Doc Savage: Up from Earths Center. Part 1(of 3)

This time its "Doc Savage: Up from Earths Center" by Lester Dent. is it just me or does this all seem vagely lovecraftian?




Chapter I

"Up from Earth's center by the seventh gate,
I rose and on the throne of Saturn sat-
And many a knot unraveled by the road,
But not the master knot of human fate-"
-- Omar Khayyam


The hours became days. And the days grew into weeks. And the weeks followed one another into a dull and terrible haze of time in which nothing really changed.

Gilmore had scooped a shallow pit in the eroding chalk at the edge of a cliff. He roofed it with a crude thatched trapdoor which he could close against the black things of night. And he spent the majority of his time there.

For a time during Indian Summer, one day was like another. It was then that Gilmore lost his shirt. He took off the shirt and arranged it carefully (and, he thought, safely) on the sandy beach while he waded into the sea to stand motionless in hopes of clubbing an unwary fish for food. A huge and dour gray seagull (a typically thievish knave of a seagull) carried the shirt away. It was a sports shirt. And its gaudy plastic buttons had fascinated the gull.

It was a small thing. The thin shirt was practically worthless as a protective garment. But Gilmore took it hard.

He ran wildly after the seagull. The bird flapped out to sea, packing the shirt in its beak with gull-like greed. Unable to swim, Gilmore ran screaming up-and-down the beach. When he was exhausted, he fell on his face and sobbed.

During the ensuing few days of Indian summer, Gilmore tried to teach himself to swim. He was unsuccessful, probably because he had no real heart left to put into it. It was pointless, anyway. A man could not swim the Atlantic.

The warm days ended. Winter came. The pools of rainwater in the potholes in the island stone began to have thin crusts of ice. And the rocks became bone-colored with coatings of frost.

Gilmore made hardly a move to thwart the certainty of freezing to death. It was too much of a certainty for him to compete against. It was inevitable. His pants now were frayed into shorts. He stuffed them with dry seaweed. And he tied seaweed about himself with other seaweed for binding until he resembled an ambulatory pile of the smelly stuff.

Actually, it did no good. And it soon became definitely established in his mind that he would freeze to death. He began to wait for Death almost as one would await a friend.

But rescue got there before Death. Although at first it was dull and undramatic.

Gilmore was sitting on a stone -- contemplating Eternity -- when a pleasant voice hailed him.

"Hello there," the voice said. 'Are you the proprietor of this heavenly spot?"

A glaze settled over Gilmore's sore eyes. And for a long time, he did not turn around. In fact, he did not turn until he had conducted quite an odd conversation in a small choking voice.

"So you finally got to me," Gilmore said. His voice had the hopelessness of a soul lost in interstellar space.

"Yeah. It took a little time to climb the cliff."

The voice contained some pleasant surprise. "I didn't think you had seen us. You didn't give any sign. We were rather puzzled."

Gilmore shuddered and said, "I don't always see you, do I?"

"Huh?"

"Us?" Gilmore continued, selecting carefully from the words the pleasant voice had said. "Us? We? Is there more than one of you now?"

"There are 18 of us," the voice said. "Say! What's the matter with you, fellow?"

"So you went back for more experienced help," Gilmore went on. "18 of you? "Good God! They must have depleted the staff!"

"What staff?"

"The executive personnel in Hell," said Gilmore bitterly.

"Who are you kidding?" the amiably friendly voice inquired.

Now Gilmore swung around to stare at the stranger and to lose his composure until he was a shaking, gibbering man. Standing before him, Gilmore saw a tall middle-aged man with a fat ruddy face, a sheepskin greatcoat, and a faint odor of good hair pomade that oddly fitted the icy island wind. Beyond the man on the chopping sea, Gilmore saw a sailing yacht of about 80 feet waterline, schooner-rigged. And on the beach was a dory with shipped oars and a couple of waiting sailors in thick blue peacoats.

Strangers all. Man, yacht, dory, sailors -- all strangers and inconceivable. Unacceptable. An illusion. A figment concocted out of ghastly chicanery. A work of Satan as far as Gilmore could understand.

So Gilmore darted off the rock and fled screaming and whimpering, going as fast as a starvation-ridden string of bones could travel.

Dr. Karl Linningen caught him easily. Although the doctor was a portly, languid individual who secretly believed that exercise was poisonous.

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The schooner yacht (by name, the Mary Too) sailed Southward and Westward over the heaving cold green seas, eventually rounding to the south of the Canadian-owned island of Campobello and beating up through the narrowing tidal channel of Lubec. It was a small fishing village which is the most Eastern-most settlement in the United States. As far east in Maine as one can travel on dry land.

Dr. Karl Linningen -- a psychiatrist by profession, and quite deserving of the title 'Eminent' -- had by that time spent a goodly interval probing at Gilmore's body and fishing in Gilmore's mind. And Dr. Karl was a puzzled man.

The tide in the rip that squirts past Lubec's stony chin was running a hellish stream when the Mary Too careened in … passed the stone jetty … wallowed about and labored into smoother water just off the docks where the sardine boats unloaded … and then dropped anchor.

Dr. Karl immediately prepared to go ashore. Of the several guests aboard, none were doctors because Dr. Karl felt that a man should get away from the familiar in order to relax.

"You turn a race-horse into a pasture with other race-horses and he's going to continue acting like a race-horse" was the way he phrased it.

"When I'm on vacation, I want plow-horses in my pasture."

One of the plow-horses was Bill Williams -- a sports-announcer on the radio. And the others were a broker, a shoe-shop owner, and 3 insurance men.

"You seem hell-bent to get ashore!" remarked Bill Williams, noting the doctor's preparations.

"That's right."

"Going to be gone long?"

"Don't know."

"What about our wild boy off the island?" Bill Williams asked. "Want to prescribe any medicine to give him in case you're gone a while?"

"He's the reason I'm in a hurry to get ashore," Dr. Karl muttered.

"You can have him."

Dr. Karl grinned wryly.

"But keep him around until I get back, will you?"

"You mean if he wants to go ashore, tell him he can't?"

"In a gentlemanly way."

"And in case the 'gentlemanly' way doesn't work, then what shall we do?"

Dr. Karl examined Bill Williams' considerable length. He noted that there were still a few signs of the old football framework under the lazy lard and he said, "I imagine you could manage suitable restraint, Bill."

"What is the legal leg I stand on while restraining?" Bill Williams asked.

After hesitating, Dr. Karl said wryly, "I could fix that up, I suppose. Mind you, don't cripple him or anything."

"Gad! We sound like pirates consorting!" Williams chuckled. "I get the picture. You think it wouldn't be any trouble to prove he was nuts and needed restraining. Right-o! I'll keep your wild boy here for you."

Dr. Karl gripped the rail preparatory to swinging over into the dinghy, but turned to remark, "Why call him my 'wild boy'?"

"Huh? Isn't he?" Williams inquired.

A wry smile touched Dr. Karl's lips.

