."
"But I didn't know this job was hooked up with any ship-melting thing!" Harry protested. "I may have information that can help the authorities."
One of Curly's eyes widened behind the lens of his goggles, and one eye squinched up tight. "I say again, who's payin' you?"
"You are."
"All right then."
And Harry had quickly found himself bundled into a sedan headed for the wilds of New Jersey.
Harry scooted his chair back from the table and retrieved the rolled-up copy of Spicy Sea Stories from his coat pocket. He was debating whether to read the serial or a Deep Six Davis short story when a knock sounded from the cabin door.
Harry nearly jumped out of his socks. "Who's there?"
"Mr. Portman? It's me, Bug Masters." This was the voice of the store owner who had sold Curly Wolfe's men Harry's provisions. "You left behind a box of food your friends paid for."
Ah, thought Harry, more food! Maybe there's relish in this batch. "Sure, just a minute."
Harry had just started to open the door when it burst in upon him, and the heavy detective tumbled to the floor. Two suited fellows quickly swarmed over Harry, pinning his arms to his sides and then hand-cuffing his wrists together. The two were followed in by Bug Masters. The store owner, manager and operator had a look of meek contrition wiggling about his big-eyed face.
"Oh, Mr. Portman, I'm sorry to cause you such troubles," Masters blurted out. "But when I heard that the authorities from the city were looking for you, I knew I just had to call them in."
"You didn't cause Harry's troubles, Mr. Masters," one of the suited men said as the pair hauled their prisoner to his feet. "Harry brought about his own troubles."
Harry finally got his breath back. He blustered a bit. "Who are you characters?" he asked.
"We work for Doc Savage," one of the men answered, and Bug Masters' big eyes seemed to grow even larger. "And you've got information that Doc wants."
Relish was now the farthest thing from Harry's mind.
*
Ham Brooks, the legal whiz of Doc Savage's crew, had been following a paper trail as directed by his bronze leader, trying to determine just what the references meant in that small notebook he had found among the effects of Irving McCarthy -- the "McCarthy" of the Whithers and McCarthy Shipping Company. Ham and Monk had found the slain vice president in one of his company's wharf warehouses.
Ham had gone through company papers and bank records, leaving whirlwinds of paper and marveling file clerks in his wake.
The shipping company's president, Franklin Whithers, was in Europe, checking on the status of his business holdings there in the wake of the war.
The normal channels of communications in Europe were currently in rough shape, but things were swiftly improving. Ham had relied upon the Navy and U.S. military to make contact with Whithers.
The shipping boss had been shocked and angered to learn of the destruction of one of his tankers and to find out about his partner's murder. As a result, he had been very helpful in supplying information for Ham's investigation.
The facts Ham pulled together from his sources made for the framework of a story that might prove to be very interesting. He just lacked some important details.
Before stepping up to a leading role at Whithers and McCarthy, the slain executive had worked in purchasing and budgeting for a shipyard on the waterfront outside Manhattan: The Winthrop Shipyard. The name rang a bell in Ham's memory.
McCarthy had left Winthrop to join Whithers Shipping in a similar capacity. He had been there for nearly two years when he began making large bank deposits. During 1934 and 1935, McCarthy deposited approximately $500 thousand to various accounts, as jotted in the small notebook Ham had found in the evidence delivered to Doc's headquarters.
In 1936, McCarthy invested a much-needed pile of cash in Whithers Shipping, essentially purchasing an executive-level position in the company, as reflected in the business' altered name.
"The economy was still blasted," Whithers had told Ham over a static-attacked phone-radio hookup, "and business was very bad. Basically, Irving saved me and the company. He was smart, too. He kept us afloat."
The following year, Whithers and McCarthy's business was apparently much improved -- the shipping company purchased a ship building company: McCarthy's former employer, the Winthrop Shipyard.
"As I understand it, not much was going on there at the time," Whithers explained. "Irving said it was a good investment, that the price was right."
"What did you do with the yard?" Ham asked, shouting to be heard over the buzzing crackle of the connection.
"Irving watched over it, mostly. I think we were building Liberty ships there," Whithers said. "I only visited once, before any construction had started."
Ham's research left some questions unanswered and raised others. For instance, Whithers and McCarthy bought the Winthrop Shipyard in 1937, but President Roosevelt didn't announce the Liberty project until '41. What had been going on at the yard during those intervening years? Whithers didn't know.
