TEXT:  
   
  THE ANGRY GHOST 
  A Doc Savage Adventure By Kenneth Robeson 
   
  Originally published February 1940 in DOC SAVAGE Magazine 
   
   
   
  Chapter I 
  THE TROUBLE AT ROCKAWAY 
   
  THE mystery started at Rockaway 
  Beach. Rockaway is a beach on the south 
  shore of Long Island not far from New 
  York City where white sand stretches into 
  distance beside the endless blue of the 
  Atlantic, and where breakers climb up 
  monotonously and collapse into foam with 
  coughing sounds. 
  
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  2 
  The cautious girl appeared at 
  dawn. She looked around carefully, saw 
  the beach was deserted, and was plainly 
  relieved. 
  There was one bathhouse open 
  at this ungodly morning hour of five thirty. 
  The Negress attendant shoved out a 
  brown paper envelope. 
  “Check your valuables in this, 
  miss,” the attendant said. 
  It was one of those envelopes on 
  the flaps of which you write your name for 
  purposes of identification when reclaiming 
  it. 
  The girl wrote, “Annabel Lynn.” 
  “Oh!” she gasped, and quickly 
  wadded the envelope and dropped it on 
  the sand in front of the bathhouse check 
  window. 
  “I 
  made 
  a 
  mistake,” 
  she 
  explained. “Please give me another 
  envelope.” 
  Her only mistake had been in 
  absent-mindedly writing her correct name 
  on the flap. 
  She got another envelope and 
  signed it “Mary Gallagher,” and filled it 
  with her wrist watch and some money. 
  While she was doing that, she 
  very carefully stamped the other envelope 
  into the sand with her heel and made sure 
  it was covered with sand. 
  As soon as Annabel Lynn had 
  entered the bathhouse to change, the 
  Negress attendant, who was a tidy soul, 
  leaned over the counter with the idea of 
  locating the first envelope, the one that 
  had been discarded. She intended to pick 
  it up and put it in the trash basket. The 
  attendant was vaguely surprised when 
  she did not see the envelope. She had 
  not 
  noticed 
  Annabel 
  Lynn 
  carefully 
  burying it. 
  Annabel Lynn appeared in a 
  bathing suit. She would have done nicely 
  for a magazine cover. Beneath a tight 
  rubber cap, there was visible some soft 
  blond hair. Her lips were nice. Her 
  features were Nordic, beautiful in a regal, 
  classic way. Her figure would have 
  caused an admiring silence, had the 
  beach not been deserted. 
  The 
  attendant 
  breathed 
  admiringly, “She sho’ is a morning glory.” 
  Annabel Lynn walked down to the 
  surf and stood there. 
  After a while, curiosity impelled 
  the attendant to take another look for the 
  crumpled first envelope. She was puzzled 
  as to what had become of it. So she 
  leaned over the counter again and eyed 
  at the sand. 
  A small pit now gaped in the sand 
  where Annabel Lynn had hurled the 
  wadded envelope. 
  The attendant stared. That pit 
  hadn’t been there a few moments before. 
  Had someone crawled around the corner 
  of the bathhouse and dug— 
  Something queer happened to 
  Annabel Lynn at this point. 
   
   
  ANNABEL LYNN suddenly got 
  very rigid, her willowy tall form stiffening 
  and then beginning to tremble. Her 
  trembling was no shiver caused by cold 
  water, but great shuddering that made the 
  girl’s hands clench as though someone 
  had spilled ice water on her. 
  The strangeness of her behavior 
  increased. 
  Slim hands left her sides and 
  moved with difficulty toward her throat; 
  she clutched at her throat as if trying to 
  throw off something that was strangling 
  her. 
  Next her fingers raked down over 
  her graceful shoulders—making ripping 
  motions 
  as 
  though 
  trying 
  to 
  pull 
  something loose. 
  There 
  was 
  nothing 
  visible 
  molesting her. No one on the beach, and 
  only 
  a 
  few 
  early 
  strollers 
  on 
  the 
  boardwalk. 
  Annabel Lynn suddenly seemed 
  to win her struggle. She staggered 
  backward, as though released. Whirling, 
  she raced along the white sand, long, 
  firm, damp legs flashing in the first rays of 
  morning sunlight. 
  “Help! Help!” she screamed. 
  Her voice was full of rending 
  terror. 
  The soldier was one of the early 
  strollers on the boardwalk. The army 
  gives its men the habit of getting up early, 
  and a number of officers, vacationing at 
  Rockaway, were on the boardwalk. This 
  one wore the regulation officer’s uniform 
  
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  3 
  of the United States army. He jerked to a 
  halt, and stared. 
  Annabel Lynn was headed in his 
  direction, so he merely stood and waited. 
  As the girl drew closer, he 
  understood her terrified cries for help. The 
  army man looked to see who was chasing 
  the tall blond girl, saw nothing, and his 
  jaw sagged. 
  “What the—” 
  Because this girl was very pretty, 
  he did the natural thing—he caught the 
  girl, grasping her arm. She was panting. 
  “What’s the trouble, girl?” 
  “I . . . I—” Annabel Lynn, too 
  breathless to talk, cast a quick glance 
  over her shoulder. The army man noted 
  the girl’s pallid cheeks, the tremor that 
  was still upon her lips. 
  “Something had . . . had hold of 
  me!” she gasped. 
  Again the soldier gazed up and 
  down 
  the 
  beach—all 
  he 
  saw 
  was 
  gleaming white sand, sky and water. 
  “Maybe a fish bit you?” 
  “Eh?” 
  “Or a lobster pinched you?” 
  Annabel Lynn shook her blond 
  head quickly. “Hardly!” 
  Her 
  eyes 
  got 
  wider, 
  more 
  horrified. “You couldn’t . . . see it. It felt as 
  if something was . . . well it was a stinging 
  sensation all over. As if some kind of an 
  invisible jellyfish had gotten hold of me.” 
  The army officer narrowed his 
  eyes. She was such a lovely girl. He 
  couldn’t quite understand her remarks. 
  But she looked sane. 
  He said, “You’re not trying to tell 
  me something grabbed you.” 
  “I . . . yes. 
  “Now 
  look,” 
  said 
  the 
  man 
  soothingly, let’s get this straight—” 
  “Thank you . . . I . . . I’ve got to be 
  going,” the girl interrupted. She swung on 
  her heel, starting away. 
  The army man stopped her. “I’m a 
  little worried about you. Sure you’re all 
  right?” 
  “It’s quite all right now. I . . . I 
  must hurry. I have a car parked back 
  there a ways. Thank you.” 
  But 
  the 
  army 
  man 
  was 
  persistent—this girl was pretty enough to 
  make any man persistent. “Wait! Maybe I 
  can catch that dingus that had hold of 
  you.” 
  “Don’t be silly,” she said quickly. 
  “But—” 
  “You see, it’s . . . gone,” the girl 
  explained. “It’s gone. And even if it wasn’t, 
  you wouldn’t be able to see it.” 
  “It’s—” The officer’s sharp eyes 
  popped. “What is gone? What the heck is 
  this, anyway?” 
  “Please—please forget it!” the girl 
  said. She walked rapidly toward the 
  roadway, slim legs driving her feet 
  through the loose, slippery sand. 
   
   
  TWO men had been watching the 
  incident. The pair were so concealed that 
  the girl would not have seen their figures 
  even had she been seeking them. The 
  beach sand had formed small dunes. 
  Protruding from the tops of the dunes 
  were bunches of sea grass, tall and 
  scraggly grass that concealed the two 
  men as they lay flat. They did not have 
  nice faces. They hardly looked like the 
  kind who would spend time enjoying the 
  view at the seashore. 
  One growled, “See that! She was 
  tellin’ that army guy something!” 
  “That wasn’t so good,” his partner 
  agreed. 
  He 
  fingered 
  something—the 
  check-room envelope on which Annabel 
  Lynn had signed her correct name by 
  mistake. “Good thing I crawled around the 
  bathhouse and got this envelope. I figured 
  there was something familiar about her.” 
  “Yeah—she wasn’t on that beach 
  to go swimmin’.” 
  “Sure. You saw how she acted.” 
  “Yes. She got touched by it. She 
  was right in the way! And she’s got some 
  idea where it was, I bet.” 
  The other man’s hard-looking 
  eyes widened, and he said with some 
  awe, “Jeepers! You think she told that 
  army guy what it was?” 
  “She might’ve.” 
  “Hell!” 
  “I’ll say it’s hell. In that case, we’ll 
  have to take care of both of them!” 
  “Match you to see who takes the 
  girl.” 
  They matched nickels. 
   
  
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  4 
  Cast of Characters 
  in "The Angry Ghost" 
   
  DOC SAVAGE—"The Man of Bronze"—A remarkable personage who follows an unusual 
  profession—righting wrongs and punishing evildoers. He is a mental wizard, a physical 
  marvel, a skilled scientist. He is assisted in this adventure by his little group of 
  companions, including: 
   
  HAM—Whose real name is Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. Ham is one of 
  the nation's leading lawyers, a fashion-plate, a fast thinker and a clever fighter. Often he 
  fights with a specially devised sword-cane, tipped with a drug which puts his opponents 
  into a quick sleep. For pastime he brawls with 
   
  MONK—At least that's what he's called, for he's a homely, hairy man with a 260-pound 
  gorilla body. Yet Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, his real name, is regarded as one of the 
  greatest living chemists, and as a fighter is only equalled by Doc himself and by 
   
  RENNY—Or Colonel John Renwick, to name him correctly, a giant of a man over six feet 
  tall and tipping the beam at two hundred. Renny is an accomplished engineer, and he 
  can fight like blazes with his great fists. He's an entirely different type from 
   
  LONG TOM—Who isn't tall as his nickname might indicate, but small in stature and 
  unhealthy looking—although his health is really excellent; perfect, in fact. This man, 
  Thomas J. Roberts he was christened, is such a skilled electrical expert that the world 
  knows him pretty generally as "the wizard of the juice." 
   
  Others in the story are: 
   
  WARREN ALLEN—Who seems like just an overdressed English dude but is much more 
  than that. 
   
  AMBROSE—Who acts like a thug but is a pretty smooth guy. 
   
  ANNABEL LYNN—A girl that Monk goes for in a big way. 
   
  NANNY HANKS—An old babe that goes for Monk in a big way. 
   
  COLONEL JASON LYNN—Who in his own special field is as famous an inventive wizard, 
  almost, as Doc Savage himself. 
   
   
  “I get the dame!” the heavier of 
  the two chuckled. 
  The pair separated, one trailing 
  the army officer, to whom Annabel Lynn 
  had spoken. 
  The other, crouching low and 
  keeping behind the dunes, followed the 
  tall blond girl as she secured her clothing, 
  and without changing, hurried to her car. 
  The machine was a small green coupé, 
  parked at the end of a road that ended 
  here at the dunes. It would be necessary, 
  the pursuer saw, for the girl to back the 
  car and turn to leave. 
  Just as the girl reached the coupé 
  door, the man got up and ran. He was not 
  worried about being seen now. The girl 
  still had to turn the car. There was plenty 
  of time to overtake her. 
  The man made one error. He did 
  not figure on a woman being able to drive 
  backward almost as expertly as forward. 
  The girl got a glimpse of the man. She 
  leaped into the car. A motor kept warm by 
  
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  5 
  the morning sun snapped quickly into life. 
  She slapped the car in gear, gunned the 
  motor, handled the machine deftly. The 
  man came leaping after the car. 
  But the girl got away. 
  The man stood staring, and sweat 
  came out on his face, and his eyes 
  suddenly were full of fear. He muttered, 
  “Now this is going to be a nice mess!” 
  Annabel Lynn drove at high 
  speed until she reached an arterial 
  highway, then drove more carefully. Only 
  once did she stop, and then to take only a 
  moment to slip her dress over her head. 
  She still wore beach slippers. 
  She stopped at all red lights, 
  observed all the speed limits, carefully 
  doing nothing that might attract the 
  attention of a police officer. 
  Yet she looked frightened enough 
  to call a dozen policemen. Her cheeks 
  had lost color. Her wide gray-blue eyes 
  held the stare of a person who had 
  experienced shock. 
  From time to time, as the girl 
  drove, she raised a slender hand to her 
  throat and touched her arms or her 
  shoulders. Each time she made this 
  motion, she shuddered. 
  At a midtown Manhattan hotel, a 
  doorman took charge of the car and 
  Annabel Lynn hurried through the lobby, 
  got her key and went to an elevator. On 
  the eleventh floor, she waited in the 
  carpeted hallway until the elevator door 
  slid shut and the cage departed. She 
  looked furtively up and down the long hall. 
  Seeing no one, she stepped quickly to a 
  door. Her hands were trembling. 
  When she had locked the door 
  behind her, she collapsed on the bed. Her 
  whole form shook with uncontrollable 
  shuddering. 
  After calmness came back, she 
  sat up, and her mouth was determined. 
  She went to the table where she 
  had dropped her purse.  
  The object she removed from the 
  purse was a small black notebook that 
  seemed to be filled with names and 
  numbers. Annabel Lynn thumbed the 
  pages of the booklet, then her lips moved 
  silently as she memorized a number. She 
  sat down at the phone near the head of 
  the bed, gave the number to the hotel 
  operator, waited several moments while 
  the connection was being made. 
  Her decision to call the phone 
  number apparently had lifted weight from 
  her 
  shoulders—she 
  was 
  obviously 
  relieved. 
  A supervisor’s voice said, “Pardon 
  me, but are you calling the unlisted phone 
  number of Clark Savage, Jr.?” 
  “That is correct. I must speak to 
  Doc Savage!” 
  “Sorry,” said the supervisor, “but 
  that number does not answer.” 
  Slowly, almost dazedly, Annabel 
  Lynn hung up—gone was the relieved 
  expression of a moment ago; her eyes 
  widened uneasily. 
   
   
  Chapter II 
  MESSAGE FOR DOC 
   
  ANNABEL LYNN had tried to 
  contact Doc Savage at ten thirty that 
  morning, at noon, at two o’clock, then at 
  four. She did not leave her room and at 
  six she decided to risk the chance—she 
  was obviously afraid to leave her hotel 
  room—and go see the bronze man in 
  person. 
  She donned black—black dress, 
  hose, shoes and hat, even wore a black 
  veil that concealed her features. Black 
  was a color that permitted one to merge 
  well with the night. 
  When finally, she was ready, she 
  opened her room door cautiously, peered 
  up and down the hallway, then moved 
  quickly toward the elevators. Later she 
  was in a cab headed downtown, without 
  having been molested. 
  She changed cabs three times, 
  and made absolutely certain that she was 
  not being trailed. 
  Then she directed the cab to one 
  of New York City’s tallest buildings. An 
  elevator whisked her swiftly to the 
  topmost floor, the quick ascent setting her 
  ears to ringing. 
  There was a long, plain hallway of 
  rich marble. 
  There was also a man. 
  The man was about forty, well-
  dressed, slim-waisted; he carried a black 
  cane. He was not bad-looking. 
  
