Free Doc Savage: Phantom Lagoon (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray Page B

were here to help with all this.”
    Renny was Colonel John Renwick, a civil engineer of international repute. Together with Long Tom Roberts and Johnny Littlejohn, they comprised the rest of Doc’s tiny band. All three were in different parts of the world pursuing their respective professions.
    Since there was a lull in the investigation, Monk thought it unnecessary to summon them home. The man they most needed, Renny, was in Australia, supervising the construction of a new-style cantilever bridge. The big-fisted engineer had promised to return to the States as soon as practical in order to oversee the restoration of the Hidalgo Trading Company building, but there was no telling how long that might be.
    By midafternoon of the seventh day after the raid on Doc Savage headquarters, a buzzer sounded.
    Monk looked down on the big inlaid table that functioned as a desk. On a panel, a view of the corridor leading to the bronze door showed. A cautious soul, Monk liked to give visitors the once-over before receiving them.
    “Oh boy, Pat!” Monk said happily.
    Depressing a stud permitted the door to open.
    In flounced pretty Patricia Savage, Doc’s cousin and only living relative. She was smartly-attired in the latest Fifth Avenue autumn frock. Her skin partook of Doc Savage’s russet coloring, but lacked the metallic aspect. Her eyes were a frank and inviting gold.
    A wealth of bronze hair crowned the vision that was Pat. At sight of the homely chemist, she bestowed her most inviting smile.
    “Hello, Monk. How goes the war?”
    “Makin’ progress, Pat. Doc ain’t here.”
    Pat looked around her. “Where is he then?”
    “No clue,” said Monk. “But you know Doc.”
    Pat frowned. “I sure do. If he caught me here, he might bend me over his knee for a paddling and send me home.”
    “Aww, Doc just wants to keep you out of trouble, is all.”
    “Trouble,” said Pat Savage, “is my main meat. Any word on that Hornetta wench?”
    “Nope. I got a posse of some of Doc’s private detectives out lookin’ for her.”
    Pat dropped into a comfortable chair. “Well, maybe I’ll just stick around here and see if anything pops.”
    “Suit yourself,” said Monk, picking up a desk telephone from a bank of instruments. Inserting a furry finger into the rotary dial, he gave it a series of brisk spins.
    Pat picked up a magazine, and attempted to peruse it. It proved to be a particularly erudite scientific journal and the bronze-haired girl found it impenetrable. She eventually gave it up as a bad job.
    Noticing a neat stack of newspapers on the big desk, Pat reached for one.
    “Nix!” snapped Monk. “I’m savin’ those for when Doc gets back. The press has been beatin’ up on him pretty bad since all this trouble hit town.”
    “I know,” said Pat. “I read the news rags, too.”
    The newspapers did themselves proud.
SAVAGE FINALLY DOWNED
    That was the way one sheet had it.
BAD MEN SHOOT BRONZE MAN
    A tabloid said:
SAVAGE NOT SO SAVAGE!
    “Maybe you should hide these instead,” sniffed Pat.
    “Doc owns a few of these sheets,” countered the hairy chemist. “I think he might want to give some of them editors a good talkin’ to.”
    Pat crinkled her pretty nose. “The way my cousin acts sometimes, he will probably give them all raises for being so darned honest,” she said wearily.
    NOT long after, the buzzer whined again. Consulting the television device, Monk looked interested.
    A man stood in the outer hall. He was doing a strange thing—he was carefully twisting a metal cap off the lower end of a Malacca cane which he carried. When he had the cap off, he pocketed it, then hung the cane over an arm.
    The man looked prosperous, faintly Continental, as if he had just gotten off a trans-Atlantic ocean liner. Striking though, was the way his skin appeared raw and blistered. Even in black and white, this was noticeable.
    Peering over the homely chemist’s shoulder, Pat Savage remarked cheerfully, “You don’t