Read Online Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray - Free Book Online Page A
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anthracite-black eyes that might have been all pupil, and raw, sunburnt features.
“Any sign of der bronzemann?” he asked in his guttural native language.
“Nein.”
“If there is, treat him as a duck hunter treats a roosting fowl.”
The men kept their eyes on the water. But no heads bobbed to the surface.
The leader trained field glasses of expert workmanship on the smoky patch of burning oil.
“Der Mann aus Metall is finished,” he said. “Kaput.”
The others began picking themselves up off the concrete. They formed a rigid row as if at field inspection.
Fire engines wailed in the distance. They were drawing near.
“What about the meddling fraulein, Kolb?” asked one of the assembling men.
“We did not see her.”
Kolb demanded, “What do you mean—did not see her? Was she on the airplane or not?”
“We do not know.”
“She must have been. Search the entire place!”
“But—there is no time. Those are sirens.”
Making harsh faces, the black-eyed Kolb ground his teeth in exasperation.
“Torch this place. Blow it up. If the girl is still here, let it become her tomb.”
“Jawohl.”
They set about tipping over various fuel drums gathered from a storage area.
Some were rolled to the corners of the warehouse. Others were set in the center, among the aircraft hangared there.
The group retreated to the landward side of the building.
They began puncturing drums with well-placed rifle slugs. The stink of high-test gasoline filled the vast interior.
Oil-soaked waste rags were ignited, and open tins of kerosene tossed in.
Gouts of flames exploded. They made racing tongues of fire along the concrete flooring. Fire met fire. Combustible mixtures encountered other combustible mixtures.
The Hidalgo Trading Company was completely ablaze by the time the three machines fled the vicinity.
The fire engines arrived too late. Water hoses were unreeled and firemen fell to work at attempting to quench the spreading flames. But all to no avail.
Within an hour, all that remained of the Hidalgo Trading Company was a smoking brick shell that breathed malodorous, noxious smoke.
NIGHT had fallen by the time the exhausted firemen had collected their hoses and stowed away their equipment.
The warehouse was a total loss. Almost nothing of Doc Savage’s fleet had survived the ferocious conflagration.
Deep into the night, something could be heard in the ruin of a building.
A charred timber shifted. Another. A clattering of dry wood came. The rank odor of burnt wood assailed the nostrils. Had there been any nostrils to assail, that is.
In the dry dock of the boathouse section of the building, a hatch came open in stages. More timbers settled. That was what had caused the clattering.
On the razorback submersible, a hatch clanged all the way open. Coughing and hacking, a lithe form emerged.
“Damn that man!” choked Hornetta Hale.
What man she consigned to eternal fires remained unknown, however.
Hornetta concentrated on getting out of the still-smoking ruin without inhaling any more pungent odors.
The submarine had been an unpleasant place to endure a conflagration, and Hornetta looked as if she had spent the day in a steam bath, but she had survived the ordeal.
Casting a mournful glance back at the drydocked and immobile underseas craft, Hornetta slipped out of the blackened shell that had been the Hidalgo Trading Company boathouse-hangar.
A nighthawk taxi driver was loafing along the waterfront in search of a fare. Hornetta Hale stopped him by the most expedient method. She ran into the beams of his headlamps and waved her arms energetically.
The driver braked smartly, and craned his head out of the window.
“What’s the big deal, lady? Trying to end it all?”
“Mind your beeswax,” said Hornetta Hale, coming aboard. She clapped the door shut. “Fade out of here and make it snappy!”
The driver grinned. “Where’s the fire?”
She gestured behind her and forward. “Back there.
“Any sign of der bronzemann?” he asked in his guttural native language.
“Nein.”
“If there is, treat him as a duck hunter treats a roosting fowl.”
The men kept their eyes on the water. But no heads bobbed to the surface.
The leader trained field glasses of expert workmanship on the smoky patch of burning oil.
“Der Mann aus Metall is finished,” he said. “Kaput.”
The others began picking themselves up off the concrete. They formed a rigid row as if at field inspection.
Fire engines wailed in the distance. They were drawing near.
“What about the meddling fraulein, Kolb?” asked one of the assembling men.
“We did not see her.”
Kolb demanded, “What do you mean—did not see her? Was she on the airplane or not?”
“We do not know.”
“She must have been. Search the entire place!”
“But—there is no time. Those are sirens.”
Making harsh faces, the black-eyed Kolb ground his teeth in exasperation.
“Torch this place. Blow it up. If the girl is still here, let it become her tomb.”
“Jawohl.”
They set about tipping over various fuel drums gathered from a storage area.
Some were rolled to the corners of the warehouse. Others were set in the center, among the aircraft hangared there.
The group retreated to the landward side of the building.
They began puncturing drums with well-placed rifle slugs. The stink of high-test gasoline filled the vast interior.
Oil-soaked waste rags were ignited, and open tins of kerosene tossed in.
Gouts of flames exploded. They made racing tongues of fire along the concrete flooring. Fire met fire. Combustible mixtures encountered other combustible mixtures.
The Hidalgo Trading Company was completely ablaze by the time the three machines fled the vicinity.
The fire engines arrived too late. Water hoses were unreeled and firemen fell to work at attempting to quench the spreading flames. But all to no avail.
Within an hour, all that remained of the Hidalgo Trading Company was a smoking brick shell that breathed malodorous, noxious smoke.
NIGHT had fallen by the time the exhausted firemen had collected their hoses and stowed away their equipment.
The warehouse was a total loss. Almost nothing of Doc Savage’s fleet had survived the ferocious conflagration.
Deep into the night, something could be heard in the ruin of a building.
A charred timber shifted. Another. A clattering of dry wood came. The rank odor of burnt wood assailed the nostrils. Had there been any nostrils to assail, that is.
In the dry dock of the boathouse section of the building, a hatch came open in stages. More timbers settled. That was what had caused the clattering.
On the razorback submersible, a hatch clanged all the way open. Coughing and hacking, a lithe form emerged.
“Damn that man!” choked Hornetta Hale.
What man she consigned to eternal fires remained unknown, however.
Hornetta concentrated on getting out of the still-smoking ruin without inhaling any more pungent odors.
The submarine had been an unpleasant place to endure a conflagration, and Hornetta looked as if she had spent the day in a steam bath, but she had survived the ordeal.
Casting a mournful glance back at the drydocked and immobile underseas craft, Hornetta slipped out of the blackened shell that had been the Hidalgo Trading Company boathouse-hangar.
A nighthawk taxi driver was loafing along the waterfront in search of a fare. Hornetta Hale stopped him by the most expedient method. She ran into the beams of his headlamps and waved her arms energetically.
The driver braked smartly, and craned his head out of the window.
“What’s the big deal, lady? Trying to end it all?”
“Mind your beeswax,” said Hornetta Hale, coming aboard. She clapped the door shut. “Fade out of here and make it snappy!”
The driver grinned. “Where’s the fire?”
She gestured behind her and forward. “Back there.
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