"No more than yours. Not as much. It was your donkey-like work as a steersman that brought us close enough to the witch's cake of a rock that we happened to see the poor looney."

He dropped down into the dinghy (it rocked only a little under his expertly balanced weight) and he untied the painter after pulling the little craft along the rail with his strong hands.

"Back in an hour-or-two, Bill," he said and took up the oars.

He used the oars in a powerful feathering stroke that sent the blades deep, then brought them back clear and flashing on returns. Dr. Linningen liked the sea. And he was not happy that he saw less-and-less of it as the years passed. Nor was he pleased that this Gilmore had intruded into one of his rare vacation voyages. And Gilmore had intruded all right. From the very first, he had been an article Dr. Karl couldn't ignore. No psychiatrist could have ignored him.

There was too much that was puzzling.

The Customs was in a gray wooden building beside the ferry slip. Dr. Karl stopped there to check in and explain about Gilmore and to answer the resulting questions.

"Is he an American citizen?" the official wished to know.

"Born in Kansas, I would say."

And when the official's eyes widened doubtfully, Dr. Karl added quickly, "A matter of accents. I have studied them. The fellow has really told us almost nothing about himself except to call him by the name of 'Gilmore'."

"You mean he's too crazy to tell you anything about himself, Doc?"

"Crazy? That's too conclusive a word. His mental state hasn't permitted confidences or explanations."

"Be okay if I went out and talked to this Gilmore?"

"Go ahead if you wish. It will do no harm. And probably no good."

"Then I will," the Customs officer said.

Dr. Karl nodded amiably, then changed the subject by asking, "How is the survey on the Quoddy project coming?"

"That engineer from New York -- Renwick -- is still around here," the official explained. "But they aren't puffing out any information that I've heard."

He eyed the doctor curiously. "You read about it in the newspapers?"

Dr. Karl shook his head and said, "Radio."

Then he went to the window -- one facing North toward the area that had been the scene some 15 years before of the Quoddy project for harnessing the resources of the terrific Fundy tides. A thin fog veiled the area. But he could see the stony islands that had been intended as an anchor for one of the dams that had never been built. Congress had concluded Quoddy was just so much dream stuff.

"I happen to know this engineer Renwick and his associate -- Doc Savage," Dr. Karl said suddenly. "That was the reason I asked."

The Customs man straightened. Interest splashed over him like a stinging bath.

"Doc Savage?" the man repeated. "You're a friend of Doc Savage?"

Dr. Karl turned, lowered a shoulder deprecatingly, explaining, "In a professional sense only."

He prepared to leave … but hesitated when be noticed how the official was staring at him.

"Something wrong?"

"I'm sorry," the officer said.

He grinned. "This Doc Savage -- a man with a reputation like that -- you sort of wonder if he's real. Kind of a shock when you run across someone who really knows him."

"Savage is real enough." Dr. Karl moved to the door. "I sort of wondered if he would be around, visiting his associate Renwick."

"That would be something," the officer said.

He followed the doctor to the door.

"That would be something! Well Doctor, I'll look at this zany you picked off a rock. We'll probably let him in on your say-so. Be a shame to keep a guy out of this Country just because he's a little nuts, considering some we've already got."

The man was chuckling over his joke as Dr. Karl walked away.

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The rooming house stood on the rocky brow of a hill that formed the backbone of the town of Lubec. An ancient and large house, it had woodwork of teak fetched in sailing ships from the Orient. It could have been bought during the Depression for 500 dollars. The old lady who opened the door peered blankly and asked, "Who?"

"Savage," said Dr. Karl. "Doc Savage … Clark Savage, Jr… The Man of Bronze … All one and the same individual."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the old lady.

"Who is the landlady?"

"That's me."

Dr. Karl looked unsmilingly at the old face that was as crinkled and expressionless as a deflated toy balloon.

In a moment he asked, "Is Colonel John Renwick here? Renny Renwick?"

The old lady took her time.

"Him? He over on the work."

"What time will Renwick be back?"

"Maybe about 6:00. Maybe not."

Dr. Karl grinned wryly. "Thank you, Madam. Would you tell him that Old Doc Linningen called? Tell him also that if he wishes a decent cup of coffee to drop aboard my schooner this evening sometime."

The old lady stiffened angrily!

"What's the matter with my coffee?" she snapped.

Dr. Karl looked surprised, then said, "Why, it's nectar, I'm sure."

He had turned away and was halfway to the gate when the old woman suddenly yelled "I make the best damn coffee in the state of Maine!" and slammed the door.

Grinning and wondering just what the old lady thought the word "nectar" meant, Dr. Karl walked back toward the waterfront. All routes from the top of Lubec's hill led downward and presently Dr. Karl began a descent. He found himself walking rapidly, jarringly, as one does down a hill. Then he began running. Not running fast, just taking a series of crow-hops that must have looked rather ridiculous. And they really were ridiculous because he couldn't stop himself. Finally, he had to throw out his hands and grasp a picket in a fence and stopped himself with a jerk.

He rested there a moment to recover. "Sea legs," he muttered, putting in words the answer that seemed to explain his descent of the hill.

But in a moment -- when he began to descend again -- he fell to running and was helpless against it. He brought himself up only by steering against the side of a building. This happened once more. And he was perspiring and upset in his mind when he reached the foot of the street.

Kroeger -- one of the crew -- had watched him. He saw Kroeger conceal a grin.

Irritated, Dr. Karl snapped, "Dammit, man! I didn't have a drop!"

"I'm sure you didn't, Sir," Kroeger said hastily, then added, "I came ashore in the other dink for supplies. Shall I give you a tow back to the vessel, Sir?"

"No thanks, Kroeger. I learned to row a boat several years ago," Dr. Karl said with a vehemence which he saw at once was excessively childish.

But he did row back to the schooner in excellent style. He would have carried off a triumphant return if Gilmore hadn't started screaming and throwing things at him.

There was little sense to Gilmore's squalling. And less to the things he threw. He just hurled what he could get his hands on. An oar, a boathook, a cushion, two life preservers, a lead squid used for mackerel trolling, and the brass cover off the compass binnacle. Then Bill Williams -- bouncing up from below decks -- pinned poor Gilmore's arms and stopped the fusillade.

By the time Dr. Karl climbed thoughtfully aboard, Bill Williams had wrestled Gilmore below. Kroeger had retrieved the thrown articles except for the squid and the binnacle cover which sank. Dr. Karl heard the unmistakable sound of a blow from the cabin. Then Bill Williams reappeared, holding his right hand with his left.

"You shouldn't have struck him," Dr. Karl said.

"That's right. I darn near knocked down a knuckle. But that binnacle cover cost good money, didn't it?"

"No more than 10 dollars. And he obviously wasn't responsible."

"10 bucks is 10 bucks! And he threw it in the drink!" Bill Williams said.

He shrugged. "Okay, maybe I shouldn't have hung one on him. Come to think of it, that was kind of silly of me wasn't it?"