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  6 
  A legend on a bronze-colored 
  door read, “Clark Savage, Jr.” 
  The tall man stepped aside as 
  Annabel Lynn moved to the door, pressed 
  a buzzer and waited. The well-dressed 
  man paused and stared at her in a well-
  bred way. 
  “You looking for Doc Savage?” he 
  asked. 
  “I—” the girl hesitated. 
  “Doc is out of town,” the stranger 
  advised her. “I’m afraid you’ll find no one 
  else there, either.” 
  Behind the black-net veil which 
  partially concealed her features, Annabel 
  Lynn’s eyes were distraught. 
  Doc Savage was a remarkable 
  man who followed an unusual profession. 
  Doc was a mental wizard, physical marvel 
  and 
  skilled 
  scientist. 
  His 
  strange 
  profession was the righting of wrongs and 
  punishing of evil-doers, particularly in 
  such instances when the established 
  authorities seemed unable or unwilling to 
  do the job. He worked without pay, having 
  a private source of enormous wealth of 
  his own which was rather mysterious. 
  The elaborately dressed man 
  said, “Perhaps I can help you. I am 
  Brigadier 
  General 
  Theodore 
  Marley 
  Brooks, one of the assistants of Doc 
  Savage—” 
  “Ham Brooks!” Annabel Lynn 
  gasped. 
  “Yes.” 
  “If I can’t find Doc Savage, maybe 
  I should talk to you.”  
  The man smiled. “Maybe we 
  could have dinner together while you 
  talk.” 
  “I . . . well, yes,” the girl said, 
  realizing she was hungry. 
  The man moved to the elevator, 
  pressed the button and soon they were 
  descending. 
  “I have a car waiting,” the man 
  continued, smiling pleasantly. 
  A quick shower had come up, and 
  the streets were wet. A large closed car 
  stood at the curb near the building 
  entrance. 
  “My friends,” the dapper man 
  said. 
  Men were seated in the back of 
  the car. The driver leaned over, opened 
  the door on the curb side, and the girls 
  companion said, “We will squeeze in the 
  front. Unconventional, but if you don’t 
  mind, I will drop my friends at their club.” 
  Annabel Lynn climbed in, sat 
  between driver and the dapper man. The 
  car pulled away from the curb. Her gaze 
  moved to the rear-view mirror—faces in 
  the rear were a trifle vague in the dusk of 
  early evening. Then she gave a start. 
  There was something wrong with the 
  whole situation. 
  She gasped, “One of those men 
  in the back—he was on Rockaway Beach 
  this morning!” 
  From the rear seat, there was a 
  satisfied, harsh laugh. 
  “Sis, 
  you 
  should 
  have 
  remembered that sooner!” 
   
   
  THE heavy car began doing forty 
  on the wet pavement. The driver swung, 
  took a side street, and thereafter kept 
  away from thoroughfares that were too 
  thickly congested. The girl sat stiffly. 
  Warning words came from the well-
  dressed man seated so close to her. 
  “You shouldn’t have tried to 
  phone Doc Savage,” he said, and laughed 
  silkily. “Or to see him, either.” 
  Annabel Lynn was puzzled. “But 
  how—” 
  “Twenty bucks looked good to 
  that switchboard operator at your hotel, 
  sister! She told us. She kept you from 
  getting through to the bronze guy.” 
  Behind the veil, Annabel Lynn’s 
  eyes grew wide. 
  One of the men continued, “That 
  army guy you talked to on the beach this 
  mornin’ got away, babe. So now we want 
  to know just what you told him. Also, why 
  did you want to reach Doc Savage?” 
  Annabel Lynn compressed her 
  lips, said nothing. 
  “You know what was happening 
  there on the beach this morning, don’t 
  you?” the man growled. 
  The girl kept silent. 
  Ahead, 
  a 
  busy 
  intersection 
  loomed. The car driver was timing his 
  speed so he would hit the green light. In 
  the middle of the intersection stood a 
  traffic cop. The driver removed his foot 
  
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  7 
  from the gas peddle; he was taking no 
  chances on arousing the suspicions of the 
  traffic cop. 
  Suddenly, Annabel Lynn’s foot 
  shot out, came down on the brake. Down 
  as hard as she could push. 
  Rubber squealed as the wheels 
  locked. Tires failed to hold on the wet 
  pavement. The heavy car went into a 
  skid, slithered sidewise, smacked into a 
  car in the adjoining traffic lane. A car 
  behind crashed into them. There was 
  uproar. The cop was running toward 
  them. 
  The policeman yelled, “Hey, what 
  d’you think this is?” 
  Annabel Lynn scrambled out of 
  the car, ducked for the sidewalk with 
  flashing speed. 
  The cop yelled, “Hey!” 
  But Annabel Lynn’s slender tall 
  figure moved like a shadow between 
  stalled machines. She made a zigzag 
  course through a triple line of stalled cars, 
  reached the other side of the street where 
  traffic was still moving in the opposite 
  direction. An empty cab was just rolling 
  past, and the girl hailed the driver and 
  climbed into the cab’s rear seat. 
  She 
  ordered, 
  “Pennsylvania 
  Station. Hurry!” 
  As they rolled down a ramp 
  beneath 
  the 
  great 
  railroad 
  station, 
  Annabel Lynn took a check book from her 
  purse and made out a check to the hotel 
  at which she’d been stopping. She 
  handed the check to the cab driver after 
  she got out. 
  “Please take that to the hotel. It 
  will pay my bill. Ask the baggage clerk to 
  have my bags forwarded to the Union 
  Station in Washington, D. C.” The girl 
  handed over a five-dollar bill along with 
  the check. “And this is for yourself.” 
  The driver beamed around a 
  missing tooth. “You bet, ma’am. And 
  thanks! You know they ain’t many people 
  trust a cab driver like this. I appreciate it.” 
  Even 
  this 
  precaution 
  of 
  not 
  returning to her hotel worried her—
  perhaps the men who sought her would 
  learn of the forwarding of her baggage. 
  That was why she had given no hotel 
  address in Washington—had used only 
  the Union Station. It would be safer. 
   
   
  SHE learned that she had a half 
  hour to wait for the next Washington train. 
  She bought her ticket, an evening paper, 
  then located a deserted corner in the 
  huge waiting room and sat down on a 
  bench that faced away from the vast 
  rotunda. 
  An item on the first page of the 
  paper got her attention. 
   
  HOT WORDS FLY 
  IN ARMY CEMENT CASE 
   
  Repeated angry exchanges of 
  words today marked the progress of the 
  army’s examination into the strange 
  matter of how the gun foundations at Fort 
  Atlantic came to collapse. 
  Henry T. Neely, contractor who 
  built the foundations, at one time leaped 
  up and screamed “Liar!” at army officers. 
   
  The girl read the article with a 
  pale-faced, unnatural interest. 
  It seemed the United States 
  government had let out a contract for 
  construction 
  of 
  new 
  antiaircraft 
  gun 
  emplacements 
  at 
  Fort 
  Atlantic, 
  and 
  months 
  had 
  been 
  spent 
  placing 
  reinforcements and pouring cement for 
  gun bases that, it was said, were second 
  to none in the country. 
  A few days before, a government 
  engineer had made a routine inspection—
  when he finished, a lot of people were 
  wild-eyed; none of them more wild-eyed 
  than the contractor. 
  For during the inspection, the 
  startling fact had developed that the 
  extensive 
  gun 
  foundations 
  were 
  worthless. Sand and cement and gravel 
  and even steel had disintegrated, fallen 
  apart. 
  Government engineers blamed 
  the trouble on too little cement, too much 
  sand. The contractor—Henry T. Neely 
  was one of the biggest in business—had 
  called the government men liars. He 
  offered bills and figures to prove that he 
  had used the correct proportion of sand, 
  cement and gravel. 
  But the army engineers were 
  adamant. Seeing was believing, in their 
  
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  8 
  opinion. Any damn fool could now see 
  that the new foundations were worthless. 
  The girl rubbed a trembling hand 
  across her eyes, as though trying to blot 
  out the whole thing. Then, on a sudden 
  impulse, she glanced up at a wall clock. 
  There was still twenty minutes until her 
  train time. 
  There was another item, this one 
  short, which interested the girl. It read: 
   
  NOTED LAWYER URGES SOCIAL 
  REFORM IN WASHINGTON TO 
  PRESS LEGISLATION 
   
  Brigadier 
  General 
  Theodore 
  Marley “Ham” Brooks, noted lawyer, is in 
  Washington to urge congress to adopt a 
  program of free public-hospital care. With 
  him 
  is 
  Lieutenant 
  Colonel 
  Andrew 
  Blodgett “Monk” Mayfair, the famous 
  industrial chemist. 
  Both Ham Brooks and Monk 
  Mayfair 
  are 
  associated 
  with 
  the 
  mysterious 
  international 
  figure, 
  Doc 
  Savage, sometimes known as the Man of 
  Bronze. 
   
  Annabel Lynn went to a nearby 
  newsstand, obtained two dollars’ worth of 
  change, hurried to a phone booth. 
  She 
  put 
  through 
  a 
  call 
  to 
  Washington, D. C. 
  Finally, a sharp voice said at the 
  other end of the wire, “Hello?” 
  Annabel Lynn gave a quick gasp 
  of relief. She said, “Warren?” 
  The voice lost its sharpness and 
  became gentle and anxious. “Annabel! 
  You’re all right? I’ve been worried about 
  you, my dear!” 
  “Yes . . . yes, I’m all right. I’ll be in 
  Washington sometime before morning. 
  But first, there is something you must do 
  for me—you’ve heard of Doc Savage?” 
  There was a short pause. Then 
  the man’s voice replied, “Well, quite! I’ll 
  say. The fellow is some sort of scientific 
  genius, judging from what I’ve heard.” 
  “I’ve been trying to reach him.” 
  “But—” 
  “And he apparently is not in New 
  York. But two men who are his associates 
  are in Washington now. You must arrange 
  a meeting with them for me.” 
  The voice at the other end of the 
  wire protested, “But that has nothing to do 
  with—” 
  “Warren,” the girl said insistently. 
  “You’ve got to do that. It’s . . . important.” 
  “All 
  right, 
  then,” 
  the 
  man 
  answered. “I imagine they will attend the 
  big dinner tomorrow night at the Embassy 
  Club. Everyone who is anybody will be 
  there.” 
  Annabel Lynn hung up. Later, on 
  the express which rolled slowly out of the 
  station tunnel, she reflected that Warren 
  would get her the meeting she had 
  requested. Warren was efficient. 
   
   
  Chapter III 
  TRAILED 
   
  BRIGADIER 
  GENERAL 
  THEODORE MARLEY BROOKS, known 
  as Ham to his friends and those who 
  could outrun him, did not like the 
  nickname. He was one of the nation’s 
  leading lawyers, a Harvard graduate, also 
  one of the aids of Doc Savage. 
  The apish man was his partner, 
  Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. For obvious 
  reasons, 
  he 
  was 
  nicknamed 
  Monk. 
  Though his appearance and actions gave 
  no indication, Monk had brains. He was a 
  renowned chemist. 
  “I hope that girl,” Ham said 
  angrily, “is pretty enough to make up for 
  some of these troubles.” 
  “What girl?” Monk asked. Girls 
  invariably interested Monk. 
  “A fellow named Warren—I met 
  him somewhere—telephoned me this 
  afternoon,” Ham explained, “and said she 
  wanted very much to meet us at the 
  Embassy Club tonight.” 
   
   
  THE Embassy Club occupied one 
  of 
  those 
  regal 
  old 
  buildings 
  off 
  Pennsylvania Avenue. Twenty years ago, 
  the place had been one of the richest 
  embassies of a European ruler since 
  deposed, and the all but gold-plated 
  interior had been transformed into as 
  richly exclusive a spot, probably, as the 
  nation boasted. There was refinement in 
  the surroundings, elegance; there was 
  
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  9 
  one of the best orchestras—no slam-bang 
  bunch of wild Indians called a swing band, 
  but a soft ensemble that played with 
  feeling. 
  Inside, no man was dressed in 
  anything as vulgar as a tux. Full tails was 
  the thing. Preferably a ribbon across the 
  chest, also. 
  “I’m jolly well glad to meet you 
  again,” said a young man who was rather 
  more slim and handsome than Monk liked 
  them. 
  “This is Warren—Warren Allen,” 
  Ham told the homely chemist. 
  Monk put Warren Allen down in 
  his mental black book as a rather elegant 
  piece of manhood. Not that one should 
  hold appearances against a fellow—
  particularly when the appearances were 
  much on the handsome side. Monk really 
  had nothing against Warren Allen except 
  the fellow’s good looks. That, and the 
  fellow’s English accent, which was a little 
  on the heavy edge. 
  “Pleased t’meetcha,” Monk said 
  unenthusiastically. 
  “Right over here,” advised Warren 
  Allen, “is the young lady who wishes to 
  meet you.” 
  He led them over to the vision 
  that was Annabel Lynn, and performed 
  introductions. 
  Then, 
  to 
  Monk’s 
  pleased 
  astonishment, Warren Allen had the good 
  grace to excuse himself and walk away. 
  “This,” Monk said instantly, “is 
  going to be a wonderful evening. Meeting 
  a girl as pretty as you starts it off with a 
  crash like thunder.” 
  “I want to talk to you,” the girl 
  said. 
  They 
  found 
  a 
  small 
  private 
  anteroom. Annabel Lynn said, “I . . . I tried 
  to reach Doc Savage, and he wasn’t 
  there.” She looked around, as though 
  fearful even someone might be listening. 
  “Yes?” Ham suggested. 
  “It’s . . . I’m afraid. It’s not even 
  safe to talk here. Could you meet me 
  some place else, say in an hour?” 
  There was fear in the depths of 
  the girl’s eyes, and she asked, “You’ll 
  meet me? You see, I’ve got something to 
  tell Doc Savage!” 
  Ham nodded. 
  “Meet me at the La Grecia 
  restaurant at Norfolk and Y streets,” the 
  girl suggested. 
  “In half an hour,” Ham agreed. 
  After the girl had departed, Monk 
  put on a remarkable villainous green 
  topcoat which he wore over his full dress 
  suit, and they hailed a cab. 
  Ham rested his polished black 
  cane—a sword-cane—which he always 
  carried, against the seat beside him. “That 
  girl is scared.” 
  “Yeah. There must be something 
  wrong. Maybe we oughta contact Doc. 
  We’re only down here on business, to 
  lobby for free hospital care for everybody. 
  There was nothin’ said about gettin’ into 
  trouble.” 
  Ham glanced over his shoulder 
  once or twice. Their cab turned various 
  corners. Ham continued to watch over his 
  shoulder. 
  “Well, if you ask me, trouble is at 
  hand.” 
  “Eh?” 
  “We’re being followed.” 
  Monk looked suddenly interested. 
  “Where?” 
  “It’s that sedan. Been trailing us 
  for the last few minutes.” 
   
   
  THE trailing sedan was not in 
  sight when they finally pulled up before 
  the small curtained-window restaurant 
  that had been mentioned as the meeting 
  place. And neither was blond Annabel 
  Lynn in view. 
  To their astonishment, Warren 
  Allen came running out of the eating place 
  just as they climbed out of the cab. In fact, 
  Warren Allen rushed out so fast that he 
  crashed into Monk. He started to make 
  apologies, then took a look at the hairy 
  chemist’s green topcoat—which hardly 
  befitted the “soup and tails” Monk was 
  wearing—and shuddered. 
  “My 
  word!” 
  Warren 
  Allen 
  exploded. “These Americans! There’s 
  positively no telling what rags they’ll wear 
  next.” 
  Monk was tempted to let go with a 
  haymaker. Ham kicked and took bark 
  from Monk’s shins. 
  
