Chapter 19
Dealing With the Devil
Sneaky Pete Bronson shook his head. He was miserable. How long had he been here? Sitting in this chair, his leg manacled to the floor of a windowless room painted an achingly bright white? No other furniture, and only an armed guard for company. A soldier or a sailor, Pete didn't know, but the guy maybe was dressed in Navy garb. And Pete really didn't care whether the fellow was a sailor or a Boy Scout -- the rifle and side arm he carried looked rather threatening to this prisoner!
Pete had asked the guard questions -- "Where am I?" "How long have I been here?" -- but the man didn't stir, didn't speak. He just flicked his eyes at Pete every now and then.
Pete had awakened in this chair. The last thing he remembered was a hell of a fight in Maltone's farmhouse. Then, nothing till waking up in this bright room that made Pete's eyes water.
The door slammed open, admitted another person, slammed shut. This arrival was dressed in a Naval officer's uniform and had bushy eyebrows topping an ugly scowl.
"Who are you?" barked the officer.
Pete finally had someone to talk to, but his contrary nature made him scowl back at his interrogator, as if his barking offended Pete.
"That's all right, I already got your name from the others," the officer said. "The wounded one, Andy, was eager to tell me things when I -- asked -- the right way."
The officer released an evil smile that chilled Pete's bones for a moment.
"You're Sneaky Pete Bronson," the officer said, surprising Pete that he hadn't actually been bluffing about his name. "I'm Admiral Ryan, and you, Sneaky Pete, are a saboteur, a spy, a traitor working for an enemy power, a murderer commiting treason during wartime! And I expect to have you shot at dawn!"
Pete's eyes were bugging. His mouth was now so dry he could not protest, and his Adam's apple hopped in his throat as he tried to choke out words, any words, but his efforts were in vain.
A pained expression crossed Ryan's face. "However," he said, "there's a man here who wants to keep you alive -- against my wishes. You may have heard of him. Doc Savage."
Pete was still. Savage had been their prisoner in the farmhouse. Then there had been the attack from outside, and after that...something had happened that turned the tables.
"Savage wants to keep you from the firing squad," Ryan explained, "if you answer his questions. Hell, I don't care about that -- he's a civilian, and this is wartime! I'll see you shot at dawn! Count on it!"
And Admiral Ryan stalked out without another word, leaving Sneaky Pete to sweat in this blindingly white room with the silent guard.
*
Admiral Ryan entered his office rubbing his fists together and wearing a look of great satisfaction. Sitting awaiting him were Doc Savage and Renny Renwick.
"That was a fine piece of work," Ryan said. "Letting Bronson sweat awhile, stirring him up with a real fear, then letting him sweat some more -- he'll be plenty ready to blab all he knows to you, Savage."
"It's too bad the rest of those thugs from the farmhouse didn't know anything useful," Renny said.
"Even my threats got us nowhere," frowned Ryan, "and I meant every damned word. They're the enemy and should be shot down like mad dogs."
"Holy cow, Doc," opined Renny, "this Sneaky Pete is our last hope for learning the Barlowe gang's hideout!"
Ryan glanced over at Doc Savage. The bronze man sat calmly quiet. His face gave some evidence of the terrible beating he'd endured at the hands of Barlowe, but otherwise he didn't look like a man who had toiled almost continuously for three days with little rest. Ryan silently noted that with a dozen men like Doc Savage leading the war effort, perhaps all the country's enemies would have been defeated by now.
"I've gotten word that you've taken delivery of a shipment from the Department of War's laboratories," Doc said. "This should be the results of the experiments Monk Mayfair undertook in New York."
Ryan nodded crisply. "You're right. I've ordered Lt. Sherman to organize details regarding those materials. No one sleeps tonight." The base commander checked a wall clock. "Dawn is five hours away. We should be in fine form by then."
Doc stood. "It's time for me to go to work."
*
Sneaky Pete Bronson was about to bust. Since Admiral Ryan had made his proclamations and left, time had crawled. He had gotten no more of a stir out of the guard than before. How long had it been? Was dawn already creeping upon the skies? Was Pete's doom only minutes away?
The door opened and Pete nearly shouted, so twisted tight with anxiety was he at that moment. But the figure who entered was not Ryan. Instead, it was Doc Savage!
