Monk said, "That"s Chet Farmer-he"s heading this raid."
Doc nodded.
"Apparently he was waiting until the arrival of the pink young man who said he was Peter Harland, before he closed in," he said.
"But what"s it mean?"
"Two gangs."
"Two different crowds fighting over something?"
Doc Savage agreed, "That seems to be the situation."
"Two dogs fighting over a bone," Monk grunted.
"Yes."
Monk gave his trousers a hitch. "When two dogs get to fighting, they kind of neglect the bone," he said.
"What do you say we see what we can do about that bone?"
Doc said, "It might not be a bad idea."
Without another word, and not waiting for instructions, Monk lunged forward. He ran toward the house, keeping in the thicker shrubbery, making no effort, however, to avoid noise. He depended on the other raiders thinking he was one of them.
He managed very well. He even overhauled a man, and, clubbing suddenly with his fist, dropped the fellow. He took his victim"s gas mask. Instead of dangling it around his neck, he put it on. It would serve as a face disguise, and would fix everything, he thought, eliminating any chance of being recognized.
It was good psychology, but someone must have seen him.
He climbed in a window.
Someone hit him over the head.
He had just enough consciousness left to hear someone-it was the man who"d hit him, naturally-say, "Hey! I got the one they call Monk Mayfair."
After that, Monk was. .h.i.t again, and it was black.
DOC SAVAGE angled around to the rear of the house. Instead of tackling the house, he headed for the barn. It was big. There was a considerable open area between the barn and the house. The barn was obviously the only place for any cars or trucks.Moreover, men were pouring out of the barn-half dressed and wildly excited they were, too-to go to the defense of the house.
Doc took a side door of the barn. It was locked. He did not try to force it. He went around to the front, to the door out of which the men had come. It gaped open.
He stood beside the door, out of sight, and said, "Is anybody else in there?"
He used a gruff voice that might have belonged to anybody.
"Two of us," someone said.
"Well, come on!" Doc urged. "We need everybody!"
They came out, the two of them. He closed with them. He struck at one, who held a rifle, and knocked him against the side of the barn so hard that the man dropped the rifle.
The second man had courage. He dived, got hold of Doc. He had strength, it also developed speedily, and knowledge of how to do things with his hands that hurt. He got hold of the bronze man in a way that made Doc get down on one knee in agony. The man tried to yell for help. Doc hit him in the throat.
Thereafter, no sound the man made was louder than a small dog barking, and not much more coherent.
The fellow who had bounced against the barn got himself organized. He stooped for his rifle. Doc, squirming and lunging, got his legs around the man. He twisted, dragged the fellow away from the gun.
They went over and over then, the three of them, with sounds of pain and noises of blows and rippings of clothing. Both the men knew body combat at close quarters, Doc learned. Their muscles, too, felt like the muscles of gymnasts, of professional acrobats.
One of them got the bronze man"s left arm, did a convulsive feat of some kind, and Doc knew the arm was out of joint.
The fight had taken them back into the barn, through the door. That was fortunate to the extent that it shut them off from view of the house. But it was bad in that there were many timbers and protuberances to b.u.mp against.
Eventually Doc got a chance, lunged, captured the head of one of the men between his knees. He hooked his toes together, lay down with the man, and squeezed. The other man had hold of Doc"s throat, and he was working on it, while the bronze man"s knees made the trapped man unconscious.
After that, with one foe, it ended quickly. The man struck. Doc ducked. The blow missed, pulled the man half around. Doc slammed him behind the ear, then got on the man"s p.r.o.ne form with his knees and worked on the fellow"s neck, on the nerve centers upon which pressure applied in a certain way could induce quick paralysis.
WHEN he stood up, the girl said, "I think that is all of them. The others ran out when the excitement started in the house."
Doc listened. The excitement was still in progress in the house. They were shooting, but not to any great extent. Only scattered explosions.
Doc asked, "Who are you?" "Lada Harland," the girl said.
She was, too. At least, she answered the description of Lada Harland, the young woman who had been seized in the lobby of the Hotel Troy. She showed signs of abuse-grime, a rip here and there in her garments, and strain grooves on her face.
She was, of course, quite pink.
Doc said, "Chet Farmer is staging the raid."
She nodded. "I thought that must be it. Either Chet Farmer-or you."
"We were on the point of staging ours. Farmer beat us to it."
"That is too bad," she said.
Doc went to the door. Already, the fight noises were subsiding. He stared, saw two men hauling Monk across the lawn. Involuntarily, Doc started forward. Then he stopped. He wanted to help Monk. But it would be an insane attempt.