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  10 
  “Nice little restaurant,” Ham said. 
  “I see you like it, too.” 
  Warren Allen gave Ham a direct 
  look from level gray eyes. “My word, 
  quite! Yes. But . . . oh . . . to tell the truth I 
  was sent here by Miss Annabel Lynn to 
  meet you.” 
  Monk said, “Where’s the girl?” 
  Warren  Allen  looked  worried.  “I 
  . . . well, she’s at another spot.” 
  “Where?” 
  Monk 
  was 
  getting 
  suspicious. 
  “The Treasury Building.” 
  “The Treasury—what the heck! 
  This time of night? That place would be 
  closed now.” 
  The tall blond man, who was so 
  obviously English, agreed. “Quite!” he 
  said. “But she went there and she asked 
  me to bring you.” 
  “Why?” 
  “I do not know.” 
  Warren Allen had a debonair 
  manner that was not even second to 
  smartly dressed Ham’s. The two men, 
  Ham and Warren Allen, sized one another 
  up, and each apparently admired the 
  other’s choice in wearing apparel. Monk 
  was disgusted. 
  “Let’s go!” the homely chemist 
  growled. 
  Warren Allen said, “I have my 
  own car parked just ahead there.” 
  He indicated a sleek-looking, 
  expensive roadster. Then he mentioned 
  two direct routes to the Treasury Building, 
  and told Ham which one to take. 
  Monk and Ham got back in their 
  own cab. 
  Warren Allen called, “Watch for a 
  green cab when you get there. She is in 
  such a cab and may be waiting in the 
  machine.” 
  Warren Allen left in one direction; 
  Ham and hairy Monk took another. Both 
  routes would bring them to the great 
  stone Treasury Building located near the 
  White House. On the rear seat of the cab, 
  dapper Ham fooled with his black cane. 
  “Funny,” he remarked. “We no 
  sooner met Annabel Lynn than something 
  went wrong. She was scared, wanted to 
  see us in privacy. She didn’t show up. 
  Also, there was that large sedan which 
  was following us.” 
  Monk said abruptly, “Did you say 
  was followin’ us?” 
  “Of course.” 
  “Look!” Monk said. 
  The large sedan had suddenly 
  reappeared, and had swerved across the 
  narrow street in front of them, blocking 
  their path. 
  As the cab driver slammed on his 
  brakes to avoid a crash, grim-faced Monk 
  flung open the cab door and went piling 
  out into the street. 
   
   
  Chapter IV 
  CARS IN THE NIGHT 
   
  IT was late in the night and there 
  was no traffic on this particular narrow 
  thoroughfare; the long sedan had blocked 
  the path of the cab completely. 
  Men 
  now 
  piled 
  out 
  of 
  the 
  blockading sedan. A street lamp nearby 
  cast feeble glow over faces that were 
  coarse and grim. There were at least a 
  half-dozen assailants. 
  One snarled, “That’s the pair! 
  Grab ‘em!” 
  But Monk already had made up 
  his mind about who was to do the 
  grabbing. He dived for the group. His 
  great fists started pumping. 
  Three 
  men 
  piled 
  on 
  Monk, 
  dumped him to the street. Another started 
  jumping up and down on him. Monk 
  grabbed assorted legs, twisted, howled. 
  The cab driver headed for points 
  distant. 
  Ham 
  never 
  used 
  Monk’s 
  roughhouse tactics. He unsheathed his 
  sword-cane. It flashed in the faint glow of 
  street lights. 
  Ham began pricking men with the 
  blade. His victims soon got down on 
  knees, as though looking for a hole in 
  which to hide, then one by one sprawled 
  out and lay still. For the tip of Ham’s cane 
  contained a violent anaesthetic drug 
  which produced brief unconsciousness. 
  Monk 
  was 
  still 
  swinging. 
  Practically at empty air. Then he realized 
  there was only a single figure facing him, 
  and he almost swung at it before he 
  decided it was Ham. 
   
  
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  11 
   
  As the men ganged up on Monk, Ham unsheathed his word-cane! 
   
  “I was just gettin’ warmed up!” 
  Monk yelled. “Why’d you use that sword-
  cane and spoil—” 
  Blam! The one who looked like 
  Ham hauled off and let Monk have a right 
  to the jaw. 
  Monk went down in a pink haze. 
  For several moments, the hairy chemist’s 
  brain did spins. Then he realized vaguely 
  that someone was helping him to his feet. 
  It was Ham doing the helping. 
  Monk bellowed, “You hit me, 
  shyster!” and cut loose with a steaming 
  right. Ham stepped nimbly aside. “Listen, 
  stupid!” Ham snapped. “Take a look at 
  that fellow there on the ground!” 
  Monk looked. 
  The 
  supine 
  individual 
  closely 
  resembled smartly dressed Ham. He wore 
  
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  12 
  well-tailored clothes; in the poor light, 
  Monk had mistaken the fellow for Ham. 
  Monk said, “Blazes!” He rubbed a 
  numb 
  jaw. 
  “Where’s 
  that 
  Treasury 
  Building where that danged Englishman 
  said the girl would be waiting?” 
  Ham pointed with his sword-cane. 
  “Two blocks down the street yonder.” 
  The stone building was a great 
  grim stone tube in the night. Windows 
  were dark. 
  Abruptly, a cab rolled under the 
  nearby street light, stopped—then started 
  away swiftly after the occupant had 
  opened the door and leaned out to stare. 
  Monk yelled, “Looks like our girl in 
  that hack!” 
  Ham barked, “And the cab is 
  green!” He was remembering Warren 
  Allen’s statement that the girl would be in 
  a green cab. 
  “This 
  is 
  a 
  frame-up!” 
  Monk 
  howled. “The girl and that Allen led us into 
  a trap.” 
  Monk said, “I’ll get her! You watch 
  these mugs!” 
  Monk started running, trying to 
  overtake the girl’s cab. Annabel Lynn 
  apparently held the key to whatever this 
  mystery was all about. 
  And then the shaking sensation 
  seized Monk and Ham. 
   
   
  MONK stopped, astounded by the 
  ripping, tearing-apart sensation that went 
  through his whole body. It felt as though 
  unseen, 
  giant 
  hands—hundreds 
  of 
  hands—had grasped them and were 
  shaking them. 
  They gagged, staggered around, 
  clutched at various parts of their own 
  bodies. 
  Ham gasped, “Ugg . . . I . . . ah . . 
  . Jehoshaphat!” 
  The peculiar sensation stopped. 
  As swiftly as it had come, it was gone. 
  Monk let out a long howl. 
  “What could that have been?” 
  Monk gasped. 
  Ham looked all around, saw 
  nothing. 
  “You guess,” he said. 
  Then he saw that Monk was 
  suddenly staring at the huge Treasury 
  Building. Monk shouted, “Look!” 
  A part of the great Treasury 
  Building had started to collapse. A single 
  corner of the massive edifice was giving 
  way in a miniature land slide of pulverized 
  rock, cement and sand, the stuff pouring 
  out over the sidewalk, overflowing into the 
  street. Fixtures and equipment that were 
  obviously a part of a room somewhere in 
  that part of the building, followed out into 
  the street. The land slide of rock and sand 
  made a great racket. People seemingly 
  appearing from nowhere, there began to 
  be bedlam. Front doors of the Treasury 
  Building burst open; excited guards piled 
  out into the street. There was the moan of 
  police-car sirens; soon blue-coated men 
  were swarming all around the place. Cars 
  were jammed in the wide streets, more 
  machines rolling up and adding to the 
  confusion. 
  Monk said, “Blazes! A hold-up, I’ll 
  bet.” 
  “You didn’t see any gunmen 
  trying to get away from there, did you?” 
  Monk had to admit he had seen 
  no one trying to escape from the place. 
  “And 
  you 
  didn’t 
  hear 
  any 
  explosion, did you?” Ham added. 
  “Then what was it?” 
  “Search me. It was as though the 
  corner just caved out of that building.” 
  “Yeah,” Monk murmured. 
  Both of them had forgotten their 
  late foes. Then they remembered, and 
  went back. 
  Their attackers were all gone. 
  They must have been helped to escape. 
  The 
  time 
  was 
  approximately 
  twelve twenty. 
   
   
  MONK said thoughtfully. “Damn 
  queer that girl left word she was coming 
  here—and then those mugs tried to get 
  us. It still looks like a trick to me.” 
  The only vehicle nearby was a 
  large milk truck moving slowly along the 
  street a little ahead of Monk and Ham. It 
  was the type of milk truck used to supply 
  hotels and restaurants. 
  “Hey, truck!” Monk called. “How’s 
  a chance for a lift?” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  13 
  The 
  driver 
  turned 
  his 
  head 
  slightly, 
  said 
  over 
  his 
  shoulder 
  to 
  someone in the vanlike body, “Hear that, 
  Ambrose? These lugs want a lift. They 
  didn’t know we was plannin’ to invite ‘em!” 
  The man got out of the truck, and 
  Monk and Ham found themselves staring 
  into the muzzle of a gun that loomed big 
  in the murk. 
  From behind the gun, a voice 
  ordered, “Climb in, pals. It’s our night to 
  be lucky.” 
  The 
  leader 
  of 
  their 
  new 
  acquaintances seemed to be named 
  Ambrose. Ambrose had a lot of face, a lot 
  of jaw, and a lot of gun. He waggled the 
  gun, covering Monk and Ham as they 
  swung into the rear of the truck. 
  There was a partition across half 
  of the rear truck compartment. 
  They never did see what was in 
  the other half of the truck, although it 
  didn’t strike them as important at the time. 
  In dressing for the affair at the 
  Embassy Club, Monk and Ham had left 
  behind their weapons, including the 
  machine pistols which Doc Savage’s men 
  usually carried. Getting Monk into full 
  dress had been hard enough, and there 
  would have been no space left to conceal 
  a shoulder holster anyway. 
  “Nice going, Ambrose,” a voice 
  said. 
  Ambrose, 
  it 
  appeared, 
  was 
  backed up by at least two hard-looking 
  henchmen, the second of whom added, 
  “Lie down, you two!” 
  Monk was the kind of fellow who 
  needed a lot of convincing. His bull-like 
  head lowered, and he dived at the nearest 
  man. His fists started pumping. Ham, who 
  still carried his sword-cane, tried to swing 
  it into use. But the surprise attack failed. 
  Someone dropped a gun butt—it felt like 
  the Washington Monument—on the hairy 
  chemist’s head and he lost all interest in 
  the battle. A fist was used on Ham’s jaw. 
  Later, when they woke up, there 
  was no longer swaying motion of the truck 
  moving. Everything was oddly silent. It 
  was also incredibly dark. 
  Monk, always a humorist of sorts, 
  muttered, “I ain’t dead, I hope.” 
  Ham’s voice said, “Shut up, you 
  misfit. I’m trying to figure out where we 
  are.” 
  The lawyer’s words came out of 
  the blackness somewhere close to Monk. 
  The chemist tried to rise, realized that he 
  was tied up hand and foot. He asked, 
  “Where the blazes are we?” 
  “Garage of some kind, I think,” 
  Ham said. “They just went out to another 
  room. Some of them are going to try to 
  catch the girl.” 
  “You mean the girl?” Monk asked 
  in the darkness. He was trying to squirm 
  around to reach his feet, but his hands 
  were tied behind him. 
  “Yes—Annabel Lynn,” Ham said. 
  “Seems they’re looking for her, too. And 
  from what I overheard, I think they know 
  where to find her. Damn these ropes!” 
  Monk said, “Wait.” He inched 
  across the cement floor and located Ham, 
  got close to him, instructed, “Use your 
  teeth. My vest pocket. There’s a cigar in 
  there.” 
  “Cigar?” the lawyer asked. “What 
  good will—” 
  “Get the blasted thing out!” 
  Ham twisted his neck until he was 
  able to grip the cigar with his teeth, pull it 
  out and drop it to the floor. Monk rolled 
  over, found the thing with his bound 
  hands, broke it and felt powder run on to 
  the floor. 
  Monk explained, “Some stuff Doc 
  invented. It’ll rot these cords as soon as 
  it’s been exposed to the air a second.” 
  Monk was pressing his wrists 
  down close to the cement, against the 
  powder. He tugged. A strand parted. 
  Another. The bindings fell apart. Monk 
  untied his ankles and got Ham free. 
  “Nice goin’ on my part, eh?” Monk 
  chuckled. 
  “Unless you want your head shot 
  off by these guys, keep quiet! They’re 
  somewhere outside in another room.” 
  They 
  crawled 
  through 
  the 
  darkness, hands outstretched to intercept 
  any object in their path. They reached a 
  wall. There was a door. Ham slowly 
  eased it open. 
   
   
  
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  14 
  THE door gave onto a weed-filled 
  field that was bare and desolate in a 
  starry 
  night. 
  Thick 
  silence 
  was 
  everywhere. 
  Monk piped sadly, “An’ I was 
  gonna muss up them guys!” He looked 
  around. “Blazes, this isn’t a garage. It’s 
  just a shack in an old dump.” 
  It was true. There was no sign of 
  truck, men or habitation. Far off in the 
  distance, there was a reddish glow in the 
  sky. 
  Ham 
  pointed 
  at 
  the 
  glow. 
  “Probably Washington,” he said. 
  “Danged if it ain’t a long way off. I 
  hope we don’t have to walk.” 
  Ham, 
  his 
  usually 
  meticulous 
  person somewhat battered and decrepit, 
  started toward a dusty road that was 
  nearby. 
  He said, “You can wait and see if 
  you can sprout wings, if you want to.” 
  Monk scowled and followed. His 
  evening clothes were torn. His starched 
  shirt was ripped open over his hairy chest. 
  There was a lump on his forehead. 
  He said to Ham, “Can you figure it 
  out, smart-pants.” 
  “Those men who jumped us knew 
  we were going to meet her. They were 
  working with the gang on that phony milk 
  truck near the Treasury Building. They 
  didn’t want us to talk to that girl.” 
  “Why?” 
  “I don’t know.” 
  “I thought you were going to 
  figure out all the answers.” 
  Ham lapsed into an offended 
  silence. 
  Later, “I wonder what was in the 
  other half of that truck?” he pondered 
  aloud. 
  Monk apparently didn’t hear that. 
  “Where we gonna find the girl?” 
  the homely chemist grunted. 
  “The logical place to start would 
  be her hotel.” 
  “What one?” 
  “How would I know? We’ll just 
  have to try ‘em all.” 
  “Maybe she don’t live in a hotel. 
  We don’t know anything about her.” 
  “Oh, stop trying to think of things 
  to make it worse than it is.” 
  “Maybe we ought to tell Doc 
  about the whole business.”  
  For once, Ham agreed. “Perhaps 
  we ought.”  
  That started both of them thinking 
  about getting a phone call through to Doc 
  Savage, in New York. They quickened 
  their pace through the quiet night, and did 
  not see a car, moving without lights, far 
  back in the road behind them. 
  Monk stopped suddenly. 
  “Hey—blazes!” he exploded. 
  A remarkable-looking figure had 
  come out of the darkness with a flashlight 
  and a gun. They made out the gun—it 
  was pointed at them—as soon as their 
  eyes became accustomed to the flashlight 
  glare. 
  “My name,” said the weird-looking 
  one, “is Nanny Hanks. We had better get 
  acquainted.” 
   