Ham decided to pay a visit to this shipyard that had so interested the late Irving McCarthy.
*
Monk Mayfair dry-washed his hairy hand over his remarkable face, rubbed his eyes, then sighed. Monk was tired. But his fatigue was of the sort that provided satisfaction.
Doc had directed the chemistry whiz to whip up a concoction. With eagerness, Monk had set about concocting at the top of his form. For hours without rest or food, the simian-faced chemist had tinkered in the eighty-sixth floor laboratory to create the thing his bronze leader had requested, making it match the description that Doc had laid out.
He and the bronze man -- an accomplished scientist on his own -- had crafted a prototype in the wee hours of the morning before Doc had left the skyscraper headquarters. In the time since the bronze man's departure, Monk had worked to test and perfect the formula.
He had just gotten off the phone with Navy officials, sharing his findings with them. At this point, the work on the project was in military hands.
Monk gobbled a hastily made sandwich and washed it down with a glass of milk One of the phones rang, and when he answered he heard the voice of one of the fourth-floor operatives who worked for Doc.
"Bob Jenson here, Mr. Mayfair. We've tracked down some information on that 'Looking For Sea Adventure' ad in the issue of Spicy Sea Stories you called about."
"Great!" barked Monk -- if his squeaky voice could be said to bark. "What did you learn?"
"The publisher's records show that the ad was placed via telegram, which was sent from an office in Colorado," Jenson replied. "We have contacted associates in that state who are trying to learn more from that end.
"The ad was paid for by Whithers and McCarthy Shipping -- "
"What?!" yawped Monk. "McCarthy is the guy me and Ham found dead!"
"The check was drawn against their account for a shipbuilding yard they own. The account holder is specified as Whithers and McCarthy W Yard."
"What about that place?"
"I've been unable to raise anyone on the phone over there," Jenson said. "And everyone in the accounting office at Whithers and McCarthy seems to be in the dark about that account and about any business at that yard. Apparently the late Mr. McCarthy took a very personal watch over everything at this W Yard."
"Get hold of somebody at Whithers and McCarthy who can get us into this shipyard," the chemist ordered. "I'll meet you in the basement garage in fifteen minutes."
*
A cab pulled up before an imposing steel gate made of riveted steel plates. There were touches of rust trailing from the plate seams and shadowing each of the rivet heads, suggesting a bit of neglect. Set in this rather forbidding-looking entrance was a smaller, human-sized door, into which was built a square aperture through which a sentry could peer.
Above the gate was a sign:
Whithers and McCarthy Shipping
W Yard
Just over this sign was affixed a light that projected a cone of illumination into the area immediately around the gate. The cab disgorged two well-dressed men who stepped out of the darkness into the lone circle of light. One of the men was Ham Brooks.
His companion advanced and put an eye to the square hole in the gate. Inside the gate, nearby, stood a guard house lit by a single bulb, which revealed a watchman sitting at a desk reading a magazine.
The man at the gate called over to this fellow. "Say there, I'm William Barnes from the main office at Whithers and McCarthy."
The guard approached and smiled, unlocked the door, and Barnes and Ham entered.
"This is Mr. Brooks, an associate of Doc Savage," Barnes explained. "Which way to the office?"
"Head right over thataway," the guard said as he pointed toward a light over a door set into an otherwise blank warehouse wall about fifty yards distant. "Is your taxi going to wait?"
"Yes," Barnes said as he and Ham started toward the door.
"I'll let him pull inside so he's not sitting out in the dark," the guard said, and he began opening the larger gate doors.
The shipyard appeared eerie in the nighttime fog that had advanced from the waterfront. There was no work underway, and the place was shrouded in darkness but for the guard shack and the lit doorway to which Ham and Barnes advanced. Cranes, moving booms, and meagre material piles created forbidding shapes in the night.
Ham gave a moment's thought to the damage the damp air and filthy surroundings might be doing to his attire, then continued to focus his attention on the shipyard as he made his way to the office door. He could not determine through the bad light whether work had been done here recently. The attorney had a growing sense of apprehension, and he gripped his sword cane tightly. He wished that he had contacted Monk to accompany him on this trip.