"Why did you?" Dr. Karl asked.

"Why, because … Well, I fancied the idea at the time. I don't know. I hit him … and now I don't know why."

Bill Williams looked confused. "Funny thing for me to do. I kind of like the guy."

"Did Gilmore say anything while you were struggling with him?"

"Nothing very coherent. Cussing … No, wait! I think I did catch something about keeping Mr. Wail from getting aboard."

"Who?"

"Wail … or Wales … or Whale … Something like that. It was confused."

Bill Williams grinned wryly. "I wonder who 'Mr. Wail' is to our guest Gilmore?"

Dr. Karl did not answer. And Bill Williams -- who had not really looked squarely at Linningen since coming on deck -- did so now.

A considerable surprise wrenched at Williams and he said, "You look pale. Aren't you feeling well? Did that loon hit you with something?"

"He didn't hit me with anything he threw," Dr. Karl replied grimly.

"Well, you look as if there was a rattlesnake in your pocket."

Linningen glanced oddly at the man, then away. And they were below in the main cabin having a "bracer" before Linningen muttered, "I would buy the rattler in preference."

He did not say anything further to remove Williams' resulting puzzled stare.

Later, Dr. Karl stretched out on his bunk and endeavored to do what he frequently advised his patients to do. Relax, take it easy, and grin away the worries. He was quite good at that. He frequently said that all a really good psychiatrist needs is the ability to show a patient how to kick his problems in the nose. And he could do this successfully with his patients. He didn't have much luck with himself now, however.

When he realized he was becoming wet with perspiration, he got up and took a shower.

Over the splashing water, he heard Kroeger shouting on deck. Lunging topside with a towel for clothing, he saw that Bill Williams -- who could hardly row a boat in calm water -- was trying to scull with one oar in the direction of Campobello Island. It lay half-a-mile distant across the tidal channel. The tide was now in full rip and no place for a greenhorn in a dinghy.

Shouting angrily, Kroeger was in pursuit of Williams in the other dinghy. And he caught Williams, who apparently had thrown the other oar away. Kroeger towed Williams and the dinghy back (not without difficulty) and making angry comments to which Williams gave a dazed, stupefied silence.

"Williams, what in thunderation were you trying to do?" Dr. Karl demanded.

Williams went below without a word of answer. He was pale.

Kroeger asked, "What made Mr. Williams do a fool thing like that? He knows he's no hand with a boat. He'd have drowned for sure out in that rip!"

Tense with an edge riding his voice, Dr. Karl asked, "Did you see him start out? How did he act?"

Kroeger had a queer look.

"My God, yes! He just got in the dinghy like a man sleepwalking. He untied the painter. Then he threw the oar away. He began to scull. Only he can't scull. He can't even row a boat decent. I yelled at him. He didn't pay no attention. So I overtook him. And when I did, I asked him what-the-hell he thought he was doing. And you know what he said to me?"

"He said 'I was going after Mr. Wail.' That's what he said. Just that. Then he looked more dazed than before. And he hasn't said a word since."

"What was that name?"

"Wail. A 'Mr. Wail', he said."

Dr. Karl swung about and dropped down into the cabin. Williams was pouring himself a drink. A strong one. He looked up. His face was strained and his deep-throated radio-announcer's voice was a thin harpish thing as he said:

"Don't ask me what-the-devil made me do that. I don't know."

"But you did know it was dangerous to get out in the tide rip with just one oar!"

"I should have," Williams muttered.

"What did you mean when you told Kroeger you were going after a 'Mr. Wail'?"

Williams stared at his glass for a long time as if he were afraid of the glass. And as if he were afraid of the things in his mind.

"I didn't say anything like that to Kroeger," he muttered thickly.

Dr. Karl wheeled. Now he felt terror where he had been only puzzled. Or perhaps it had been terror all along and he had refused to recognize it as such. It was more heroic to be puzzled than afraid. It always is, he thought with horror.

He jerked open the door of the cabin where Gilmore was and saw the man inside lying on a bunk.

"Gilmore!" Dr. Karl yelled.

But Gilmore was not dead. He rolled his head enough so that Dr. Karl saw his blank, wasted face and the pools of terror and desperation that the man's eyes had been from the time they found him on the island.

Closing and locking the door of the cabin, Dr. Karl told Kroeger, "Keep that man in there. I'm going ashore. Keep him there until I get back. And nobody else goes ashore! Nobody, understand?"

He went ashore, wrenching the little dinghy madly through the water with great oar strokes.

Chapter II

Two small near-accidents happened to Dr. Karl Linningen during the next 10 minutes. He did not at the time -- he realized later -- pay them the attention they deserved.

First, he almost fell out of the dinghy. That was a ridiculous thing to do because he had been rowing small boats since he began breathing, practically. He swore briefly and bitterly about it, feeling it was a mishap due to overanxiety.

Still, if he had taken a dive into the icy water and ripping tide, he might have had a difficult go. He was not much of a swimmer. And the gulls were screaming and crying the sounds that a drowning man might have used to appeal for help.

Secondly, he was nearly run down by a car. That, too, seemed a mishap fitting his mood, the steepness and narrowness of the Lubec street and the general confusion of things. It was a small car, quite ancient. After it was past, Dr. Karl noted that its rattle was a great thing like a whirlwind crossing a city dump. And he wondered how he could have missed such a clatter.

The driver of the car? Dr. Karl tried to remember later. He thought it was a round little amiable man with large shining eyes. A little man who radiated a lovely temperament the way a stove dispenses heat. A little guy you just naturally would like.

Anyway, the old car missed Dr. Karl and so it did not seem too important.

Eventually, he got where he was going in such a hurry.

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The old lady said "You!" and blew out her cheeks with sudden rage, causing all her wrinkles to disappear from the lower part of her face.

"Who told you my coffee was no good?" she demanded.

Dr. Karl Linningen breathed heavily. "I'd like to see Doc Savage. It's very urgent. If I can find Mr. Renwick, he could help me locate Savage, I'm sure."

"My coffee …"

"I complimented your coffee, Madam."

"You what?"

"I said it was 'nectar', probably. Very good no doubt. I presumed it would be good, Madam, without having sampled it."

Dr. Karl was not very patient.

"Now is that so?"

There was no friendliness in the old woman's eye.

"Who you talk about?"

"Doc Savage. Renny Renwick."

"Not know either one.

Dr. Karl glared at her. "Madam, no doubt you're a character in your own opinion. And on another time, I might pretend to be amused. Just now, however, I've got damned important business with Doc Savage. And to find him, I've got to get hold of his aide Renwick. When will Renwick be home?"

The old lady shrugged and started to close the door. Dr. Karl hastily inserted his toe in the crack and shouted, "I want an answer! Where is Renwick!"

The woman glowered and asked "You want to pull back a stub?", pointing at the foot in the door.

Then she tried abruptly to kick Dr. Karl's shin. He was too quick and shoved the door back while she was distracted. He entered the room.