   
  Chapter V 
  MYSTERY AT 12:20 
   
  IN New York City, Doc Savage 
  drove into the unusual basement garage 
  of his skyscraper headquarters. He had 
  just arrived from a waterfront hangar, 
  where he had left Long Tom Roberts and 
  Renny Renwick, two of his group of five 
  associates. For some days, Doc and the 
  two men had been working on a diving-
  bell device that the bronze man was 
  hoping to perfect at his Hudson River 
  warehouse-hangar. Long Tom and Renny 
  were cleaning up details and would join 
  him shortly. 
  Standing beside his car, Doc 
  Savage was of unusual size; he could 
  easily glance across the roof of the big 
  machine. His shoulders did not seem 
  unnaturally broad until one compared 
  their width to the car-door opening. The 
  whole remarkable physique of the bronze 
  giant was of the same symmetrical 
  largeness. His skin was unusual, as 
  though bronzed by tropical suns; his hair, 
  which lay smooth against his head, was of 
  a bronze hue somewhat darker. 
   
   
   
   
  
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  15 
   
  A remarkable-looking figure had come out of the darkness with a flashlight and a gun! 
   
  His eyes were most remarkable. 
  They 
  were 
  like 
  flake-gold, 
  stirred 
  continually with a restlessness that gave 
  some indication of the activity of the 
  bronze man’s mind. 
  Doc Savage showed no outward 
  sign that he knew a man was trailing him. 
  The stranger had jumped the car 
  as it slipped into the driveway leading to 
  the private garage in the skyscraper 
  basement. 
  Now the man suddenly came out 
  from behind the car with a big gun in his 
  fist and a snarl on his lips. 
  “I’ve heard plenty about you!” the 
  man growled. “And I’m one boy who don’t 
  take chances.” 
  He fired point-blank at the bronze 
  man’s chest. Doc Savage fell to the 
  cement floor. 
  The gunman—he was well over 
  six feet tall—came forward and poked a 
  big foot at the bronze man’s limp figure. 
  He laughed harshly. 
  “I wasn’t any fool,” he said. 
  Turning 
  quickly, 
  the 
  gunman 
  moved to a switch panel located on one 
  wall of the basement garage. When Doc 
  Savage had driven into the place, doors 
  had opened automatically at the approach 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  16 
  of the big limousine, but they had closed 
  again as soon as the bronze man had 
  driven the car inside. 
  The 
  doors 
  were 
  obviously 
  controlled by an electric radio device; they 
  were also armor-plated. The doors would 
  be opened mechanically from the switch 
  panel, and it was thus the gunman 
  opened them now. 
  Two more thugs slipped quickly 
  into the garage. They grinned when they 
  saw the bronze man lying on the cement 
  floor. 
  One said, “Ambrose said we 
  better finish this bronze guy off right now. 
  It sure as hell worked!” 
  “You think the girl reached him?” 
  “Annabel 
  Lynn?—that’s 
  what 
  Ambrose was worried about. What’s the 
  difference now? He’s dead.” 
  “Maybe we better search him to 
  make sure he ain’t carryin’ any evidence 
  she might have given him—in case she 
  did see him.” 
  The man with the gun bent down, 
  laid his weapon on the floor, started to go 
  through the bronze man’s inside coat 
  pocket. Several blurred things happened. 
  Doc Savage came up off the floor 
  with smooth motion. The tall gunman was 
  slammed through the air, struck the wall, 
  let out a grunt, folded in a heap. The other 
  two men let out yells, reached for 
  shoulder 
  holsters, 
  dived 
  toward 
  the 
  bronze 
  man. 
  But 
  Doc moved 
  with 
  incredible speed. He seized the nearest 
  man, hurled him into his partner. Both 
  tangled on the floor. 
  The bronze man’s hand went to a 
  special vest that he wore beneath his 
  coat; with his fingers he flung a small 
  glass capsule to the hard floor. It broke. 
  Liquid came from the thing, vaporized, 
  turning into gas. 
  Slowly, the men went limp. Arms 
  and legs spread out slackly as they 
  became unconscious. 
  Doc Savage continued to hold his 
  breath for another half minute. While he 
  did so, he moved toward a wall switch, 
  flicked it, and an exhaust fan made a 
  humming sound in the basement garage. 
  The gas, which smelled and had a faint 
  color, was soon drawn from the garage. 
  While this was going on, the bronze man 
  stood outside. The gas capsule, one 
  which he had perfected himself, had 
  contained a harmless anaesthetic drug 
  that 
  produced 
  temporary 
  unconsciousness. 
  Doc 
  examined 
  the 
  would-be 
  killers. The bronze man had never seen 
  the assailants before. He had no idea of 
  the reason for the attack on his life. But 
  apparently it had something to do with the 
  girl—a girl named Annabel Lynn, who had 
  been trying to see him. 
  The 
  garage 
  doors 
  opened—
  controlled by a radio device which the 
  bronze man’s aids had installed in their 
  car—and Renny and Long Tom drove into 
  the garage. Both men—associates of Doc 
  Savage—stared at the men on the floor. 
  “Holy cow!” Renny boomed. 
  Renny was a giant in stature, with 
  hands like quart pails, a long, puritanical 
  face wreathed with undertaker gloom. 
  Doc Savage briefly explained 
  what had occurred. 
  “Too bad 
  we 
  weren’t here,” 
  muttered Long Tom. 
  Long Tom asked, “What’s behind 
  this?” 
  “Apparently it has something to 
  do with a girl.” 
  “Girl?” 
  Doc nodded. “It has me puzzled. 
  We might try truth serum.” 
  The “truth serum” was a variation 
  of the type used sometimes by police 
  laboratories, and was one of the bronze 
  man’s own formulas. 
  “How come the bullet didn’t kill 
  you?” Long Tom asked.  
  “Bullet-proof vest,” Doc explained. 
   
   
  BEFORE the assailants regained 
  their senses, they were bound and taken 
  to the skyscraper headquarters of the 
  bronze man, and in the great book-lined 
  library on the eighty-sixth floor aërie Doc 
  Savage administered truth serum to the 
  trio, using a hypo needle. The gas effects 
  wore off, leaving them under the influence 
  of the truth serum—in a state somewhat 
  resembling drunkenness. 
  Renny and Long Tom propped 
  the man in a chair, and he answered—he 
  was powerless to do otherwise—such 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  17 
  questions as they put, although his 
  speech was incoherent, frequently not at 
  all understandable. 
  “Her name is Annabel Lynn,” they 
  decided he said in answers to questions 
  as to who the girl was. 
  “Why is she trying to reach me?” 
  “Because 
  she 
  was 
  out 
  on 
  Rockaway 
  Beach 
  when 
  something 
  happened, and Ambrose figures she 
  knows too much.” 
  “Too much about what?” 
  “I don’t know. Ambrose wouldn’t 
  tell us.” 
  Renny boomed, “Holy cow! Who 
  is Ambrose?” 
  “The guy who hired us,” the man 
  mumbled stupidly, after several attempts. 
  “Where is he?” 
  “Washington, D. C.” 
  Further questioning only made it 
  more apparent that these three crooks 
  worked for the someone named Ambrose. 
  As to who Ambrose was or what kind of 
  scheme he was perpetrating, the men had 
  no idea. 
  It was only evident that Ambrose 
  was immensely worried over something 
  the girl, Annabel Lynn, had shown she 
  knew at Rockaway Beach. 
  Both Renny and Long Tom tried 
  further questioning of the captives, but 
  learned nothing additional to help clear up 
  the reason for the attempt on Doc’s life. 
  Doc said, “They have told us all 
  they know. They’re ready for the college.” 
  Renny got on a telephone and 
  made arrangements for the transfer of the 
  three would-be killers to the “college”—a 
  strange institution in upstate New York 
  where criminals, through delicate brain 
  operations instituted by Doc, had all 
  remembrance of their past wiped out. 
  After being trained, these crooks who had 
  “forgotten” their pasts were released, 
  cured 
  of 
  all 
  criminal 
  tendencies, 
  thenceforth to lead the lives of normal, 
  worth-while citizens. 
  Doc entered the big laboratory—
  his headquarters consisted of library, lab 
  and reception room occupying one whole 
  floor of the great skyscraper—a sanctum 
  where he could work undisturbed. The 
  bronze man often worked through the 
  night here, perfecting some new device or 
  formula for the benefit of mankind. 
  A strange thing happened when 
  Doc entered the lab. He stopped. 
  Practically 
  every 
  delicate 
  instrument in one corner of the laboratory 
  had been smashed. 
   
   
  IT was not as though someone 
  had entered the bronze man’s laboratory 
  and smashed the valuable instruments 
  with an ax. It was simply as though 
  delicate apparatus had fallen apart, 
  disintegrated, crumpled in their sensitive 
  racks 
  and 
  mountings. 
  One 
  set 
  of 
  instruments in particular drew the bronze 
  giant’s gaze. Protected by glass panels, 
  the devices stood on a large, insulated 
  cabinet. But now the glass was shattered; 
  instruments that had cost thousands of 
  dollars lay broken within. 
  Mounted 
  on 
  one 
  carefully 
  constructed base was a seismoscope, a 
  device for recording the disturbances of 
  earthquake nature. 
  Located at some distance was a 
  graph attachment which dictated the 
  exact time of any earth disturbance. For 
  example, a blast during the construction 
  work in the new Sixth Avenue subway, in 
  New York, would have been recorded by 
  the sensitive machine, and the exact time 
  shown. 
  The 
  graph 
  showed 
  that 
  the 
  machine had collapsed to bits at exactly 
  12:20 p. m. 
  It was a confounding piece of 
  mystery. There was no Indication that 
  anyone had entered the laboratory—the 
  burglar alarms on the doors and windows 
  were highly sensitive and would have 
  shown the visit of any prowler—and there 
  seemed no plausible explanation for the 
  shattered condition of the instruments. 
  In several spots, plaster had 
  fallen off the walls, and even masonry 
  was cracked and crumbling. At one point 
  the bronze man noted that a steel 
  supporting beam was exposed. He kicked 
  it. The beam crumpled for a short 
  distance, the fragments of steel rattling 
  over the floor like ball bearings. 
   
   
  
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  18 
  Chapter VI 
  NANNY HANKS 
   
  IT was shortly later that Doc 
  Savage received a telephone call from 
  Ham and Monk, in Washington. Ham 
  spoke from a cigar-store booth in the 
  suburbs of the capital. The lawyer told 
  about meeting Annabel Lynn, of the run-in 
  with the fake milk-truck thugs. Doc 
  listened attentively. “Why does Annabel 
  Lynn wish to see me?” 
  Ham’s voice was disgusted over 
  the wire. “Search me, Doc! And now she’s 
  disappeared. Right after that Treasury 
  Building trouble, we saw her leaving in a 
  hurry—” 
  “Treasury Building?” 
  “Part of the Treasury Building 
  collapsed!” 
  Ham 
  explained. 
  “It 
  just 
  seemed to disintegrate. Queerest thing 
  you ever saw.” 
  Doc Savage’s flake-gold eyes 
  became restless. 
  “Collapsed?” 
  “That’s right. Just a little after 
  midnight. Guess the news-papers haven’t 
  got it out yet.” 
  “What was the exact time?” Doc 
  Savage asked. 
  For a moment, there was silence. 
  Then the lawyer said, “Well, I happened 
  to glance at my watch, Doc. It was just 
  twenty minutes after twelve.” 
  “And there was no explosion?” 
  “No.” 
  The bronze man reached a 
  decision. “We will leave for Washington 
  immediately. It is imperative that we 
  locate the girl. At what hotel are you 
  stopping?” 
  Ham named the hotel. 
  “We should be there in two 
  hours,” Doc advised. “The trip from here 
  should take no longer than that.” 
  Doc Savage turned to Renny and 
  Long Tom. 
  “Renny,” Doc said quietly, “you 
  are acquainted with Major Woods at Fort 
  Atlantic, on Long Island?” 
  “Yes.” 
  “You are interested in military 
  matters—particularly 
  fort 
  construction, 
  since you are an engineer. You know 
  about the recent trouble out there with the 
  aircraft gun-bases?” 
  “Yes. I’ve been reading about that 
  in the papers—hey! You don’t mean—” 
  Renny 
  looked 
  at 
  the 
  demolished 
  instruments and cases in the laboratory. 
  “Holy cow!” 
  Doc said, “You and Long Tom 
  might go to Fort Atlantic immediately. You 
  will investigate the gun-base trouble that 
  has been featured in the newspapers—
  and note the fact that Rockaway Beach is 
  very near Fort Atlantic. That may mean 
  something.” 
  “Where will you be, Doc?” Long 
  Tom asked. 
  “Washington.” 
  Doc entered a queer-looking car 
  which traveled inside a pneumatic tube—
  dubbed the “flea run” by hairy Monk. This 
  device was an underground shortcut that 
  carried passengers to the water-front 
  hangar of Doc Savage in a matter of 
  moments. 
  Doc rolled a small speed plane to 
  the landing stage located adjacent to the 
  Hudson River, and some minutes later, he 
  was in the air and pointing the nose of the 
  ship toward Washington. The plane was 
  capable of making three hundred miles an 
  hour, which meant hardly more than an 
  hour should be needed for the trip to 
  Washington—but it took longer than that. 
  Flying over Chesapeake Bay, Doc 
  had some rather strange trouble. 
  Because there were low clouds 
  over the Chesapeake, the bronze man 
  had brought the plane down to less than a 
  thousand feet; and in order to keep on the 
  radio beam in case the ceiling clamped 
  down, he had headed in close to shore. 
  He had been riding the radio beam ten 
  minutes or so when the trouble struck. 
  First, it touched the ship itself—
  something like an invisible hand seemed 
  to clutch the wing tips, then shake them 
  violently, as a mastiff might waggle a 
  small terrier. One moment the plane was 
  flying smoothly; the next it was a wild, 
  weaving thing apparently trying to shake 
  itself apart. 
  Next, 
  the 
  bronze 
  giant 
  experienced 
  a 
  peculiar 
  trembling 
  sensation in his own body—his chest 
  seemed to tighten; his ears hurt; abruptly 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  19 
  it felt as if his great muscles were being 
  shaken from his frame. 
  There was nothing that could be 
  seen! The fast plane was out of control 
  while Doc Savage, with will power and 
  strength, was trying to fight off the queer 
  vibrating attack long enough to think of a 
  way out of the predicament. The plane 
  was going into a plunging dive; it would 
  be only seconds until it lost all altitude. 
  Beads of perspiration stood on 
  the bronze man’s metallic features as, 
  struggling against the rippling sensation 
  all through his body, he partially righted 
  the plane. Then he saw the right wing—
  the wing was shaking itself loose. In a few 
  seconds it would rip free from the 
  fuselage and the plane would be a 
  tumbling, unmanageable death ship. 
  And as abruptly as the unseen, 
  fantastic phenomenon had gripped the 
  ship, it was gone. But too late; already the 
  left wing was doubling slowly in the 
  middle. 
  Beside the bronze man in the 
  cockpit was a folded parachute; he 
  always 
  carried 
  the 
  safety 
  device. 
  Seemingly unmindful of the plane’s zigzag 
  course, of the fact that it was tumbling 
  toward the river, he yanked the harness 
  over his back and shoulders. Then he 
  threw himself clear of the ship, waited the 
  usual ten seconds with a grip on the rip-
  cord ring, then yanked. A scant few 
  hundred feet below was water and land; 
  he was near the shore line. 
  A few hundred feet above a 
  scraggly beach, the chute opened and 
  checked the bronze man’s downward 
  plunge. He landed in knee-deep water 
  close to the shore, waded out on ground, 
  surrounded by pale darkness. Doc freed 
  himself from the harness, gathered up the 
  chute and carried it with him as he 
  climbed out of the water. 
  He concealed the parachute in 
  bushes on shore. Then he turned to stare 
  out over the dark, wide river. 
  Barely discernible in the mist 
  were the running lights, hull and masts of 
  a small craft which resembled a bug-eye-
  type oyster schooner. The vessel had 
  made no attempt to come to the bronze 
  man’s aid; it was heading down the river. 
  Doc Savage, on an impulse, decided not 
  to let whoever was on that craft know that 
  he had not met death in the plane. 
  The plane plunged somewhere 
  out near the middle of the river. The 
  schooner chugged away, and there was 
  silence. 
   