Pete almost fainted with relief. But the bronze man was so imposing -- his figure seemed so much larger, stronger and impressive standing over Pete than he had appeared in the farmhouse, when Pete and his cronies had been armed and in control -- or so they thought -- that the manacled thug quailed a bit. Would Doc Savage really bring salvation to one of the villains who had attempted to destroy him?
The silent guard left and closed the door. Doc Savage looked down upon Pete, who licked his dry lips.
No one moved. The silence drew out.
Then the bronze man spoke: "You heard Admiral Ryan's plans for you?" The flake gold in his eyes was seemingly stirred by a sudden breeze.
"Y-yes," Pete answered, and the word came out nearly like the croak of a thirsty frog.
"Tell me what I want to know," Doc said.
"Yes!" Pete replied eagerly, his mind and emotions burdened by the silence and the thoughts he had suffered through in this featureless prison.
"What is the base of operations Barlowe is using here?" Doc asked. "Where will I find him and the rest of his gang?"
""Will -- will you help me?" Pete begged. His hands gripped the chair arms like claws.
"Answer me," Doc said, "and you'll live beyond the dawn."
So deadly was the thought of dawn in the thug's mind, Pete nearly wept at the bronze man's words. He had no thought for any retribution that may come his way later -- just surviving the coming dawn was all his strained nerves focused on.
Five minutes later, Doc Savage strode back into Ryan's office.
"I have our information," he said. His tone was grim. He nodded to the giant engineer standing by the officer's desk. "Let's get ready for action."
*
Outside of Norfolk, far away from the Naval base, the Virginia countryside rolled with old farms and small rural communities whose inhabitants could tick off the events in their histories back to the American War for Independence and beyond, through the colonial period to the earliest settlement efforts in the area.
Scattered throughout this part of the state were pockets of settlement -- not shared by villages of neighbors, but scratched out of the one-time wilderness by single families, clannish in their habits, rarely seeking the company of others outside their bloodline except when absolutely necessary.
One such homestead sat in a ragged-edged clearing amid a wild tangle of thick woods. A two-story farmhouse and four outbuildings sat in the clearing, along with a scattering of cars and two tractors hooked up to large, long, enclosed trailers. Those who lived in the region barely knew the names or faces of those who lived and struggled to survive on this patch of land, but everyone knew of their independent and cantankerous ways. And anyone who knew that about the family living there thus made strong efforts to steer clear from those folks' paths.
The family name associated with this farm was Scott. But in reality, no one of that name resided there now. The destiny of those one-time landowners was unknown to any except, perhaps, to one or two people now within the low farmhouse at the edge of the clearing. One of those men was likely the ugly and evil man named Barlowe.
Barlowe stalked within the farmhouse now. He downed black coffee from a cracked mug while he moved from room to room. The few men awake stayed out of his way, for the vicious expression he carried -- marred beyond its usual ugliness by the marks left from the battle with Doc Savage -- showed clear that a volcano of anger -- though silent and contained now -- lay ready to erupt at the slightest provocation.
More than one of the gang members thought their boss was jumpier than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers, and for that reason, each man kept his mouth shut.
The sounds of sleeping men drifted down the stairs from what was little more than a loft in the house. Snores, snorts, and sleepy mutters. Anyone who knew the voice of the man known as Smalley recognized the giggling sighs drifting from the loft as his sleeping sounds. Rest had become a precious commodity among these men.
But surely even those resting gang members were roused from sleep when Barlowe stomped the kitchen floor and angrily shouted, "Where are those damn Killer Kalbs?!"
One man dared to answer: "They're making a practice run on Number Two to check out those repairs, boss."
Barlowe swung around swiftly and viciously swatted the man a backhanded blow that smacked him to the floor. "I know that, fool!" The rest of the crew cringed.
Just then the kitchen door banged opened and in strode two men dressed in rubber raincoats and galoshes -- even though the sky showed not the slightest hint of rain. "Finally!" shouted Barlowe.
He poured coffee for both from an enamel pot simmering on the wood-burning stove arranged in a corner of the room by a woodbox. "Here you go, Big Boy, Skeeter."