The old lady backed away yelling, "Mr. Savage! Doc Savage!"

A rather striking man's voice from the room to the left said, "Easy does it, Marie. I was listening."

The man appeared in the connecting door. Dr. Karl recognized him immediately as Doc Savage.

Dr. Linningen had exaggerated somewhat when he said he knew Doc Savage. He had previously met the bronze man. And that was the extent of it.

So he was astonished when Savage looked at him steadily and asked, "What is it, Dr. Linningen? You seem excited."

"I was here earlier!" Dr. Karl snapped. "I was told you weren't about. Not known here as a matter-of-fact."

"You had better come upstairs, Doctor."

"This is a funny kind of welcome. I'm not sure I like it."

Doc Savage shrugged. "You came without an invitation, Doctor."

He lifted a hand, adding, "I am going upstairs if you care to follow."

He turned and mounted the stairs and suddenly -- when he was halfway up -- he turned to say sharply, "If you do come up, it had better be for something worthwhile. We do not like pointless interruptions."

Dr. Karl snorted! But this hesitation lasted only a moment …

… and then he followed the bronze man, thinking of some of the things he knew about Doc Savage and of other things he had heard. He knew that Savage was an extremely fine surgeon. Rather a wizard, for the man had devised some procedures in brain surgery that were exceptional. And his measurements of cerebrifugal voltages were outstanding contributions to tabular analysis.

The man's physical build, Dr. Karl reflected, was more of a clue to his adventurous nature. Linningen was not small. But Doc Savage dwarfed him. There was a metallic efficiency about the man -- a dynamic force, a quality of power under close control -- that was disturbing. Savage was not a man whose stature shrank on lengthening acquaintance.

They went into a rear 2nd-floor room which had a spread of windows and much neat comfort. Linningen faced Savage and demanded, "Why be so hard to get to?"

Doc Savage appeared not to hear the question. He went to one of the windows and pulled back the curtains so that more of the afternoon sunlight could get in. Scowling because his question had been ignored, Linningen- was about to speak when Savage forestalled him with a demand that was like a slap in the face.

"What has driven you so far into fear, Doctor?" Savage asked.

Linningen winced. "What's that?"

"You're a scared man, Doctor."

"Oh I am, am I?"

Linningen growled, sounding like a small boy beginning a behind-the-schoolhouse brawl.

"What gives you that idea? And did you notice that you're being a little insulting?"

"You feel that you're being insulted?" Doc asked dryly.

"I certainly do!"

Doc Savage looked him over thoughtfully.

"You're lucky, Linningen, that you weren't kicked out of here. You forced your way in, you know, by bulldozing an old lady. What do you think of that for bad manners?"

Linningen had taken a chair. He jumped up.

"I'm leaving!" he snapped.

"Sit down," Doc Savage directed, "and get it off your chest."

"The devil with you!" Linningen shouted.

He was halfway to the door when Doc Savage laid a firm grip on his arm, halting him. There followed a brief interval when Linningen debated taking a swing at the big bronze man … and also imagined what would probably happen to him. He grimaced.

'All right, Savage. The rough stuff wins. But I must say that I came up here for your cooperation, not your persecution."

"Sit down, Linningen."

"Oh, all right. Take your hands off me."

Linningen resumed his chair.

"Now Doctor, what's on your mind?" Doc Savage asked bluntly.

"I must say, Linningen retorted, "that this wasn't the way I hoped to start off."

"Let's not worry about the way it started since it's already has," Doc Savage told him. "Let's be bothered about the ending. Go ahead with your troubles."

Doctor Linningen shrugged, scowled, got out a cigar, and noticed that the tobacco wrapper was broken and the cigar partly crushed. Without lifting his eyes, he remarked, "You seemed to know me by sight."

"Why shouldn't I know you?" Doc Savage countered. "You're a psychiatrist of some reputation. You have been in audiences to which I lectured."

"Yes. I heard you twice. And each time I was one in an audience of about 300 specialists," Linningen said grudgingly. "You mean you noticed me?"

"You weren't in the audience either time by accident, Doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this. Every man in those lecture audiences was carefully selected whether-or-not he knew it. They were checked over, the quacks weeded out, and invitations given only to those who would be intelligent enough to understand what they were hearing."

"That's an egotistical statement," Linningen muttered.

"Not at all. If you will recall, I had but a small part in the lecture programs."

"The hell you did!" Linningen snorted. "You were the man they came to hear."

Doc Savage shrugged. "Suppose you get around to the story."

Linningen nodded. "I've got a boat. A sailboat, a schooner. I like to spend my free time aboard her because I'm a nut on sailing. The name of the boat is the Mary Too. I named her after my wife, who is dead. For the past 3 weeks, I've been sailing the Mary Too with some acquaintances. We visited the northern shore of Nova Scotia.

"And on our way back, we found a possessed man who was alone -- starving and freezing -- on a rocky island. We picked him up. Then some things I don't understand have started happening. I want your help."

"Let's build up that part of the story," Doc Savage interrupted. "Let's put more parts in it."

"The island where we found the fellow doesn't have a name that I know of," Linningen explained. "It's about 20 miles offshore and 200 miles from here. A grim place."

"Your schooner is about 70 feet on the waterline isn't it, Doctor?" Doc Savage asked.

"Yes, that's right. I'm surprised you knew it."

"And you were on a coastwise cruise?"

"Yes."

"Do you customarily do your cruising 20 miles offshore? That's how far away from the mainland you say the island was."

Dr. Linningen moved his hand impatiently.

"The ship is perfectly seaworthy. I'd rather risk her than an ocean liner in a blow."

"Seaworthiness has no bearing on it. Yachtsmen cruising the coast usually keep close inshore so that they can anchor in a calm harbor at night. It's more comfortable that way. Isn't that right?"

"Not always."

"But generally."

"Well, yes … generally."

"And your boat was 20 miles offshore and passed this barren island. How did that happen?"

"I don't see how that is important."

Doc Savage said, "Maybe it isn't. But if you're going to tell a story, let's have a complete one. How did you happen to pass that island?"

Linningen thought it over for a moment.

"I guess it was because Bill Williams couldn't box a compass. Bill was steering. He was told to hold North by East for a course and he held NorthEast."

"This resulted in your passing the island?"

"I guess it did. You could hardly call it an 'island', though. It was more of a rock."

"Were you looking for a man on the island?"

"Of course not!" Linningen snapped. "Who would expect a man on such a place? We were looking the place over through the binoculars and saw him."

"Exactly who saw him?"

"I did."

"And it was an accident?"

Dr. Linningen nodded grimly. "It sure was! It was a piece of bad luck, too."

"How do you mean 'bad luck'?"

"I'll get to that. This fellow had evidently been marooned on the island for 3 weeks or months. He was in bad shape. He had almost no clothes and had tied seaweed around himself for warmth. He was in ghastly shape. Starving and freezing."

"He must have welcomed rescue," Doc Savage suggested.