   
  IT was daylight when Doc Savage 
  reached Washington. A farmer going to 
  market took Doc into Baltimore; there a 
  hired cab covered the forty miles to the 
  capital in close to forty minutes. The sun 
  had turned very bright. 
  Doc 
  phoned 
  his 
  New 
  York 
  headquarters. Renny and Long Tom were 
  not there—evidently they had gone out on 
  Long Island, but a robot machine, one of 
  the bronze man’s scientific devices, 
  recorded the message. The mechanical 
  voice 
  of 
  the 
  contrivance 
  made 
  a 
  preliminary speech, saying, “This is the 
  office of Clark Savage, Jr. There is no one 
  here but you may talk and your message 
  will be mechanically recorded. It will be 
  delivered upon the return of someone to 
  this office.” 
  Doc spoke for the recording 
  device, leaving word for either Renny or 
  Long Tom to bring another of his planes 
  down to Washington. He explained that 
  the one he was using had been lost. 
  Doc 
  then 
  proceeded 
  to 
  the 
  downtown hotel where Monk and Ham 
  were stopping. At the desk, a sleepy room 
  clerk looked up—Doc was attired in a 
  trench coat—and stared abruptly. Many 
  persons knew Doc Savage by sight; this 
  particular man did not, but he was awed 
  by the bronze man’s size and strange 
  flake-gold eyes. 
  “I . . . ah . . . is there something—” 
  “You 
  have 
  two 
  gentlemen 
  stopping here, Mr. Mayfair and Mr. 
  Brooks. Are they in?” 
  “You are—” 
  “Savage—Clark Savage.” 
  “Word was left for you to go right 
  up. Room fourteen-twelve.” 
  Doc 
  nodded, 
  walked 
  to 
  the 
  elevators and a moment later was let out 
  on the fourteenth floor; he proceeded 
  down a carpeted hallway, paused before 
  the door of fourteen-twelve. The bronze 
  man, ready to knock, suddenly paused 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  20 
  with his hand inches from the door. He 
  stood listening. 
  Behind the panel of the heavy 
  door, there had been the sound of a low 
  cough—a woman’s cough. 
  Doc Savage used care not to 
  make a sound, turned the knob until he 
  learned the room was unlocked, then 
  opened the door a crack. Light was turned 
  on inside the room. He eased the door 
  open wider. At first, he saw no one, only a 
  dresser, desk, suitcases upon a stand, 
  shaded bridge lamp. He stepped quietly 
  inside. 
  The woman said brightly, “Well, 
  mercy me, it’s about time you got here!” 
  She was about the homeliest 
  female the bronze man had ever seen. 
   
   
  SHE was middle-aged, if one 
  wanted to be generous. She wore an old-
  fashioned black dress hinting of many 
  petticoats beneath; her black shoes 
  buttoned high up her ankles; her black 
  straw hat had a straight, wide brim. She 
  was dumpy. She had a face rather 
  startlingly like a Great Dane dog. 
  “Well, my! I was just saying it was 
  about time you got here.” 
  “There must be a mistake.” 
  “No mistake,” the woman said. 
  “Doc Savage, aren’t you?” 
  “That’s right.” 
  “You’d better get busy then.” 
  “Eh?” 
  “Mercy me, yes! Those two 
  assistants of yours—that Monk and the 
  one called Ham—well, they’re in a mess 
  of trouble.” 
  Doc Savage thought he had 
  entered the wrong room by mistake; he 
  changed his mind. 
  “They didn’t mention you, Miss—” 
  “Nanny Hanks.” 
  The woman used her large, 
  unshapely hands to smooth her dress. 
  She smiled; it was hard to tell whether the 
  smile was something cheerful, or a 
  grimace. 
  “They’re 
  chasing 
  after 
  that 
  woman, Annabel Lynn, and she’s got 
  them all tangled up and chasing wild 
  geese.” 
  Doc’s unusual eyes sharpened. 
  “Just who are you?” 
  For answer, the woman took 
  something from a large, old-fashioned 
  handbag that she held on her lap. It was a 
  small black case, and from the case she 
  took a card, which she passed to the 
  bronze man. 
  He saw in a glance that the card 
  bore the emblem of the U. S. Secret 
  Service, identifying the bearer as one 
  Nanny Hanks, an operative. The bronze 
  man’s eyebrows raised a trifle. He 
  fingered the identification card a moment, 
  then passed it back. 
  Nanny Hanks said, “Don’t let my 
  looks fool you. I want to warn you about 
  this Annabel Lynn. She’s got one young 
  man involved already—a chap named 
  Warren Allen, an Englishman. And now 
  she’s after Monk and Ham.” 
  Doc smiled. “In other words, you 
  don’t like her?” 
  The homely woman bristled. “Do 
  you know what I think she really is?” 
  “What?” 
  “A foreign secret agent! And 
  somehow she’s connected with this Fort 
  Atlantic trouble. You know—where the 
  antiaircraft gun foundations disintegrated.” 
  “Do you know where Monk and 
  Ham are now?” 
  Nanny Hanks nodded. “That’s 
  why I was waiting for you. I know that they 
  telephoned you tonight. I can show you 
  where they are—or, at least, tell you how 
  to get there.” 
  “Suppose 
  we 
  do 
  that,” 
  Doc 
  suggested. 
  Nanny Hanks stood up, shook out 
  the folds of her rather comical black dress 
  and stepped briskly toward the hall door. 
  “I have an angle of my own to investigate 
  on this thing. But I’ll tell you where I think 
  they took Monk and Ham. I’ll get in touch 
  with you later.” 
  “You can’t go with me?” 
  “No. Sorry. 
  “I’m sorry, too. Where are Monk 
  and Ham?” 
  “Out near the U. S. Soldiers’ 
  Home. There is a reservoir nearby, and a 
  woods, and you look for an old workshed. 
  They’re there.” 
  “Why are they there?” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  21 
  “I don’t know. I guess that silly 
  Annabel decoyed them there.” 
  “Can you give me any more 
  information about this mystery?” 
  “No. Haven’t any more.” 
  Out on the street, they parted, 
  and the dumpy, homely woman hurried 
  down the block and turned the corner. 
  Two cabs were at the stand near 
  the hotel entrance; Doc hailed one hack, 
  gave the driver orders to let him out near 
  the U. S. Soldiers’ Home. 
  After the cab pulled away from 
  the curb, Nanny Hanks came back from 
  around the corner and stood watching the 
  taxi as it disappeared down the street. 
  “That,” she remarked, “should 
  settle several things.” 
   
   
  Chapter VII 
  RESERVOIR RENDEZVOUS 
   
  THE cab in which Doc Savage 
  was riding ran north to the outskirts of 
  Washington. Near the Soldiers’ Home he 
  left the cab, told the driver not to wait, and 
  walked toward a parklike woods which 
  surrounded the reservoir. The woods 
  were thick, deep, shaded, on a morning 
  that was already starting to get hot. Doc 
  Savage followed a path that bordered a 
  steep embankment, partially concealed by 
  trees. 
  Nanny Hanks had said there 
  would be a workshed.  
  He walked for some time, but did 
  not pick up any sign of a workshed; he 
  climbed a bank and, still protected by low 
  trees, looked out over the placid, clear 
  water of the reservoir. 
  To the right, down near more 
  woods at one end of the lake, he saw a 
  small stone building; it appeared to be a 
  place where supplies for the reservoir 
  might be stored. There seemed to be no 
  one about. 
  Shielded 
  by 
  the 
  trees, 
  Doc 
  proceeded silently toward the shed. He 
  could hear a pump working somewhere; 
  the sound apparently came from some 
  other building farther along the tree-lined 
  embankment bordering the reservoir. 
  There was no indication that anyone was 
  in the shed. 
  The 
  heavy 
  door 
  could 
  be 
  fastened with a padlock; the padlock 
  hung, unlatched, on the hasp. The door 
  stood ajar. 
  There was a dank, earthy smell to 
  the place—and the sound of pumping was 
  louder. At first, after the outdoors sunlight, 
  it was hard to see clearly; Doc made out 
  tools stacked against walls of the stone 
  building. From a coat pocket, he took a 
  flashlight, shot white glare around the 
  small room. There was nothing of 
  consequence except another door, also 
  open, across the room. 
  Stone steps led downward. The 
  sound of a pump working was much 
  louder now. The steps ended in a tunnel 
  that 
  led 
  underground, 
  probably 
  a 
  passageway that led to a valve gate 
  beneath the reservoir. 
  Doc was on the point of turning 
  back when something caught his eye. He 
  centered the light ray on the open 
  doorway above the steps. The thing that 
  had attracted his attention was a piece of 
  cloth, a bit of fabric caught on the 
  roughness of the door frame. 
  The bronze man pulled the bit of 
  cloth loose, studied it beneath the 
  flashlight glow. He noted that it was a 
  specimen of dark, expensive cloth that 
  might have come from a full-dress suit. 
  The material was of very expensive 
  weave, imported, rather rare. Doc’s flake-
  gold eyes became thoughtful. 
  Ham owned a dozen full-dress 
  suits made with just such expensive 
  fabric. 
  Doc went down the stairs, but 
  more cautiously now, not using the 
  flashlight. He felt his way. The tunnel was 
  long and straight, led downward; the walls 
  were cold and damp, the air dank. There 
  was no sound save the throbbing of the 
  distant 
  pump, 
  growing 
  louder 
  with 
  nearness. The tunnel finally ended in 
  another 
  small 
  room. 
  Doc 
  stepped 
  carefully inside, shot the light glow 
  around. 
  The pump noise seemed to come 
  from a grating set in the center of the 
  cement floor. Doc started over to take a 
  look—and the door through which he had 
  entered slammed shut. 
   
  
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  22 
   
  Doc was on the point of turning back up the  
  stairway when something unusual caught his eye! 
   
  Doc leaped, caught hold of the 
  dog-arm that was used for opening the 
  heavy door; it would not budge. Then his 
  sensitive nostrils caught something else. 
  Odor! A hissing sound became audible. 
  Whitish vapor began seeping beneath the 
  door; it spread rapidly filling the small 
  chamber. 
  Doc held his breath and fought 
  the door. But he could not hold his breath 
  forever, and the gas kept coming. He tried 
  the grating. Steel, and fastened down. 
  He staggered about for a while, 
  knees sagging until he folded to the hard 
  flooring. He lay very still, hands beneath 
  his face. 
  
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  23 
   
   
  FOR long moments, there was 
  silence. In the ceiling of the underground 
  room was a small vent, which probably 
  was the base of an air shaft that led 
  above ground. Slowly the white vapor 
  floated toward the vent opening, until the 
  room was clear. 
  The heavy door through which 
  the bronze man had entered opened and 
  two men came cautiously into the room, 
  guns ready in their fists. Last to come—he 
  did not enter until his men had made sure 
  that the bronze giant was completely 
  out—came Ambrose, Ambrose of the big 
  ears, the face that was brutally ugly. 
  Ambrose said, “You see, it takes 
  a system. If you guys had jumped this 
  bronze fellow like you did the two called 
  Ham and Monk, you’d be candidates for a 
  nice pine box. The gas was a bright idea.” 
  “You sure the gas was good, 
  Ambrose?” 
  The 
  battered-faced 
  leader 
  grinned. “Doc Savage will be out for a 
  week.” Ambrose, it seemed, was the sort 
  of man who got highly pleased with his 
  own ideas. 
  Someone 
  asked, 
  “Where’s 
  sourpuss?” 
  “You mean Nanny Hanks?” 
  “Yeah.” 
  “She’ll be around. She fooled 
  Savage, didn’t she? That old wren is goin’ 
  to do us a lot of good.” 
  Ambrose gave a grimace that was 
  supposed to be a smile. “You sure that 
  Monk and Ham are tied tight enough that 
  they couldn’t get away?” 
  One of the men nodded. 
  “Yeah—and 
  lucky 
  we 
  caught 
  ‘em,” he said. The speaker frowned. “But 
  why hold them any longer?” He gave 
  Doc’s silent form a significant look. “I 
  thought we was gonna take care of them 
  two just like we are him?” 
  “We are!” Ambrose grinned. “But 
  the boss wants to talk to that lawyer, the 
  one called Ham. Thinks maybe Ham can 
  say just how far Doc Savage got toward 
  knowing what is going on—and whether 
  Savage told anybody anything that will 
  make us trouble.” 
  Someone said, “The quicker we 
  get it all over with, the better!” 
  Ambrose 
  stepped 
  across 
  the 
  room and unlocked the grating and 
  yanked 
  at 
  a 
  valve-lever 
  below. 
  Immediately sounds of the pump became 
  more labored. There was a gurgling 
  sound. 
  Almost immediately, water started 
  to surge up out of the hole which the 
  grating had closed. It came rapidly, soon 
  eddying around their feet! 
  Ambrose ran toward the door, the 
  only exit from the small stone-walled 
  room. They had put their guns away. It 
  was then that the bronze man came up off 
  the floor, very much alive. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE lunged into the 
  group, moved with such whipping speed 
  that Ambrose and his men knew several 
  seconds of startled bewilderment. 
  Earlier, when first folded face-
  down in the floor, Doc had flicked into his 
  mouth a capsule of a type which he 
  always carried in his vest pocket, a 
  capsule containing chemicals with an 
  oxygen base that enabled him to refrain 
  from breathing the gas-filled air until the 
  place was clear. 
  The fight in the small stone-walled 
  room was one-sided. The giant bronze 
  man was a master of juju and several 
  other forms of jujitsu, as well as the plain 
  dockwalloper kind of fighting. 
  Quarters were too close for gun-
  play. Ambrose ducked, got clear. Doc 
  Savage grabbed the necks of another 
  pair. Using a carefully scientific pressure 
  of his corded, metallic fingers, Doc 
  worked on nerve centers in the necks of 
  the two struggling men, so that soon 
  thereafter they became unconscious. 
  Meantime, Ambrose himself did a 
  quick fadeout, going through the door. 
  Carrying his two unconscious 
  victims, Doc set out in pursuit of Ambrose. 
  From far ahead, through the passageway, 
  came the echoes of pounding feet; 
  Ambrose, it was evident, had almost 
  reached 
  the 
  outside, 
  through 
  the 
  workshed. 
  Doc Savage ran along the tunnel-
  like passageway, up the flight of steps, 
  
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  24 
  through the upper room and out into the 
  small clearing in the woods, where warm 
  morning 
  sunlight 
  hammered 
  down 
  through the trees. There was no one in 
  sight. 
   