He scowled at his left arm. It was out of shape, and hurting. Disjointed, at least. He went back into the barn.
Lada Harland was fastened quite simply and effectively with a steel chain which was about her ankle and padlocked to a timber. Doc worked on the padlock for a while with a thin steel probe. It was a cylinder type of lock, and very difficult. His left hand refused to function. Agony made it tremble.
He said, "Hold the lock," and the girl held it.
"Hurry" she breathed.
It seemed a long time, and nothing happened inside the lock except the little scratchings made by the probe. Doc heard footsteps approaching the barn. He got up and closed the door.
He went back to work on the lock.
Men pounded on the door.
"Who is it?" Doc asked in a harsh voice.
"C"mon, open up!" a man snarled. "We ain"t got no time! The rest of your pals have given up!"
"Wait a minute," Doc said. "What do I get out of it if I don"t put up a fight?"
He kept working on the lock.
The man outside said, "You get a junior share in the proceeds."
"What do you call a junior share?"
The lock came open. Doc freed it, lifted the girl with his usable arm. She could stand, and also move.
"I"m all right," she whispered.
"Two percent of a fifty-fifty split," the man outside said.
Doc indicated that the girl was to flee toward the rear. "All right," he growled for the benefit of the man outdoors. "We won"t fight about this."
When Doc got to the rear of the barn, the girl had opened a small door there. She beckoned. Doc looked out. The way was clear.
They ran away from the barn and they were neither yelled at nor shot at.
Chapter XIII. TRACER.
THEY lay in bushes two blocks away, not far from where Doc Savage had left his car, and where they could reach the machine quickly.
The girl said, "They have several hide-outs. They caught a man named Monk-one of your men."
"Yes," Doc said.
"They were going to pull a trick. They were going to let the man named Monk find one of the gang pretending to be a prisoner. The man was going to pretend to be my brother. The man was going to get into your crowd that way, and trap you, and trap Chet Farmer, if he could."
"I know."
"Oh!" She stared at him. "You know about that trap?"
He said, "This is the result." He pointed down the street. There were trucks in the big barn at the home of C. Bodine Rutter-two trucks. They were rolling these out and piling prisoners inside.
They were also doing a great deal of running around, like men enraged by not being able to find something they had expected to find.
Doc said, "You say they have several hide-outs?"
"Yes. A man named Cy Travetti owns a farm-he is a member of the gang-over in New Jersey, and they were using that. They had an old boatyard up on the Sound. It was Bodine"s boatyard, and he lost money in it for years, but it had been closed down for a long time. That was another hide-out. I think you found that one."
"We found the Travetti farm, too," Doc said.
"Then they used Bodine"s old house here," the girl said. "They have been keeping me there."
"You know who I am?" Doc asked.
"Yes-Doc Savage. They have been scared stiff since you came on this thing. I-at one time-I tried to reach you myself."
Doc asked, "Do you know Long Tom Roberts?"
"Who is he?"
Doc described Long Tom-he did not give the color of the feeble-looking electrical wizard"s skin, hair or eyes-as far as physical build was concerned, and finished, "He is pink. He should be with the gang who held you prisoner. Did you see him?"The girl shook her head. "But I heard about him. It seems he told them a story about calling on me, and being made a pink man after he was drugged, or something."
"Did you deny his story?" Doc asked anxiously.
"I didn"t know what to do," she said, "and I finally refused to answer any questions whatever. I figured that was the best out."
She paused and eyed the bronze man. "Shall I start telling you my story now? It"s a fantastic thing."
Doc was listening, watching. He said, "Better hold it. Those men are leaving in the trucks. By the way, do you know where Long Tom is?"
"They have an island somewhere," she said.
"But there are almost no islands near New York."
She shrugged. "All I know is-that is the impression I got. They took my brother there."
One of the trucks rolled past, then the other. The excitement had drawn neighbors out of bed, naturally, but so swiftly had the raid been executed that no one had actually seen any of the shooting.
One of the raiders proceeded to fool the neighborhood in a very simple manner. He lit a pack of firecrackers of some size, and tossed them out on the lawn. These went off with a series of ear-splitting reports.
"Hurrah for the picnic!" the man yelled.
The neighbors swore. They were not pleased. But their alarm subsided.
THE entire gang-Chet Farmer"s men and their prisoners-took their departure. The last car rolled out of the C. Bodine Rutter yard and along the road, approaching.
Doc said, "After that car gets past, we will climb in our machine and follow."