"On the contrary." Linningen shook his head. "He resented it. Here is exactly the way the rescue took place: This fellow -- he says his name is 'Gilmore', but that's about all he has told us concerning himself -- apparently didn't notice our arrival. Two of the crew rowed me ashore. I approached Gilmore, who was sitting on a rock. I spoke to him.

"Without turning around, he said, 'So you got to me finally.' His voice sounded utterly hopeless. Then he explained his not noticing us by saying, "I don't always see you, do I?" Then he made a remark that indicated he thought we had all come from Tophet."

"From where?"

"Tophet. Hades. Hell. The place down under."

"That doesn't sound as if Gilmore was rational," Doc Savage said.

"That's right. He didn't act rational, either. He jumped up and fled, screaming. We had to chase him to catch him and take him aboard the schooner. He fought us like a wildcat."

"He wanted to stay on the island?"

"That's the way he acted," Linningen agreed grimly. "The poor devil would have frozen or starved within a few days. So the humane thing seemed to be to remove him against his wishes. We did that. And I'm damned sorry for it now!"

"Sorry you saved the man's life?" Doc Savage asked. "What makes you say that?"

Linningen bit his lips.

'The things that have happened since have started me wishing we'd never seen the fellow at all."

"What things?"

Linningen hesitated.

"This stuff isn't going to sound very reasonable. It's stuff you have to see to believe."

"For example?"

"Queer things. Incidents hard to explain."

Doc Savage said impatiently, "You'll have to be more explicit that that, Doctor."

Doctor Linningen was tense and uncomfortable on the chair.

"It's hard to be specific about the intangible."

"You're a psychiatrist, Doctor. The 'intangible' is your business. You should deal with it very capably."

"Yes, I know," Linningen muttered. "If I wasn't a psychiatrist, I wouldn't probably be scared. If I didn't have enough training along such lines to know better, I'd just think Gilmore was 'balmy' and let it go at that."

Doc Savage showed a sharper flicker of interest.

"You don't feel Gilmore is crazy?"

"He's no more crazy than I am. Not as much so as I'm going to be if this keeps up," Linningen said.

"What do you mean by 'this'?"

Linningen compressed his lips, scowling at his clenched hands.

Then he blurted, "There have been at least half-a-dozen unwitting attempts at suicide by the people on the Mary Too since that fellow Gilmore came aboard."

Doc Savage frowned. "Unwitting? Did you mean to use that word?"

"Yes. I'll explain it."

"You'd better," Doc Savage said dryly. "This isn't adding up to a very lucid or believable account."

"Let me tell you one thing that Bill Williams did. It will serve as an example. You know how the tide rips through the inlet here at Lubec? Well, Bill Williams got in a dinghy and threw away one oar and started sculling. Or trying to scull. He can't row a dinghy passably -- much less scull one -- out into the tide. He would have drowned if one of the sailors hadn't noticed and overtaken him in time."

"Did Williams have an explanation?"

"Not a reasonable one. He said it just seemed like a thing he wanted to do at the time."

"He would have drowned?"

"The chances are 999 out of 1,000 that he would have."

"Did he know that?"

"He should have."

Doc Savage nodded.

'This is interesting, Doctor. You had better give me the other incidents."

"I will," Doctor Linningen said and proceeded to relate a full account of events. He finished with the 2 narrow escapes which he'd had while en-route to the house a few minutes ago.

"I don't know whether I should include those because they might have been coincidences," he said.

"Who is this 'Mr. Wail', Doctor?" Doc Savage asked thoughtfully.

Linningen shrugged. "You've got me. Just a name Gilmore has mouthed is all I know."

"And Gilmore has explained nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"He hasn't said how he got on the island? Or why he wished to remain?"

"He hasn't explained a thing."

Doc Savage asked sharply, "Have you passed over any cumulative impressions, Doctor?"

Linningen hesitated.

"I don't believe I understand what you mean by 'cumulative impression'."

"Your story indicated that someone might have returned to the schooner with you at the conclusion of your first trip ashore," Doc Savage said.

Linningen winced. "I was alone. I was absolutely alone in that dinghy when I rowed back."

"What about the crew member who was also ashore?"

"Kroeger? He came back alone, too."

"You re sure."

"Positive."

"And it was at you that Gilmore started throwing things?"

"He threw things at my dinghy, yes."

"At you? Or at the dinghy? Or shall we say at some presence in the dinghy of which you were not aware?"

Linningen shuddered.

"Let's not be fantastic. I was alone in the dinghy. I would know if I was alone, wouldn't I?"

"But Gilmore threw things at the dinghy? As if trying to drive someone away?"

"Yes."

"And Williams -- after he started off into the deadly tide rip with one oar -- said that he was going after Mr. Wail?"

"Yes. Or Kroeger said that's what he said."

"Does Williams know a 'Mr. Wail'?"

"He says he doesn't. Williams can't explain what he did."

"I see."

"I hope to God you do see!" Linningen blurted. "I hope you've got some explanation."

Doc Savage went to the window … opened it an inch … and the curtains immediately fattened under a little gust of inrushing wind. The air was chilled, freighted with the smoky odor from the herring sheds along the waterfront. It was a smell that hung over Lubec perpetually, the way crude oil odor pervades refinery towns.

Turning abruptly, Doc Savage said, "Linningen, you've omitted to explain why you came to Lubec. Don't tell me it was a planned port-of-call because it's off the usual route and doesn't have a very good yacht anchorage."

Linningen nodded. "That's easy. I came in hope of finding you."

The psychiatrist looked up ,,, saw that Doc Savage was waiting for a further explanation … and added, "That's right. I knew that Renny Renwick -- your friend and associate -- was here. I heard that on the radio. There was a newscast about a congressional discussion of the subject of going ahead with the dormant Quoddy project. And Renwick -- the noted engineer -- being employed to make a survey and recommendations to the committee."

"Because Renny Renwick was here, you thought I would be?" Doc Savage asked dryly.

"Not necessarily. But through Renwick seemed the best way of getting hold of you."

"And why were you so anxious to find me?" Doc inquired.

Linningen jumped up nervously.

"Dammit! Isn't that obvious by now? I want you to investigate this odd thing. Your sideline is dealing with the unusual. And I thought you would be interested. You are the most capable man I could think of. God knows, it's unusual enough!"

"You want me to talk to Gilmore?"

Linningen nodded eagerly!

"That's it! Better still, take him off my hands."

"You want to get rid of Gilmore?"

"You're darned tooting I want to get rid of Gilmore! He's giving me the compound willies!"

Linningen took a careful grip on himself and added, "You understand, I'm not passing the buck. Gilmore is just something I don't understand. I'm sure that you, however, can fathom him. But I can't. I'll bet you will be fascinated by Gilmore. I'm not. All I want is to see the last of him."

"'And Mr. Wail?"

"I don't know who-or-what 'Mr. Wail' is!" Linningen said vehemently. "You can have Mr. Wail too with my blessings."

"You seem extremely anxious to shed your responsibilities, Linningen."