   
  FAINTLY to his ears came the 
  sounds of someone running through the 
  woods at some distance. Doc dumped the 
  two prisoners in the shack—they could 
  hardly get away while senseless—and set 
  out silently in that direction. He ran, 
  powerful leg muscles carrying him along a 
  pathway that must have taken Ambrose 
  several moments to follow. It led downhill, 
  came out upon a dusty woods road. 
  Somewhere around a curve ahead, a car 
  motor started up, making loud sounds in 
  the stillness of the trees and quiet 
  morning. Doc leaped forward, dived 
  beneath some foliage, emerged on a 
  road. 
  A man was backing the car out 
  onto the road from where it had been 
  hidden beneath low-hanging branches. 
  The car had one passenger, Ambrose, in 
  the rear. 
  Windows in the sedan were open 
  against the heat; Doc Savage saw this 
  much and his hand flicked to his coat 
  pocket, came out with a small grenade. 
  Deftly, the bronze man flicked the 
  grenade toward one of the open car 
  windows. 
  Immediately 
  choking 
  black 
  smoke filled the car, puffing out of the 
  windows and even enveloped the car 
  itself in a fuzzy black ball. 
  Someone yelled, “Hey! What the 
  hell! I can’t see to drive!” 
  Doc 
  jumped 
  forward, 
  yanked 
  open a door of the car, grabbed a neck in 
  the engulfing darkness. He got the driver. 
  The victim let out a yelp. He had no idea 
  what had grabbed him in the black 
  smoke. They struggled. The man made 
  desperate attempts to reach his shoulder 
  holster. But as he was dragged from the 
  car, he suddenly lost all interest in 
  everything—Doc had lost patience and 
  used a fist to change the shape of the 
  man’s jaw somewhat. 
  Ambrose, 
  in 
  the 
  rear, 
  was 
  confused in the black smoke. 
  “It . . . it’s Doc Savage! Slug him, 
  you fools!” 
  The suggestion came a little too 
  late—Ambrose himself was seized. Doc 
  yanked Ambrose from the seat, and one 
  of the bronze man’s hands moved swiftly 
  and put a hypo needle into the arm of the 
  leader. 
  Shortly 
  thereafter, 
  Ambrose 
  became stupefied, as if thoroughly drunk, 
  which was caused by the truth serum that 
  had been in the hypo needle. 
  But Ambrose did not even know 
  the name of the person who employed 
  him—at least, the truth serum didn’t bring 
  it out of him. Orders, it seemed, came by 
  coded message. Payment for his activities 
  was received by telegraphic money order. 
  “I know,” Doc reflected grimly, 
  “only one thing. A girl named Annabel 
  Lynn tried to reach us. Ambrose was not 
  sure that Annabel Lynn had not reached 
  us. The girl knows something that is 
  apparently of great importance.” 
  Ambrose had been a distinct 
  disappointment. Doc used the nerve-
  pressure manipulation of his fingers on 
  his victim’s neck, put Ambrose to sleep, 
  piled both men back into the car, and 
  climbed behind the wheel, set out down 
  the woods road. Shortly, the dusty byway 
  emerged onto a turnpike that skirted the 
  extensive Soldiers’ Home. 
  Fifteen 
  minutes 
  later 
  Doc 
  delivered the unconscious men to a local 
  police precinct, where Doc was quickly 
  recognized; the bronze man merely 
  explained that he had been attacked by 
  the thugs, and only desired that they be 
  held for questioning. He left directions for 
  locating the pair at the workshed, and 
  stated he would return later. 
  He said nothing of a girl named 
  Annabel Lynn; or that these men might 
  somehow be connected with her, nor did 
  he mention Fort Atlantic or Rockaway 
  Beach, or the collapse of a corner of the 
  Treasury Building, or any of the rest of the 
  strange affair. 
  He merely left the men in charge 
  of the precinct captain. A police prowl car 
  and driver were placed at the bronze 
  man’s disposal for the trip back to the 
  downtown hotel where Monk and Ham 
  had been stopping. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  25 
  Some distance up the street from 
  the hotel, a small coupé was parked. The 
  woman seated behind the wheel—she 
  had incredibly homely features—saw Doc 
  Savage enter the hotel. 
  Nanny Hanks, the woman in the 
  coupé, watched the bronze giant out of 
  sight in the hostelry. She said: 
  “Well, mercy me—I’ll be damned! 
  We can’t have him messing with this 
  thing!” 
   
   
  Chapter VIII 
  WASHINGTON INTERVIEW 
   
  IT was noon when Doc Savage 
  again returned to the hotel where Monk 
  and Ham had a room. At the desk, Doc 
  learned that neither of his aids had yet 
  returned; he asked If there had been any 
  message from New York, or the arrival of 
  any of his assistants from there, but the 
  clerk had no messages. 
  Doc became thoughtful. He had 
  left word on the mechanical-recorder 
  device at his headquarters for either 
  Renny or Long Tom to bring down 
  another plane. The assignment he had 
  given them to visit Fort Atlantic should 
  have been covered by now, or they 
  should have checked with the office. It 
  was a little strange that neither had 
  contacted him. 
  He left a message for Monk and 
  Ham, should they return, and went back 
  to the police car. The driver was reading a 
  newspaper which had just come out, and 
  he pointed to headlines and exclaimed: 
  “Say, look at this, will you?” 
  The headline read: 
   
  U. S. ARMY’S 
  NEWEST GUN 
  COLLAPSES 
   
  Baltimore Md.—It was learned 
  from reliable sources that a new 155-
  millimeter gun, with a range of about 
  fifteen miles, has collapsed on its ten-
  wheel rubber-tired mobile base at Fort 
  James. The gun, weighing more than 
  fifteen tons, had been temporarily placed 
  at the fort at the channel entrance to 
  Baltimore. 
   
  Doc intently scanned the news 
  item. The fort mentioned was on the 
  Chesapeake—and not far from where he 
  had crashed in his plane during the 
  night—after the craft had been so 
  strangely 
  seized 
  by 
  that 
  shaking 
  phenomenon. 
  The item continued: 
   
  It seems that a guard, stationed 
  on the grounds where the new gun was 
  being kept, discovered the queer state of 
  affairs just after dawn. Army officials are 
  releasing little information, but it is 
  understood that the gun was found to be 
  little more than a pile of loose iron 
  fragments and metallic powder. 
   
  “Strange, ain’t it?” the police-car 
  driver asked, when Doc Savage had 
  finished reading. 
  Doc’s answer puzzled the cop. 
  “Perhaps not as strange as it 
  seems,” Doc said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it 
  begins to get very clear.” 
  Doc Savage seldom divulged his 
  ideas; if he saw any connection between 
  the antiaircraft gun-base trouble at Fort 
  Atlantic, and this newest gun-collapse 
  mystery near Baltimore, he said nothing, it 
  being his custom to say little until he had 
  a complete solution to a mystery. He said, 
  “Drive to the war-department building.” 
  The police driver slipped the car 
  into gear, and ten minutes later the 
  bronze man was going up the steps to the 
  great edifice that housed the state, war 
  and navy departments. To a receptionist 
  in the lobby he said quietly, “It is quite 
  urgent that I see the secretary of war.” 
  For a moment, the woman looked 
  as if she was going to say, “You can’t just 
  walk in here and get to see the secretary 
  of war.” But when Doc added, “The name 
  is Clark Savage, Jr.,” the receptionist 
  swallowed hastily and dialed—not the 
  assistant secretary to the secretary—but 
  the secretary of war rear admiral himself. 
  “Clark Savage, Jr., to see you,” she 
  advised. 
  Shortly, 
  a 
  man 
  in 
  uniform 
  appeared at the receptionist’s desk, 
  smiled at Doc, said quietly, “Right this 
  way, sir.” The woman stared after the 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  26 
  bronze giant. She was impressed, for no 
  one in Washington could have gained 
  quicker admittance to the head of the war 
  department. 
   
   
  HAD the receptionist seen the 
  room into which the bronze man was 
  ushered, she would have been more 
  impressed. It was a long, somber-looking 
  place that looked like a director’s board 
  room, and Doc Savage recognized many 
  of the men seated solemnly around the 
  table—high-ranking officials of the war 
  and navy departments. Expressions on 
  their 
  faces 
  indicated 
  they 
  had 
  not 
  gathered to swap jokes. 
  Rear Admiral Harvey Benton—a 
  short, slender man with alert, sharp 
  eyes—came forward and shook hands 
  with the bronze man, and he said, “It must 
  be important business that brings you to 
  Washington?” 
  Others stood up and nodded to 
  Doc. The work of Doc Savage was well 
  known here in Washington; often he had 
  been 
  called 
  in 
  to 
  help 
  various 
  governmental departments when some 
  particularly knotty problem cropped up. 
  Doc came to the point quickly. 
  He said, “You quite recently had a 
  mysterious building collapse here in 
  Washington—the Treasury Building.” 
  One of the men seated at the 
  table said, “We are convinced that it was 
  a bold, reckless attempt to rob a part of 
  the treasury. Luckily, police and other 
  guards arrived in time to scare the crooks 
  off.” The speaker gave a forced smile. 
  Doc nodded, but his expression 
  did not indicate whether he agreed or 
  disagreed with the man’s statement. 
  “A new gun base at Fort Atlantic, 
  located at a vital spot on Long Island, has 
  been found worthless.” 
  There was an uncomfortable stir 
  among the men seated around the table. 
  Someone said with forced easiness, 
  “Contractor trouble! Too much sand, not 
  enough cement.” 
  Doc made no comment on that, 
  although he knew the contractor had an 
  enviable record for reliable work. He 
  continued: “And now, early this morning, 
  the 
  army’s 
  newest 
  long-range 
  gun 
  collapsed. This, too, happened at a vital 
  point along the Atlantic coast.” 
  The 
  silence 
  got 
  electric—
  somewhat like the quiet in a death 
  chamber 
  just 
  before 
  a 
  man 
  is 
  electrocuted. A chair scraped on the 
  polished floor; someone coughed. 
  Doc said, “Has it occurred to you 
  gentlemen 
  that 
  there 
  might 
  be 
  a 
  connection between these incidents?” 
  It was Rear Admiral Benton who 
  spoke up. “We have already discussed 
  such possibilities. And we have learned 
  that 
  the 
  whole 
  thing 
  was 
  merely 
  coincidence.” 
  He gave Doc a big grin—a grin he 
  worked 
  hard 
  to 
  make. 
  “You 
  had 
  something in mind, sir?” 
  For a moment, Doc’s strange 
  flake-gold eyes stirred restlessly. “This 
  thing might be even bigger than you 
  think,” he said. “And incidentally, you’re 
  not fooling me.” 
  “You’re having a pipe dream, 
  Savage,” a man said. 
  Doc gave a brief smile. “Perhaps I 
  am wrong. Thank you, gentlemen, for the 
  interview.” 
  Doc turned, and there was a 
  forced 
  air 
  of 
  this-is-just-a-little-social-
  gathering as he went out. 
  The bronze man had said nothing 
  of the strange vibration that had hit 
  himself and his plane somewhere over 
  the Chesapeake, of the demolished 
  instruments in his laboratory, or of the 
  mystery as to why unknown individuals 
  were suddenly interested in killing himself 
  and some of his men. He was a little 
  angry—a mood in which he rarely 
  permitted himself to fall. He had never 
  forced his services upon any organization. 
  People in trouble sought him; but in this 
  case he had been trying to forestall a 
  menace 
  that 
  was 
  still 
  vague 
  and 
  unknown. 
   
   
  IN the room which Doc had left, 
  excitement broke loose, many men talking 
  at once. One man barked, “You see, even 
  he suspects!” And another yelled, “The 
  President is seeing us at four o’clock. 
  Gentlemen, there is need for action. 
  Every scientific device the government 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  27 
  owns must be used to locate whatever 
  thing is causing this damage!” 
  A 
  third 
  man 
  groaned, 
  “The 
  newspapers have got to be warned. If 
  someone hits on what we suspect is the 
  real truth, my friends, there might be 
  panic!” 
   
   
  OUTSIDE 
  the 
  building, 
  Doc 
  Savage climbed back in the police prowl 
  car that had been placed at his disposal. 
  The driver said, “Know what?” 
  Doc looked at the burly cab 
  driver. “Eh?” 
  “I wish they would follow me 
  around.” 
  “I fail to get your meaning.” 
  “Dame following you!” 
  The driver pointed down the 
  street, to where a small coupé was 
  parked. He added, “I noticed that car in 
  the rear-view mirror a couple times when 
  we were driving up here. It pulled up there 
  ahead after you went inside, and she’s 
  been there ever since. She’s been waiting 
  for you to come out.” 
  Doc said, “We might check on 
  that” 
  “How?” the cop driver queried. 
  “By seeing if she follows us 
  again.” 
  “Good idea.” 
  The driver put the prowl car in 
  gear and eased down the street at 
  ordinary speed. Then he stepped on the 
  gas, did some fancy cutting In and out of 
  traffic, around various corners, reached 
  another main thoroughfare and slowed 
  down again. He looked in the mirror. 
  “You see? She’s still on our trail.” 
  Doc nodded. He said, “Mind if I 
  take the wheel a moment?” 
  The cop slid over and Doc took 
  his place. What the prowl-car driver 
  learned about the game of four-wheeled 
  hide-and-seek in the next ten minutes 
  was breathtaking. They finally ended up 
  on a busy thoroughfare in midtown, where 
  Doc drove carefully once again. 
  He turned the wheel over to the 
  driver. “Let her pick up your trail again, 
  then lose her if you can. Keep her 
  interested in trailing you. I get off here—
  just slow down.” 
  Doc stepped from the running 
  board as the cop swung in close to the 
  curb. When the officer looked back later, 
  Doc Savage had disappeared. He had 
  stepped into a taxicab that had been 
  parked at the corner. So quiet was the 
  bronze man’s entry into his hack, the 
  cabby looked startled. 
  Doc said, “Wait here. There is a 
  car I want you to follow.” 
  Later, the small coupé came 
  swiftly along the street. Its driver had 
  again spotted the police prowl car and 
  was following at a discreet distance. 
  Doc 
  instructed, 
  “Follow 
  that 
  coupé.” 
  He had gotten a look at the 
  coupé’s occupant—it was Nanny Hanks. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE’S brief turn at the 
  wheel of the squad car must have been 
  instructive to the police driver. For he 
  showed sudden improvement in the hare-
  and-hound business—before they had 
  gone two miles, he had lost Nanny Hanks 
  and her coupé. 
  The homely-faced woman slowed 
  down and seemed to be on the verge of 
  parking, then she swung down a side 
  street and stepped on the gas. Apparently 
  she had decided upon some other move. 
  The shift in plans pleased the bronze 
  man; to the cab driver, he said, “Now 
  follow her. Try not to make it obvious.” 
  Doc Savage, having reversed the 
  procedure of being pursued, and being 
  now the pursuer, followed a trail that led 
  away from the downtown section and out 
  Pennsylvania Avenue until they had 
  crossed the Anacosta River. There, 
  Nanny Hanks swung her coupé right, and 
  soon it was apparent that they were 
  following the highway to Bolling Field, the 
  big army airport. 
  The midday traffic was fairly 
  heavy, and there was nothing particularly 
  noticeable about the cab trailing the 
  coupé; there were many cabs on the 
  road. 
  At a large gate to Bolling Field, 
  Nanny Hanks stopped a moment, showed 
  something to the guard—evidently she 
  was exhibiting a pass, for Nanny Hanks 
  was quickly admitted. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  28 
  Doc said, “Drop me here.” He 
  paid the cabby, walked up to the gate 
  watchman and himself handed the man a 
  small card he carried as an honorary 
  member of the Intelligence Service. The 
  guard stared at the card and then at the 
  bronze man. “Mr. Savage,” he said 
  quickly. “Go right in.” 
  Doc saw that Nanny Hanks had 
  parked her car far down the field, near a 
  hangar that was set somewhat apart from 
  the rest. Doc walked in that direction; the 
  homely-looking woman had been inside 
  the hangar for some moments by the time 
  he reached the spot. He heard a heated 
  argument taking place. Familiar voices. 
  Monk and Ham! They were apparently in 
  another of their frequent wrangles. 
  Monk was saying in his small 
  voice, “Listen, shyster, she don’t ride with 
  me!” 
  Ham, as dapper as usual with his 
  sword-cane 
  and 
  a 
  snappy 
  tropical-
  worsted suit, grimaced. 
  He 
  said 
  wearily, 
  “You 
  hairy 
  mistake, wasn’t it her influence that got 
  the commander here to let us have an 
  Army plane? And she knows about 
  Annabel Lynn. What more do you want?” 
  Doc walked inside. 
   