Big Boy Kalb was just that -- tall and broad. There was a bearish look to his form, and his raincoat seemed a tad tight about the shoulders.
Skeeter Kalb was slim like a reed. His coat swallowed him like a tent that had lost its pegs and poles.
But their sprightly monikers had little to do with the Kalbs' expressions or demeanors. Both appeared to wear a perpetual snarl, and their eyes caught the light in angry yellow glints.
The scowling pair slurped their coffee eagerly, and Barlowe gave each refills, which they attacked with alacrity. Impatient for this spate of gluttony to end, Barlowe prompted, "Well?"
"Everything's set from our end," Big Boy answered. "We've been working all night --"
"Till this prop problem popped up," Skeeter continued for his brother. "Even with the time out for repairs --"
"We'll be done by dawn," Big Boy said.
Barlowe opened his mouth, but before he could speak, all in the house heard a fusillade of shots erupt from a distance -- the volume suggested that the noise came from the edge of the property.
"The sentries!" Barlowe said.
A scattering of gun noises replied to the initial burst. Everyone in the house listened intently to the sporadic continuation of the firefight as to a radio drama. Finally, silence.
A few minutes later, the kitchen door popped open. In walked two of Barlowe's men with guns trained on Curly Wolfe and Black Cat Jackson.
One of the newly entered crew spoke up: "These two were leading a group trying to sneak onto the grounds. We blasted the rest of their gang. Thought you'd wanna talk to these two," he said, and gestured with his gun at Black Cat Jackson, "particularly this one."
Barlowe's knife-slash of a mouth twisted in a grimace. He glared at the dark beauty standing disarmed but unbowed before him. Clearly he remained unfazed by her looks.
"You're a damned nuisance," he said. "I didn't like it when the Blind Man brought you in on things, but he had his reasons, I guess. Now you're still a thorn in my side. If that blasted bronze man hadn't interfered, you'd be dead by now and I'd be shed of you."
He turned to Curly Wolfe. "And who the hell are you?"
Curly's goggles hung from one ear, the strap broken close to the eyepiece on one side. Still, he didn't appear a ridiculous figure -- he bristled with indignation and pure cussedness.
"What's it to you?" he spat.
Any person in the house could almost feel the air pressure change as every member of the gang suddenly held his breath. Barlowe's eyes twitched. His gaze became a fiery beam that burned its way toward Curly's eyes, but the crusty fellow glared right back, unshaken.
Barlowe's voice revealed barely restrained fury. "I'm the devil who's got a houseload of guns ready to wipe you off the earth. There won't even be a greasy spot left to bury when I'm through with you."
Curly Wolfe actually smiled. There was almost a twinkle accompanying the determination in his eyes. "Good. You can be the devil, I don't give a damn so long as you know it. I'm looking for someone, and I bet you're just the devil to tell me where to find him."
Clearly, Barlowe was surprised. His eyebrows popped up and his mouth dropped open.
"We've been working against one another, but it doesn't have to be that way," Curly continued. "Why, the way I see it, you've got the Navy hoodwinked -- all from right here inside the very U. S. of A. You keep that up, you must have some powerful backing. Things might change in the way things are run in this country. And then you might need somebody like me."
Barlowe turned a doubly hard scowl at the man. "Just who are you?"
"Folks call me Curly, Curly Wolfe. I'm a wildcatter, filled my bank by hitting it big in oil country. Drilling, fuel and energy, I know 'em backwards and forwards."
"How are you tied in with Jackson, here?" Barlowe asked.
"She's my daughter."
"What?!" Barlowe looked ready to explode again. "I should kill you just for that!"
Barlowe raged further, but Curly remained unperturbed. When the gang boss settled down a bit, Curly continued.
"Catherine is my daughter, as I said. Married this young feller, an inventor type. He came to me with this idea for an easy mining technique, reducing time and costs. I laughed him off, shooed him away. Sounded like Flash Gordon stuff to me. Besides, I was an oil man. Drilling was all the world I figured to know.
"So the boy goes off in a huff, claims he's gonna prove his ideas to me by finding somebody who's got more brains than me to put his ideas to work. Guess I don't blame him. Figure we're probably both kinda hard headed.''