"Responsibilities?" Linningen yelled. "What responsibility have I got toward Gilmore? I saved the man's life by taking him off an island where he would have starved. Isn't that enough?"

"Is it?"

"Why don't you talk to Gilmore and see for yourself?" Linningen asked.

"I will."

Linningen's sigh of relief was a gulp!

"When?"

"In about an hour."

Linningen's face fell. "I... was hoping you would go back to the boat with me now."

"No. In an hour, I'll be there. You go back to the schooner and wait, Doctor."

Linningen nodded reluctantly.

"All right. But you will be sure and come, won't you?"

"I will be there."


Chapter III

After he had closed the front door behind Linningen, Doc Savage wheeled … raced back up the stairs to the pleasant parlor … jerked open a connecting door and confronted the 2 men there.

"Did you hear all that?" he demanded.

"Practically all," said one of the 2 men.

He was a short fellow, nearly as wide as he was tall with a face that would frighten his own mother. He was Monk Mayfair. Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. And he had a worldwide reputation as a chemist. But he was better known as an assistant of Doc Savage.

"It impressed me as a screwball set-up which has a hidden gimmick in it somewhere," Monk added.

"Never mind the analysis," Doc Savage told him. "I want you to check the story. Visit the waterfront. See if the things happened that Linningen says happened. Find out if anyone saw Williams start sculling out into the tide rip."

"Right now?" Monk asked reluctantly.

"Immediately. I'm going aboard that schooner in an hour, and I want the information before then."

"Okay," Monk said, seizing a mackinaw coat of a hideous green-and-yellow check design. "But I just caught Ham Brooks swindling me in a card game. I was about to deal with him."

Ham Brooks snapped, "Your own stupidity and greed is the only thing that swindled you, you oaf!"

Monk rushed out, growling, "We'll take it up later, you shyster!"

Doc Savage eyed Ham Brooks narrowly.

"Have you two started gambling against each other?"

Ham laughed. "Monk? That missing link is too tight to bet a penny against a sure thing. If he had a penny to bet. Which he hasn't."

"You two promised to tone down your fussing."

"We have," Ham said virtuously. "There hasn't been a blow struck in 3 days although Heaven knows he has provoked me."

Doc Savage --who had put up with this interminable quarreling far years -- sighed wearily.

"Your job is to get the low-down on Linningen," he told Ham. 'The recent low-down. Does the man need money? Is he mixed up in anything? Use the telephone and contact people who would know. His banker, his friends, and any other leads you can dig up in half-an-hour."

Ham grinned. "What about his sanity? Do I check on that?"

"The man is sane enough."

"His story didn't sound it," Ham said.

"A story doesn't have to sound reasonable to be true, "Doc reminded him. "We just want to check on this one and make sure it is."

40 minutes later, Doc Savage strode into a smokehouse on the North shore of the bay, a window of which gave a view of the Mary Too lying at anchor.

"Well?" he demanded. "Did Linningen's story check?"

"It did as far as I went," Monk said. "I found 2 loafers who saw the whole thing. Williams starting out into the tide rip sculling the dinghy. And Gilmore throwing things at Linningen. It checks."

Ham Brooks said, "Linningen has 30-odd thousand dollars in the bank -- about his normal bank account. He isn't in any trouble as far as I can learn. None of his friends have noticed him acting nutty."

"Then the story seems true,' Doc said.

Ham grimaced. "Not to me. Not a balmy yarn like that."

"You two keep an eye on the schooner," Doc directed. "I don't think anything will happen. But keep a watch anyway."

Monk Mayfair had something on his mind. And when Doc was halfway to the door, he got it out.

"Doc, what was the description of the driver of the car that almost ran Linningen down?"

"A little round man who looked so utterly pleasant that Linningen noticed how pleasant he looked, even when he was about to have an accident," Doc told him.

"That's him," Monk said.

"You saw the chap?"

"Yeah. I think he gave me the once-over," Monk replied. "For the love of Mike!"

Monk began to look uncomfortably at the floor.

"He sort of gave me the run-around. I got kind of a surprise when I noticed him because I hadn't seen him around. He was sure a pleasant looking little codger. Kind of made you think of a pint-sized edition of Santa Claus."

"I hope," Doc said, "that his pleasant looks didn't keep you from finding out why he was interested in you."

Monk ducked his head slightly.

"That wasn't what kept me from questioning him."

"What did?"

"He went," Monk replied. "And I mean went! First, he turned around and strolled into one of these fisherman's supply stores. And I go in after him. And puff! he wasn't there."

"Couldn't anyone tell you where he went?"

"No one admitted seeing him," Monk replied, looking oddly at Doc. "That was darn funny too because the clerks were standing around with nothing to do but watch for customers. They certainly saw me quick enough when I came in.

"Did the incident seem queer to you, Monk?" Doc asked.

Monk made a face.

"The guy just walked into the store and ducked out without anyone noticing him, that's all. I don't believe in this wild stuff Linningen was spilling."

"I'm going aboard the schooner," Doc said. "Keep an eye on the vessel."

Doc Savage strode to the ferry slip and sent a powerful hail in the direction of the schooner Mary Too. A dinghy came bobbing toward shore rowed by a sullen middle-aged man with a leathery face.

The latter held the dinghy near the slip with one hand and growled, "Jump aboard if you're Doc Savage."

"You're Kroeger, aren't you?" Doc asked.

Kroeger stiffened, scowling upward, and demanded, "Did somebody tell you that? Or is this more goon-dust?"

"Doctor Linningen described you, Kroeger," Doc told him.

"Oh."

The man picked up the oars. "You sit in the stern."

He began to row.

"Everything all right aboard the vessel?" Doc asked.

Kroeger did not answer immediately. He maintained a sullen silence all the way to the schooner.

Then he said bitterly, "Everything's fine. Fine, fine, fine!" It had an explosive quality.

Doc noted that the Mary Too was a well-constructed vessel that was a compromise between the yacht type of luxury which appealed to landlubbers and occasional sailors and the sturdy deep-sea traditional construction which went to the heart of a real salt-water man.

"She's a neat ship," he told Linningen when the latter popped up from below decks.

"Yes, yes, of course," Linningen agreed nervously. "I … I'm afraid that poor Gilmore is going to be difficult."

"In what way?" Doc asked.

"Well, Gilmore won't leave his stateroom," Linningen explained. "But come below. We'll try again to get him out."

With the quick movements of a man on the ragged edge of nerves, Linnigen hurried below and jerked at the knob of a stateroom door.

"Still has it locked on the inside," he said with exasperation. "Gilmore, open that door! Stop this foolishness!"

From inside the stateroom, there came silence.

"Isn't he speaking?" Doc asked.

Linningen shrugged. "Gilmore has maintained a sullen silence most of the time. I can't understand why he's in a huff, though."

"Did you tell him I was coming aboard?" Doc asked curiously.

"Yes, I did."

"How did he react to that?"