   
  “DOC!” 
  Both were pleased at the sight of 
  the bronze man. 
  “Strange about our New York 
  headquarters, Doc,” Ham said. “We’ve 
  been trying to reach you or anybody else 
  up there, and we can’t get an answer.” 
  Doc nodded, glanced toward a 
  fast-looking army cabin job standing in the 
  hangar and said, “There seems to be 
  some argument?” 
  Ham explained, “A woman named 
  Nanny Hanks, a government operative, 
  has given us a lead to the whereabouts of 
  Annabel Lynn.” 
  “Who is Annabel Lynn?” 
  “A girl who is in trouble, and who 
  has some sort of information for you, Doc. 
  That’s all we know about her, except that 
  we can’t locate her.” 
  “And your present squabble is 
  about—” 
  Ham pointed at Monk. “Well, 
  goofus here, he’s worried because Nanny 
  Hanks fell for him. Maybe she is kind of 
  hard to look at, but she’s been helpful—” 
  “Helpful?” Hairy Monk cut in. “She 
  scares five years off my life every time I 
  look at her.” 
  Just then a door opened across 
  the huge hangar. Nanny Hanks came 
  from what was evidently an office, spied 
  the bronze man and hurried over. 
  “My, my! Doc Savage!” The 
  homely woman’s face suddenly looked 
  worried as she frowned at the big bronze 
  man. “You know,” she said quickly, “I 
  made a mistake about that reservoir hide-
  out.” 
  “Mistake?” 
  Nanny Hanks nodded. “Yes. I 
  thought Monk and Ham had been taken 
  there. I did not mean to send you into 
  such danger.” 
  Doc made no comment. From 
  what he had overheard back at the 
  reservoir, apparently Nanny Hanks was 
  working with Ambrose and his men. She 
  had most certainly led Doc into a trap, but 
  now here she was again, apparently 
  trying to help Doc. 
  The bronze man decided to give 
  the homely little woman more rope—but 
  the next moment, she made a statement 
  that made him wonder whether she was 
  fool or sage. 
  Nanny Hanks said, “I know where 
  you can find Annabel Lynn. Also that man 
  Warren Allen. He is sweet on her, and he 
  followed her.” 
  “Followed her where?” 
  “To New York!” Then the woman 
  suddenly came over and touched Doc’s 
  arm. “Also, there is something else!” 
  Doc waited, said nothing. 
  “We’d better get to that bridge,” 
  Nanny Hanks said worriedly. 
  “What bridge?” 
  “The new bridge over the East 
  River at New York,” Nanny Hanks said 
  tensely. “Maybe we can stop it. But we’ll 
  have to hurry!” 
  “Stop what?” 
  Nanny Hanks gave him a strange 
  stare. “That’s all I know—just something 
  is maybe going to happen to that bridge. 
  Don’t forget—it’s the new bridge.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  29 
  Something in the stout woman’s 
  tone said that she was not making idle 
  remarks. She seemed to be a storehouse 
  of information; the bronze man got the 
  feeling that she knew more than she was 
  telling. 
  “You wish to go with us?” he 
  asked. 
  “That was my idea,” Nanny Hanks 
  said, and nodded.  
  Doc made a decision. To Nanny 
  Hanks, he said, “It might be a good idea if 
  we all got started then.”  
  A fast military plane—the ship 
  which the army was loaning them—was 
  wheeled out of the hangar by field 
  attendants. Monk tried desperately to 
  avoid Nanny Hanks and her ugly face, but 
  Nanny grabbed the hairy chemist’s hand 
  and said cooingly, “Gracious! Planes 
  simply frighten me to death! You will sort 
  of look after poor little me, won’t you?” 
  Monk scowled, and Doc, climbing 
  into the cockpit, watched the incident with 
  thoughtful eyes. Nanny Hanks was either 
  very smitten with the fabulously homely 
  Monk—or playing some very clever game. 
   
   
  Chapter IX 
  MANHATTAN MENACE 
   
  DOC 
  SAVAGE 
  handled 
  the 
  controls on the flight back toward New 
  York, while Ham, the lawyer of their 
  organization, rode in the cockpit beside 
  Doc, this making it necessary for homely 
  Monk to ride in the cabin with the woman 
  who was fully as homely as himself. 
  Monk sat and glared at the earth 
  that passed far below. Nanny Hanks 
  looked fondly at the hairy chemist and 
  tried to smile sweetly at him. Monk’s 
  personal opinion—it was not an unfair 
  opinion, either—was that Nanny Hank’s 
  smile was something to crack a mirror. 
  Nanny Hanks said, “You must be 
  a terribly strong man. Er—I’ve always 
  admired strong men.” 
  Monk tried to change the subject. 
  “The reason Doc’s takin’ you with us,” he 
  said, “is because 
  you know about 
  Annabel Lynn.” 
  A 
  so-this-must-be-heaven 
  expression came into the chemist’s small 
  eyes, and he said dreamily, “Boy, now 
  there’s a girl for you!” 
  Nanny Hanks grimaced wryly. 
  “Humph!” she snorted. “You poor fellow! 
  Like most men, I see you are a pushover 
  for a pretty face. I was hoping you would 
  be different.” 
  Monk glanced at Nanny Hanks 
  and frowned. “What’s wrong with that 
  girl?” he demanded. 
  “Annabel Lynn is a spy,” Nanny 
  Hanks said, gripping her large, old-
  fashioned purse tightly as the plane hit 
  bumpy going. 
  “I don’t believe it,” Monk yelled. 
  “You’ll find out,” his ugly cabin 
  companion yelled back at him. “If you 
  think that Lynn hussy is honest, you need 
  someone to take care of you!” 
  “He’s always needed a keeper,” 
  Ham called back unkindly. 
  Monk 
  growled 
  something 
  to 
  himself, turned his back, got his jaw 
  settled down on his big hands and glared 
  out the cabin window. Pretty girls, he 
  liked. But a woman as homely as this— 
  And in the cockpit, Doc was 
  questioning dapper Ham about exactly 
  what had happened in Washington; he 
  was learning more about Annabel Lynn 
  and about the young Englishman named 
  Warren Allen, who seemed to be crazy 
  about her. 
  Ham finished, “Apparently this 
  Lynn girl was afraid of these same birds 
  who captured us temporarily. I’m certain 
  she 
  can 
  explain 
  something 
  about 
  antiaircraft gun-base trouble and the 
  Treasury Building collapse. And now—
  somehow—this Nanny Hanks learned that 
  Annabel Lynn is again on the way to our 
  New York headquarters. I don’t get this 
  Nanny Hanks. I can’t make her out.” 
  “She claims to be a Secret 
  Service agent.” 
  “Did you ever hear of the Secret 
  Service having such an agent?” 
  They had been flying at ten 
  thousand feet, above scattered clouds in 
  the west. The sun was dropping toward 
  the horizon in a red glare. Ahead, Doc 
  picked up the lightship stationed outside 
  New York harbor. He started losing 
  altitude. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  30 
  He said, “Perhaps you should 
  know more about this Nanny Hanks.” 
  Ham gave the bronze man a 
  puzzled look. “Know what?” he asked. 
  With one hand off the controls, 
  Doc passed the lawyer a small card. It 
  was the identification card Nanny Hanks 
  had shown Doc back at the hotel room in 
  Washington. Apparently, as far as Nanny 
  Hanks knew, Doc had returned that card 
  to her at the hotel. 
  But the bronze man had switched 
  the card for one of the same size he had 
  carried in his pocket; he had wanted to 
  keep the woman’s card for a while, for 
  reasons of his own. 
  Now he handed Ham a second 
  card, one that identified himself as an 
  honorary member of the Secret Service. 
  “Compare them,” Doc said. 
  Ham did so, said, “Well, they’re 
  the same. Nanny Hanks showed me her 
  card earlier—” 
  “Look more closely.” 
  The lawyer gave the bronze man 
  a sharp look, then scrutinized the cards 
  again. “The United States seal is different! 
  Not much, but with the two cards together 
  this way, I can detect some difference.” 
  Doc said, “Nanny Hank’s card is a 
  forgery.” 
  Ham gulped. “Then she’s lying! 
  She’s not in the Secret Service. Why in 
  the dickens did you bring her along?” 
  Doc was busy guiding the plane 
  down over lower New York Bay. He said 
  quietly, “It might be a good idea to have 
  her around, so we can watch her.” 
   
   
  A FEW moments later the plane 
  passed over the Narrows—the entrance 
  to New York harbor—and Doc flew fairly 
  low now. Tugs, ferries, steamships moved 
  back and forth below them, leaving long 
  trails of wake. Doc tooled the army plane 
  up the Hudson, past the upper Bay, past 
  the water-front warehouse-hangar that he 
  maintained. He swerved to cross upper 
  Manhattan. 
  He was, they realized, flying 
  toward the new East River bridge. 
  Ham 
  said, 
  “Maybe 
  the 
  rear 
  admiral and those other officers were 
  right, Doc. I mean what they said about 
  this Fort Atlantic trouble and that gun 
  falling apart down near Baltimore. It could 
  have been coincidence.” 
  Ham turned to stare out a 
  window. They were well north of the 
  harbor and approaching the great bridge 
  that connected New York City with Long 
  Island on the east. Ham kept staring, and 
  he said oddly, “Doc, there’s something 
  funny about that bridge—” 
  And at that moment, hairy Monk 
  reared up in the cabin. His little eyes were 
  wild-looking, and he cried shrilly, “Doc! 
  That bridge! It’s falling down!” 
  The bronze man had already 
  seen. Hands steady on the controls, 
  metallic features grim, he let the plane 
  drop swiftly in order that they might get a 
  closer view. 
  One end of the vast bridge 
  seemed to sag down farther on one of the 
  great “anchors” at the New York end. It 
  gave 
  another 
  jerk, 
  and 
  the 
  bridge 
  collapsed against the mammoth mooring. 
  Doc throttled the plane motors. 
  Over the soft rush of the plane through 
  the air, they could hear a tremendous 
  grinding and tearing sound made by steel 
  against cement and rock. Thousands of 
  tons were ripping loose at the New York 
  approach to the mighty structure. 
  It was as though a giant fist was 
  pressing down on one end of the bridge, 
  snapping 
  supports, 
  pulverizing 
  the 
  hundreds of tons of concrete that locked 
  one end of the bridge to the embankment 
  of the river. 
  Ham 
  and 
  Monk 
  stared 
  speechlessly. 
  Homely 
  Nanny 
  Hanks, 
  crowding her face into the cockpit, said 
  oddly, “Dear me! We’re too late!” She 
  looked at Doc, said tensely, “I think you 
  had better call Washington!” 
  Doc Savage himself said nothing, 
  but 
  his 
  flake-gold 
  eyes 
  were 
  very 
  thoughtful. 
  So excited were Monk and Ham 
  that they had not heard Nanny Hanks’ 
  reference to calling Washington. 
  Doc abruptly lowered one wing, 
  sent the plane in a long circle, turning 
  back from the bridge as though he might 
  have sensed danger. 
  Beneath them, on a boulevard 
  that bordered the river edge, thousands of 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  31 
  cars had stopped and people were 
  climbing out of the machines to stare at 
  this thing that had happened to the 
  bridge. 
  The bridge itself looked like some 
  giant Coney Island slide, lower at one end 
  than at the other. Luckily, it had not 
  dropped far enough to plunge into the 
  river. Such cars as had been on it were 
  jammed one against the other along its 
  length. 
  People 
  had 
  piled 
  from 
  the 
  machines and were lined against the 
  bridge rails. Some were already leaping 
  into the water far below, fearing the bridge 
  might collapse farther. There apparently 
  had been no cars near the end that had 
  collapsed 
  when 
  the 
  actual 
  damage 
  occurred. 
  Then the vibration struck their 
  plane—only the merest touch, as though 
  they might have been merely brushed by 
  the 
  very 
  edge 
  of 
  some 
  fantastic, 
  incarnate, ethereal monster. The plane 
  shook from end to end for a moment. 
  Monk, Ham, Nanny Hanks were 
  all hurled about. 
  The 
  bronze 
  man—he 
  had 
  experienced this incredible thing once 
  before, over the Chesapeake—forced his 
  great hands to be rock-steady on the 
  controls. But the strange phenomenon 
  lasted only a moment. 
  Doc brought the plane down fast 
  for a landing near his water-front hangar; 
  later they were climbing out inside the 
  great warehouse-hangar. Doc said, “We 
  may have an answer to this business as 
  soon as we reach the lab.” 
  When they reached the eighty-
  sixth floor headquarters of the bronze 
  man, Doc left Monk and Nanny Hanks in 
  the reception room, while he hurried into 
  the laboratory. He had not explained his 
  comment about having an answer to the 
  bridge 
  collapse 
  and 
  its 
  connection, 
  possibly, with the other happenings. First, 
  he wanted to make certain of something. 
  He went directly to a complicated 
  instrument which he had installed before 
  flying to Washington. The apparatus was 
  another seismograph for registering exact 
  time of earth disturbances—an instrument 
  similar to the one that had been shattered 
  in his laboratory earlier. 
  Doc studied the chart in the 
  sensitive machine. The seismoscope 
  showed no time indication of an earth 
  shock. It indicated nothing whatsoever. 
  No explosive blast, then, had 
  demolished that bridge support. 
  Doc Savage made one more 
  investigation—he 
  mounted 
  a 
  narrow 
  stairway, concealed in the laboratory 
  walls, which led upward to the roof of the 
  skyscraper. Atop the building was a 
  dirigible mooring-mast, a device that was 
  ornamental rather than practical, which 
  thrust up another hundred feet into the air. 
  A circular staircase led up inside this, and 
  Doc reached the top. 
  Mounted here, at a point which 
  put them farthest from the city noises, 
  was a battery of aircraft-defense listener-
  locators. 
  The 
  complicated 
  devices, 
  utilizing 
  super-sensitive 
  parabolic 
  microphones 
  and 
  amplifiers, 
  were 
  sensitive enough to detect the buzzing of 
  a fly hundreds of feet distant. 
  Such sounds as the listeners 
  received were recorded automatically on 
  cylinders. 
  Doc 
  played 
  back 
  the 
  recordings, listening intently to the sounds 
  which had been recorded about the 
  time—there was a time-indicating device 
  in 
  connection 
  with 
  the 
  recorded 
  cylinders—that the bridge had collapsed. 
  He 
  found 
  something 
  that 
  interested him, for he made a telephone 
  call to the nearest army headquarters. 
  “I want a stratosphere plane,” he 
  said. “One which is capable of flying 
  extremely 
  high, 
  and 
  extremely 
  fast. 
  Complete oxygen equipment aboard.” 
  “The ship will be waiting when 
  you need it.” 
   