Curly craned his neck around the kitchen. "Say, you got any more of that coffee I smell?"
"Finish your tale!" Barlowe roared.
"So the boy disappears. Hiram, his name is. Ran off without Cat, here, which pleased me none at all and blame near made my daughter riled up enough to start taking pot shots at the hired hands. But then Hiram wrote and said he'd got hooked up with some feller who was going to put his ideas to work.
"Cat got a few more letters, then nothing. I figgered Hiram was deep into cogitatin' and working on his invention. But Cat took off after him. Somehow she ciphered out where Hiram'd gone. And she hooked up with this feller she calls the Blind Man, the guy Hiram was working for."
Black Cat Jackson had stood by silent and impassive during this entire oration. Her eyes flashed occassionally as her gaze roved the room and spotted men who had previously taken orders from her.
"The Blind Man always told her that Hiram was squirreled away working on his idea. I guess she convinced this blind feller to let her help out more, so he gave her some authority and sent her east with some of his crew. She let me know that Hiram's idea was fixing to be put to work, but in a different way than he'd proposed to me. So I came east to see for myself."
"And?" prompted Barlowe.
"Dang if it ain't some kinda impressive Flash Gordon action after all," Curly replied. "I've seen what it'll do to them big ships. I reckon it would be just the thang for mining minerals, just like Hiram said."
"I thought you were strictly an oil man?"
"I've seen the future -- Hiram's idea would work like a charm. So I'm expanding my area of interests. And after you've conquered the country, you'll be needing a savvy guy like me to get those metals out of the ground to get the manufacturing industries back on the git-go."
Barlowe jerked his thumb at Black Cat and growled. "She's caused me a lot of trouble."
"She's an ornery child, I agree, and her stubborn streak is mainly my fault, her raisin' being mainly my responsibility since her ma died early. I guess I just didn't instill a lot of feminine shy-and-retiring qualities in her. Cat's a spunky gal, and her frettin' over Hiram got her ire up with everyone, including me. If the Blind Man had just let her get together with Hiram months ago, I'm sure none of these problems with you boys woulda ever come about."
"She brought Doc Savage into this!" Barlowe screamed full into Curly's face. But the oil man merely shrugged.
"Way I heard it, Cat wanted to distract that big bronze galoot onto some wild goose chase. She was just checking to see if he was sniffin' around Hiram's idea and was going to divert him when your jumpy boys bungled everything by bustin' in on her play at Savage's headquarters."
Barlowe got twitchy. "How did you find this place?"
"Maltone," Black Cat said, speaking up for the first time. "I knew where he was stationed, but Doc Savage broke up that place. We hijacked his man Renny and stole Maltone away. I knew he'd know where to find you."
"Where's Maltone now?" Barlowe asked.
"Tied up in one of our cars, parked on that cow path they call a lane to this place," the dark-haired woman answered.
Barlowe jerked his head to two of his gang. They left to retrieve the gravel-voiced thug named Maltone.
Barlowe turned back to the father and daughter. "So you found me. What do you want?"
"I want Hiram!" Black Cat answered.
"I want to make a deal," Curly said.
"Hiram ain't here," Barlowe said. "The Blind Man must know where he is, but I sure don't. And what kind of deal?"
"Like I said, I wanta use Hiram's idea for mining for the Blind Man when all this stuff winds down," Curly said.
"But I killed all your gang," Barlowe retorted. "Ain'tcha mad at me?"
"I'm a businessman," Curly said. "I didn't wildcat oil to make friends. I worked to make money. A deal with this Blind Man will make me more money. Those fellers your gang shot down -- well they were just hired hands I picked up in New York City. Losers, mainly, who'd do anything fer cash. They don't mean nothin' to me."
Barlowe squinted at Curly. "And what if Doc Savage shows up?"
"Just gimme my gun back," Curly exclaimed, "and I'll plug him square!"
"That's just fine," Barlowe said. He turned and addressed the Kalb brothers. "Get back to work."
The two rain-coated men left. Curly asked, "What's going on?"
Barlowe grinnedly satanically. "Thanks to those two gents, every Navy ship in Norfolk will be wiped out at dawn!"
Written By:
Duane Spurlock
based on notes by:
Kenneth Robeson
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