Linningen suddenly pounded on the door with his fist!

"This is his reaction, I suppose. Anyway, he went into his stateroom, hasn't come out, and won't answer."

Doc asked impatiently, "Aren't there portholes through which you can get a look at him? Are you sure he isn't ill?"

"There are portholes, all right. And a skylight, too. But he drew the curtains over them," Linningen replied. "Dammit, I'm going to break the door down!"

"That will cost you the price of a repair," Doc reminded him.

"I don't care if it does!" Linningen snapped and threw his weight against the door.

His first attempt was not successful. In a burst of rage, Linningen leaped back, then plunged at the panel which burst out around the lock.

Linningen stumbled inside and immediately blurted, "Good God! Who are you?"

Stepping to the door, Doc Savage saw an amiable-looking plump little man seated casually on the edge of a bunk. He was familiar. But not because Doc Savage had seen him before. He answered the description of the friendly-faced man who had almost run down Linningen in a car and who had given Monk the once-over.

Doc pointed at the amiable man.

"Is this Gilmore?" he demanded.

"No!" Linningen said.

He seemed completely dumfounded.

"Who is he?" Doc asked.

The chubby man answered that himself.

"I'm Mr. Wail," he said.


Chapter IV

15 minutes later, Doc Savage strode angrily on deck and stood there drumming his fingertips on the boomcrutch which supported the mainsail and its boom.

Doc's bronze face was composed. But his mind wasn't. Presently he stopped drumming, rubbed his jaw, and walked quickly to the forecastle hatch. The hatch was open and -- peering down it -- he saw Kroeger and 2 other sailors sitting at a table playing cribbage.

"Kroeger!" Doc said sharply.

Kroeger was smoking a pipe and removed it to say, "Yes, Sir?"

"Did you know Gilmore had left this boat?" Doc asked.

Blankly, Kroeger said, "Huh? He has?"

Kroeger thought it over for a moment, then exclaimed, "Hey, he couldn't have! Nobody came or went but you, Mr. Savage."

"Nevertheless, Gilmore isn't aboard now," Doc told him.

"I don't believe it! This boat ain't so large but that we hear everybody who comes aboard or leaves."

"You didn't see Gilmore leave?"

"I sure didn't."

"Who brought Mr. Wail aboard?"

Kroeger's jaw dropped.

"Mr. Wail? Who's he? There ain't nobody come aboard but you, Mr. Savage."

"You're positive, are you?"

"You're darn tootin', I'm sure! I'd bet my right arm on it."

"You would lose that arm, fellow," Doc told him, "because Gilmore is gone. And Mr. Wail is aboard."

The sailor grinned foolishly. "Gilmore must have told you his name was 'Wail'. That guy's nutty."

"If Gilmore is the guy who just talked to us --or rather didn't talk to us --" Doc said dryly, "he has shortened his height about a foot and put on 70 pounds of weight."

Wheeling, Doc went back to the cockpit and encountered Linningen who looked excited and relieved.

"Mr. Savage, I think this Wail is ready to talk," Linningen exclaimed.

"It's about time," Doc said.

He dropped down into the cabin and confronted the chubby Mr. Wail, who gave him an amiable grin.

"Have you decided to give an accounting of yourself?" Doc demanded.

Wail's grin widened, giving him an appearance so completely friendly that it was almost unnatural. Wail's voice was soft and had the qualities of a rich, sticky syrup.

"It distresses me to see you unhappy," Wail said. "So I suppose I should relieve your curiosity."

Doc eyed the man narrowly. "Let's have it, then."

He had not been able to figure Wail. There were qualities about the man that bothered him. And he didn't like the completely happy and friendly manner the man had. There was something unnatural about it.

"You don't seem to like me," Wail remarked cheerfully.

"Let's not waste time on who likes who," Doc told him briefly. "The point is that there was supposed to be a fellow named 'Gilmore' in that stateroom. We broke in and didn't find Gilmore. We found you. Now, let's hear you account for that."

The fat Mr. Wail chuckled.

"It's quite simple. I was there. Gilmore wasn't."

Doc said grimly, "It's not that simple, Wail. If anything unpleasant has happened to Gilmore, it will be a lot less simple than that, I can assure you."

Wail gave a hearty laugh.

"Are you threatening me?"

"Draw your own conclusions," Doc retorted.

Shrugging, Wail said, "Well, I was in the stateroom and Gilmore wasn't. As to why I wouldn't open the door -- I notice it seems to bother you -- it was simply because I didn't wish to open the door. Why? Because I was irked."

"Irked by what?" Doc demanded.

"By being struck over the head."

Wail examined Doc's face for disbelief … saw plenty of it … and laughed heartily.

"Really, I'm not spoofing you. I came aboard and went into that stateroom. Someone sapped me over the head. I didn't see my assailant. But I could hazard a guess as to who it was."

"Are you intimating Gilmore assaulted you?" Doc asked bluntly.

Wail smirked. "In a delicate way, I might be intimating exactly that. Someone did. And Gilmore is missing, you say."

Doc threw an intent look at Wail. The man wore an expensive suit, a clean blue shirt of good cloth, a rather loud regimental cravat, and his shoes shone. There were, Doc noted, no signs of saltwater having splattered his shoes.

"Look here, fellow. You're putting on quite an act," Doc said coldly. "If Gilmore hit you, come out and say so. Then you can go right ahead and say why."

"I didn't see Gilmore hit me."

"Would you know if it was Gilmore had you seen him?"

"Meaning do I know Gilmore by sight? I certainly do. And I would have known if he struck me had I seen him." Wail smiled.

Doc nodded. "Now you're getting started on a story. You know Gilmore. Now, who is Gilmore? Let's have that."

"I'm not sure I like your prying at me," Wail murmured.

"I don't expect you to like it," Doc said. "Who is this Gilmore?"

Wail shrugged. His grin hadn't diminished.

"Maybe I'll not tell you a thing."

At this point the sailor Kroeger -- who had come to the companionway to listen -- struck a match to light his pipe. It was not getting dark outside and the igniting match made a little splash of light.

Mr. Wail showed an emotion besides friendly glee for the first time. He started violently, paled, and turned his face away from the companionway!

Doc asked curtly, "How did you get out here, Wail?"

The chubby man shuddered … then regained control.

"In a small boat. How does one travel over the water? Walk on it?" he snapped.

"Where did you get the small boat?"

"I rented it, naturally."

"No one saw you come aboard," Doc told him.

"Didn't they? They should have had their eyes open."

"No one heard you, either."

"They might try opening their ears as well," Wail said slyly. "I assure you I came aboard. As evidence, I offer myself as being among the present."

The little man smirked once more and added, "I believe that I wasn't going to give you information. I shall adhere to that course, I think."

He went over and sat primly on a bunk.

Linningen caught Doc's eye, blurting, "I don't see how he got aboard. I really don't. It's uncanny!"

Doc shoved past Linningen, pushed open the door into a forward cabin, and said "You're Bill Williams, aren't you?" to the bulky young man sprawled on a berth there.