Ham was on the point of addressing a question to Barnes, when he heard a sudden, gusting grunt from his companion. He whipped about, but briefly saw stars that quickly disappeared in an all-enveloping blackness.
The guard and another figure stood over the fallen Ham and Barnes, who were stretched out unconscious upon the ground.
"The Blind Man was smart to stake out this place," the false guard gloated. "That one is one of Savage's crew!"
"Gather him up," his companion snarled.
As the guard complied with this order, the sound of an approaching car engine broke through the fog. The sound ceased at the shipyard gate, followed by the noise of two car doors unlatching and thumping shut.
"More company!" hissed the guard. "Hit the switch!"
"Scram!" whispered his companion.
*
As Monk and operative Jenson rolled through the manufacturing district along the waterfront, the hair chemist asked, "So, on that other little investigation over at the publishers of Spicy Sea Stories . . . "
"Uh, no, Mr. Mayfair," Jenson answered, "they wouldn't release the information you wanted. If you want to contact the writer of the Deep Sea Davis stories, you'll just have to write a letter in care of the magazine."
"Darn!"
Monk pulled up to the address given him by Jenson and parked beside the gate whose sign was illumined by a single light:
Whithers and McCarthy Shipping
W Yard
The two men stepped from the car. The massive steel gates were open, but no one was in sight.
"That's odd," Jenson remarked.
"Something is screwy here," Monk said. "Hey, there's a cab parked over there."
The pair ran over to the taxi. Just as Monk got his hand on the door latch, the only three lights that had been burning in the shipyard -- over the gate, in the guard shack, and over a warehouse door -- were extinguished, plunging the entire place into darkness.
Monk yowled a complaint. He opened the car door, fumbled in the taxi's glove box, then pulled out a flashlight that he immediately switched on.
The simian chemist instantly screeched again. "He's dead!"
The flashlight beam revealed the body of the cab driver, propped in the corner of the back seat. Jenson swiftly moved to check the man.
"He's dead, all right," the operative confirmed. "Not long, either, I'd say."
That's when a car motor erupted into life. Tires screeched and gravel flew. Monk swung the light beam and watched a sedan roar from across the yard and out the gate. He made out at least two figures inside the car.
"After 'em!" he squeaked.
Before he and Jenson had taken two strides toward their vehicle, Monk slid to a halt. "Listen!" he said.
After a moment, a groan reached their ears. Using the meagre light beam, the two men followed the sounds and soon reached the stirring form of William Barnes.
The man slowly came around. Crimson leaked from a small gash across his forehead. "Who are you, mister?" Monk demanded.
"Mr. Brooks . . ." wheezed Barnes.
"Ham!" shouted Monk. "Was that shyster with you?"
Barnes nodded feebly. Frantic, the hairy chemist cast the light beam about the area until he spotted the discarded sword cane of his friend. "Ham! They got Ham! He'd never leave his toothpick behind!"
Monk left the light with Jenson and Barnes while he scrambled for the car. He bumped his shins and tumbled a couple of times in the dark, but finally reached his vehicle. Using the car's wireless radio, he raised the fourth-floor agency that worked for Doc and told them what he knew, which wasn't much at the moment. The color and make of the sedan he'd seen rush off -- that was it.
Jenson hollered out, "Turn on the lights!" and Monk switched on the high beams of the car's headlights. A few moments later Jenson approached alone.
"Where's Barnes?" Monk asked.
"He was feeling better," the operative replied. "He took the flashlight to check out the office. He seemed rather offended by his welcome here and the fact that no business is going on."
"From this dust," Monk said, making a swipe at a smudge and a tear in the knee of his trousers, "I'd say nothing's been happening for a while. Where's that office?"
Jenson pointed toward the warehouse to which Barnes and Ham were originally headed. "He wanted to check the files."
"Let's check with him," grunted Monk. He turned a glance briefly behind him. "I hope Ham is okay."
The chemist and Jenson had taken only a couple of steps toward the warehouse when the lights -- over the gate, in the guard shack, and over the warehouse door -- suddenly came back to life. Then the entire world seemed to turn to light as the warehouse disappeared into a roaring column of fire!
Written By:
Duane Spurlock
based on notes by:
Kenneth Robeson
Back to:
Top of Page Contents Page
Index Page