Read Online DOC SAVAGE: THE INFERNAL BUDDHA (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray - Free Book Online Page A

was paunchy of waist, ruddy of face, and wore pince-nez nose glasses to which were attached a dark ribbon. He had a pompous manner about him, and seemed to be accompanied by his chauffeur. He did not wait his turn, but strode over and whacked the desk in front of the homely fellow with a domineering fist.
    “My man, I am not accustomed to being kept waiting,” he said importantly. “I must see Doc Savage immediately. There happens to be a matter of millions of dollars involved.”
    “Yeah?” Monk said, blinking tiny eyes. “Millions, huh?”
    “Exactly.” The other put out his chest until it was nearly as prominent as his stomach. “I are prepared to pay up to—ah, one quarter million dollars for Doc’s services, in the position I intend to offer him as head of a syndicate.”
    The rotund gentleman seemed fully aware of how important such money sounded, and he stood waiting for the homely Monk to turn meek.
    “Get the devil back in line and take your turn!” Monk said in a small, unimpressed squeak. “Money don’t talk around here. It whispers. Generally, we can’t even hear it.” Then, as the demanding fellow seemed about to explode, he roared, “Get back in line, I said!”
    THE blustery one was so taken aback he was at a momentary loss for words. Stiffly, he said, “You are obviously busy. I shall return on another occasion. But mark me. Doc Savage will hear of your lack of cooperation.”
    With that, he departed in a huff, liveried chauffeur in tow.
    The interviewing proceeded, finally coming to the patient old woman’s turn. Called into a private office by the homely ape of a fellow, she was invited to sit down.
    “My name is Martha Holland,” began the old woman. “Mrs. John Holland. I am Billy’s grandmother. His mother and father have passed away, and I—”
    “What seems to be the trouble?” Monk Mayfair asked by way of opening the interview.
    “Why, it’s my little Billy—”  The old woman suddenly choked up. She dabbed at one eye. “He—he is not—well.”
    “What’s wrong with him?” asked Monk.
    “The doctors do not know. He suffers from spells.”
    “Spells, eh? Where is Billy now?”
    “At my hotel. The Gotham. He is resting. He—Billy appears to be… failing.” The old woman’s voice choked at the last.
    Monk leaned back in his desk and a procession of expressions walked across his unlovely visage. They made him resemble a gorilla contemplating an impassable river. His eyes, sunk deep in pits of gristle, lost their humorous twinkle. His generous mouth warped. At one point, he tugged at an ear that had once been perforated by a bullet.
    Observing these facial contortions, Martha Holland felt an overwhelming urge to flee the room.
    At length, Monk’s thought processes settled down and he keyed a desk annunciator.
    “Doc? It’s Monk. I got a nice old lady here who claims her grandson’s been suffering seizures. Says the doctors can’t do anything for him. It all sounds legit to me, which is why I’m callin’.”
    The loudspeaker reproduced a voice that, while not loud, conveyed a sense of restrained power.
    “Where is the boy now?” asked the unmistakable voice of Doc Savage.
    “Hotel Gotham.”
    “We will go there directly,” said Doc Savage.
    “Right,” said Monk, snapping off the instrument. He got up, saying, “Come on, grandma.”
    Martha Holland stood up, clutching her flowered hat.
    “That—that is all there is to it?” she blurted out.
    “Heck,” said Monk. “Hardly anyone ever gets to meet Doc in person. But this is a special case.”
    They went out through a side door and took an elevator to the sub-basement. The elevator dropped with such suddenness, Martha Holland had to be assisted out when the cage settled to a stop.
    “Special lift,” Monk explained sheepishly.
    The sub-basement was a garage. There was an assortment of vehicles, ranging from a milk truck to a sombre sedan streamlined to the ultimate degree.
    Doc Savage awaited them