"Yeah, I'm Bill," the young man said.

He lifted his head … got a good look at Doc … and hastily swung out of the berth.

"Say! You're Doc Savage!" he exclaimed. "I've got a headache and dozed off in a nap. Linningen told me you were coming aboard. I'm sure sorry that I wasn't awake to greet you, but I slept through that."

"You slept through several things, Williams," Doc said dryly. "Will you come in here a minute? I want you to meet a fellow."

A moment later, Williams stared at Mr. Wail blankly and asked, "Am I supposed to know this chap?"

"Don't you?" Doc asked.

"No."

Williams peered at Wail again.

“No, I don't know him."

"Better think over that answer, Williams," Doc said. "This is Mr. Wail -- the fellow you said you were going hunting for when you started off into the tide rip with one oar."

The jerk of astonishment that Williams gave seemed genuine. His next reaction was harder to define.

He stepped back, his face grew strained, and he narrowed his eyes.

Then he growled, "I don't remember a damned thing about starting off in a dinghy with one oar! Somebody's ribbing me. And I've stopped thinking it is funny!"

Linningen exclaimed, "Bill! Nobody's kidding you!"

"The hell they aren't!" Williams snarled and wheeled back into his cabin and slammed the door.

Mr. Wail laughed outright.

"Another 'silent man' on your hands," he said.

Ignoring Wail, Doc crossed the cabin, bounded out on deck, and stood facing the sore. He used his arms to signal semaphore fashion instructions to Monk and Ham who should be watching through the dusk. They were watching because presently he saw them leave the shack where they were stationed, both at a run. In a few minutes, they were back, and Monk wig-wagged some information with his arms.

Doc dropped back into the cabin … strode to Wail … and seized the man's arm.

"Nobody on shore rented you a small boat to row out here, Wail," Doc said emphatically. "And no one saw Gilmore row ashore. Now you're getting the choice of talking to me or telling it to the police, either way you want to have it. The police will have the same questions I've got. Have you been hiding on the boat? And did you chuck Gilmore overboard to drown when you got the chance?"

Wail was not surprised. At least, his grin did not waver.

"I believe you might find a friend of yours who can say I was ashore not more than an hour ago," he said. "You have a friend named Monk Mayfair, haven't you?"

A flicker of respect crossed Doc's face.

"You're a sharp one, Wail."

Then he added, "But you're an odd one, too. And I think you're going to give us a lot of words in about one minute."

Wail snorted! "In one minute, I shall be just as silent -- as far as information is concerned -- as I am now. I don't like your way. And I've decided not to say a thing."

His eyes widened in terror and he jumped back.

"Here! Damn you! Don't do that!"

Wail's back slammed against a bulkhead, stopping his retreat.

Doc Savage had done nothing more menacing than strike a match on his thumbnail. The red flame sizzled around the tip of the match.

Doc waved the fragment of fire casually in front of Wail's face. Wail screamed in terror! He lunged sidewise in an effort to escape. Doc tripped him and Wail fell flat. Doc immediately planted a knee on his stomach -- holding him down -- and passed the lighted match in front of Wail's eyes.

Wail screeched! His whole body convulsed in an agony of horror. And then suddenly he relaxed into a limp mound of soft flesh. Wail had fainted.

Linningen gave an astonished exclamation.

"An extreme case of pyrophobia!" the psychiatrist ejaculated. "How-in-thunder did you catch on, Savage?"

Doc indicated the companionway where the sailor Kroeger had dropped his pipe in amazement.

"Kroeger lit his pipe a minute ago, he said. "I caught it then."

"You mean that guy's scared of a little thing like the flame of a match?" Kroeger demanded.

Heaving Wail's limp figure onto a bunk, Doc said, "Get some cold water to dash in his face. I think Mr. Wail is going to talk his head off when he wakes up. Kroeger, you be handy with a few matches if he doesn't."

Wail moaned … turned over … and presently managed to focus his eyes on Doc Savage whereupon beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

"We're all ears," Doc told him.

When Wail seemed to show signs of thinking it over, Doc told Kroeger, "Have you got a newspaper that would make a nice blaze?"

Wail emitted a choking sound.

"Cut it out!" he croaked. "God, I can't stand being around fire! I'll tell you all I can. Gilmore is only his first name. He's really Gilmore Sullivan. Gilmore James Sullivan in full."

Wail fell silent, swallowing.

"You've got a fine start. So go right ahead," Doc told him.

"Gilmore Sullivan is 29 years old. He studied geology in Harvard. He has worked at it some since, but not much. He is unmarried. He has money which he inherited from his father."

As he spoke, Wail was looking at his fingers as if checking off the items by the digital system.

"Gilmore has a sister," he continued. "She is his only immediate family. Gilmore lived at a lodge about a hundred miles inland from here. The sister lives there, too. I can take you there. The sister's name is Leona. She is in her early 20s and pretty. She has some money also. The father divided his estate between the brother and sister."

When Wail hesitated, Doc said sharply, "That was just background stuff. Go ahead with the part that counts."

Wail said, "About 4 months ago, Gilmore disappeared. I was hired to find him."

Wail stood up, adding, "That's all. Now I think I'll get out of here …"

"Wait a minute," Doc told him. "You're just starting. What were the circumstances connected with Gilmore's disappearance?"

Wail was getting the eternal grin back on his face.

"He just got to acting nutty and went away. The sister -- Leona -- figured he had blown his top. I guess she was touchy about maybe there being insanity in the family and didn't want any publicity. Because she hired me to hunt for Gilmore instead of notifying the authorities."

"Are you a professional finder of lost people?" Doc asked.

"That's right. That's exactly what I am!" Wail nodded vehemently several times. "I'm a private investigator. A sleuth."

"Is that all?"

"It's all."

"You're making it a little too simple. You've neglected to explain how you found Gilmore was aboard. And how you got out here to the boat without anyone seeing you."

Wail grinned. "It's just as simple as I'm making it. I was in Lubec by accident. And I heard talk ashore about Gilmore having been found on an island. I rented a boat and rowed out. If nobody saw me, I can't help that. They just didn't look because I sure wasn't invisible."

"You weren't heard boarding the schooner," Doc reminded him.

"I can't help that either. Nobody was on deck and I went below to see who I could find. I didn't see anyone and started opening stateroom doors. The first one I opened, I got bopped over the head. When I woke up, I was lying on the floor."

Mr. Wail put on his smirk.

"I'm a little sensitive about being knocked out. I was scared too, and I locked the cabin door. I kept it locked because I was afraid and for no other reason. Now that's all I've got to say. And it's the truth."

"You think Gilmore went ashore in your rented dinghy?"

"Why not?"

"Where do you think Gilmore would go next?" Doc asked.

"Who knows what a crazy man will do? Maybe he took out for home."

"Home? You mean where his sister lives?"

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Can you take us there?"

"I can if you want me to", Wail told him.



To Be Continued...