   
  DOC returned to the reception 
  room. Monk, seated in a deep chair, was 
  scowling at Nanny Hanks, who was 
  looking at the hairy chemist fondly. At 
  least her attitude was one that was 
  supposed to indicate a fond regard for 
  Monk—although to Monk, it looked as if 
  Nanny Hanks was trying to scare away a 
  wolf. Monk looked at Doc and his lips 
  moved. 
  “Gosh, what a homely morsel,” 
  Monk said. Doc read his lips. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  32 
  Ham came in, and he was 
  excited. Seeing Doc, he exclaimed, “That 
  bridge disaster is having a weird effect on 
  people, Doc! Everybody is keeping out of 
  the subways. Hundreds are even getting 
  out of town. They’re afraid of the invisible 
  monster.” 
  Monk jumped up. 
  “What?” he yelled. 
  “They’ve got the idea something 
  crushed that bridge,” the well-dressed 
  lawyer went on swiftly. “They say only 
  something huge and invisible could have 
  caused the bridge to fall down!” 
  Everyone looked at the bronze 
  man. Doc said nothing. 
  “Maybe it was an earthquake?” 
  Monk muttered. 
  Doc said, “There has been no 
  earthquake.” 
  Monk’s small eyes were worried. 
  “You mean,” he piped, “that there’s really 
  a thing that causes that funny trembling 
  feeling that hit us?” 
  “Exactly,” said Doc. 
  “What is it?” 
  “That,” Doc explained, “is what we 
  had better be finding out before long.” The 
  bronze man had turned to Ham. “You 
  might,” he suggested, “see if there has 
  been any word from Renny or Long Tom.” 
  Ham hurried to the library to see if 
  there was any message on the special 
  recording machine which Doc used to 
  leave messages when no one was at 
  headquarters. He returned shortly. 
  Ham’s face was worried. “No 
  message from Long Tom or Renny,” he 
  reported. He held out a slip of paper in his 
  hand. “But there was this. I can’t 
  understand how it got here.” 
  It was a hastily written note, in a 
  woman’s fine handwriting, and it read: 
   
  Doc Savage: 
  You must help me find my uncle. I 
  have gone to Fort Watson, on Staten 
  Island. Please hurry. There is so little 
  time. My uncle is the key to this whole 
  incredible thing. 
  Annabel Lynn 
   
  The phone in the reception room 
  rang and Doc lifted the receiver. He 
  listened, his face expressionless, as 
  someone talked tensely on the other end 
  of the line. After a while, when he hung up 
  the receiver, his flake-gold eyes were 
  animated. 
  “What was it?” Ham wanted to 
  know. 
  Doc said, “First, you and Monk 
  had better go to Staten Island and find 
  Annabel Lynn.” He nodded toward the 
  stout little woman who claimed to be a 
  Secret Service operative. “Take Nanny 
  Hanks with you. You might also try and 
  pick up some trace of Long Tom and 
  Renny.” 
  From the tone of Doc’s vibrant 
  voice, Ham knew there had been great 
  urgency in the phone call. He asked 
  again: 
  “Doc, what was that call—” 
  The bronze man gave Nanny 
  Hanks a significant look, said, “It will not 
  be necessary to get in touch with 
  Washington. They have already called 
  us.” 
  Without further comment, Doc 
  started toward the door. A moment later 
  came the whining of cables as a high-
  speed elevator dropped the Man of 
  Bronze toward his basement garage. 
  As Monk left with Ham and Nanny 
  Hanks, Monk whispered, “Blazes, this old 
  gal gives me a complex!” 
  Monk looked worried all the way 
  down in the elevator cab. Still trying to 
  think of some way in which to divert the 
  homely woman’s attentions from himself, 
  he suggested to Ham, “You get the car. I’ll 
  wait outside the building with . . . with the 
  goblin, here.” 
  Ham departed to get the car. 
  Following his policy of ignoring 
  Nanny Hanks, Monk turned his back on 
  her and stood at the curb. Ham finally 
  drove up in one of the bronze man’s cars. 
  Monk started to pile in. Nanny Hanks had 
  disappeared. 
   
   
  Chapter X 
  THE MAN WHO  
  WOULDN’T TALK 
   
  DOC SAVAGE parked his car 
  near Miller Field, the U. S. army airport 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  33 
  outside New York City, and found the 
  officer in charge. 
  “You have the stratosphere plane 
  for which I asked?” the bronze man 
  inquired. 
  The officer indicated a plane—
  largely streamlined motor cowling, with 
  just a little wing—that stood on the 
  tarmac. “There it is.” 
  “Oxygen tanks?” 
  “Aboard. That ship will go higher 
  than any other plane on earth. You should 
  know. It was your design from which the 
  thing was built. The ship holds the present 
  altitude record. Not that particular ship, 
  but one just like it.” 
  Doc Savage was satisfied. He 
  changed the subject, asking, “How many 
  of the new type of listener-locator devices 
  for spotting airplanes do you have?” 
  “More than the public imagines, 
  probably,” the officer said cautiously. “To 
  tell you the exact figure, I would have to 
  consult records.” 
  “That is not important. The main 
  thing is: How soon could you get them 
  into action?” 
  “Ten minutes, I should say. We 
  have all the listeners connected with 
  short-wave radio, and the crews are 
  frequently drilled for alarm duty.” 
  “I may want you to use them on 
  short notice,” Doc said. 
  “To spot a plane for you, you 
  mean?” 
  Instead of answering the query 
  directly, Doc said, “The listening devices 
  are equipped with telephonic headsets, 
  are they not? So that the crew can 
  distinguish the exact nature of any sounds 
  that may be picked up for an altitude of as 
  much as thirty thousand feet.” 
  “That’s right. The crews can listen 
  with headsets.” 
  “Good.” The bronze man nodded. 
  “If I need the services of the listeners, I 
  will possibly be able to tell you exactly 
  what kind of a sound to listen for.” 
  “Then you don’t want to use them 
  to spot a plane?” 
  “What we’re trying to spot,” Doc 
  Savage told him, “is a good deal more 
  sinister than any plane.” 
  Without elaborating on this rather 
  mysterious remark, the bronze man 
  walked to the plane. He was familiar with 
  the type of craft, having created the basic 
  designs for the ship. He noted that the 
  instrument layout in the cockpit had been 
  altered 
  from 
  his 
  own 
  layout, 
  and 
  improved, he was willing to admit. 
  A glance at the windsock over the 
  hangars gave him wind direction—it 
  would be necessary, in order to take off, 
  to taxi across the field, turn, and come 
  back. He operated the compressed air 
  starter, got the big motor exploding 
  slowly, then checked gauges and oxygen 
  supply. 
   
   
  THE cabin was a type that could 
  be closed in entirely, hermetically sealed. 
  Even so, a suit or oxygen helmet was 
  necessary when flying at extremely high 
  altitudes. 
  He gunned the motor, and the 
  craft began moving across the tarmac. 
  A man came running toward the 
  ship. He wore an army uniform, was in a 
  great hurry. He climbed into the cabin 
  apologetically. 
  “Awfully sorry,” he said. “Got 
  orders from Washington to send an 
  observer along with you in this plane. 
  We’re frightfully embarrassed about it, 
  but—well, orders are orders. My name is 
  Philips.” He extended his hand. 
  Doc shook hands with Philips, 
  then they took the air, the plane lunging 
  across the field pouring a drool of red 
  sparks from exhaust stacks. Up . . . up . . . 
  up. Five thousand, ten thousand, fifteen 
  thousand feet. Doc handled the controls, 
  kept busy watching gas and oil pressures, 
  and preparing to compensate for the 
  changes in atmospheric pressure. 
  When they hit thirty thousand feet 
  altitude, if it had not been for the oxygen 
  suits both men wore, they would have 
  been unconscious. Almost six miles 
  below, the island of Manhattan was an 
  elongated smear of light in a world of 
  blackness. The stratosphere plane, under 
  Doc’s guidance, lined out for Fort Watson, 
  on Staten Island. 
  Doc was going to look into the 
  summons he had received from Annabel 
  Lynn—the note which had said her uncle 
  was the key to the whole mystery. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  34 
  Philips, 
  the 
  observer, 
  turned 
  around. Something about the assistant’s 
  eyes puzzled the bronze giant, for Philips 
  seemed to be grinning. 
  “Nice test,” he said. “You were 
  merely testing the ship, weren’t you?” 
  Doc nodded. 
  They 
  kept 
  dropping 
  rapidly. 
  Variation in air pressure was terrific; it 
  meant constant regulating of release 
  valves in the oxygen units, and it was 
  much 
  like 
  the 
  change 
  in 
  pressure 
  encountered by a deep-sea diver. 
  At fifteen thousand feet, they 
  were able to discard the artificial aid of 
  oxygen. 
  Then Philips turned around and 
  came toward Doc. His features were 
  square, granite-hard, menacing; the man 
  was no longer the young, pleasant-faced 
  Philips. He was completely different. 
   
   
  BUT there was nothing strange 
  about the evil glint in the man’s cold eyes. 
  The way he snaked his wiry form forward 
  indicated he had no regard for his own 
  life; showed suddenly that he was a 
  fanatic, the type of person who leaps 
  before police and hundreds of guards in 
  order to assassinate a president. His 
  eyes, the expression on his face, were all 
  unnatural. 
  Philips had a gun in his fist. Doc 
  Savage pulled himself up in the cockpit 
  just as the bleak-eyed man raised the gun 
  and fired. The man lifted his head and 
  laughed wildly, but his mirth could not be 
  heard above the propeller roar; instead, 
  there was only the distorted talk-grin on 
  his face. 
  Doc was thrown against the 
  cockpit side by the impact of the pistol 
  slug against his bullet-proof vest. Then he 
  did a thing that took the would-be killer 
  completely by surprise. 
  The bronze man immediately 
  hurled himself forward. His sinewed 
  hands gripped the gunman’s shoulders 
  and yanked the man forward. He got hold 
  of the man holding the smoking gun. Doc 
  gave a quick, short twist of the man’s 
  wrist—the fellow was wiry and powerful; 
  surprise leaped into his eyes when he 
  found himself so helpless in the bronze 
  giant’s grip—and the gun fell onto the 
  cockpit floor boards. The man’s face 
  twisted in pain. His arm was useless, 
  broken at the wrist. With his free hand, he 
  made a clutch for the bronze man’s 
  throat. 
  Wind was screaming through the 
  struts. The plane went into a slide-slip, 
  then a spin, and Doc and his captive were 
  hurled about in the cabin. Doc got his legs 
  hooked beneath the cockpit instrument-
  panel, swung the other man partially into 
  a seat, found nerve centers in the fellow’s 
  neck with his long, powerful fingers, and 
  applied pressure so that the gunman 
  became limp. 
  It was with some difficulty that the 
  bronze man was able to support the 
  stranger, to keep him from tumbling out of 
  the seat, and fight to control the plane at 
  the same time. The fast ship had gone out 
  of control. It was only with rapid, trained 
  effort that Doc Savage pulled it out of its 
  falling-leaf downward plunge. 
  It was getting dark. 
  Doc picked up the field lights of 
  the army airport, huge floods that lighted 
  the long field from end to end. And off to 
  one side were men waiting tensely, a 
  “crash” car nearby. They seemed to be 
  expecting a crack-up. Apparently they had 
  discovered that Philips was an enemy in 
  the plane with the man of bronze. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  felt 
  his 
  chest 
  gingerly. That gun blast against his ribs 
  had been stunning, but not fatal—the 
  chain-mesh bullet-proof vests such as he 
  and his aids often used were easily 
  concealed beneath outer clothing. The 
  bullet-proof shields had more than once 
  saved their lives, so they wore them 
  continuously. 
  They 
  were 
  not 
  much 
  heavier than an ordinary thick leather 
  jacket, and far cooler. 
   
   
  DOC set the plane down on the 
  field and taxied the ship up to a hangar. 
  Army officials, mechanics, field guards 
  came running to him. An ambulance 
  followed. 
  Someone 
  shouted, 
  “We 
  discovered that fellow who climbed into 
  the ship was a fake right after you took 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  35 
  off, sir! He knocked a gate guard out 
  when the guard wouldn’t let him in.” 
  “It had to be something like that, I 
  figured,” Doc said. Then he turned back to 
  the cockpit. The imposter, Philips, was 
  stirring in the seat, slowly regaining 
  consciousness. 
  Doc dragged Philips out, handed 
  him over to waiting guards. 
  “We better question him,” Doc 
  said. 
  They took the passenger to the 
  nearby field office. There, bleak-eyed 
  Philips came entirely out of his stupor; 
  Doc’s nerve-paralyzing pressure on the 
  man’s neck had been only sufficient to 
  keep the fellow helpless a short time. 
  The would-be killer glared at 
  those assembled around him. He was 
  holding his broken wrist, and there was 
  baleful hate in his eyes as he looked at 
  Doc. 
  The bronze man asked, “Who 
  ordered you here? Who ordered you to kill 
  me?” 
  The man continued to glare, said 
  nothing. 
  From a special vest beneath his 
  coat—an equipment vest that fitted neatly 
  under his clothing—Doc took a small 
  hypodermic syringe. The fake co-pilot’s 
  flying suit was removed. The ambulance 
  attendant, at Doc Savage’s instructions, 
  rolled back the captive’s sleeve. 
  Doc 
  explained 
  briefly, 
  “Truth 
  serum. It should make him talk.” 
  He gave the surly-looking pilot the 
  injection. The serum, while it worked more 
  often than not, was not infallible in making 
  close-mouthed 
  captives 
  reveal 
  information. In this case, the most vital 
  information needed was the name of the 
  person or persons intent on eliminating 
  Doc Savage, and the nature of the weird 
  being, force or power—whatever it was—
  that was causing buildings to collapse. 
  “What is this trouble all about?” 
  Doc asked. 
  The captive opened his mouth, 
  trying not to speak. He was trying to fight 
  the effects of the drug which made him 
  want to talk—the stuff wasn’t working on 
  him properly. Perspiration stood out on 
  his brow. But something else showed in 
  his eyes. Fear. Intense, stark fear. 
  Doc Savage was the first to notice 
  it, and simultaneously he observed that 
  the captive pilot shot a brief glance toward 
  a small window in the room. 
  The bronze man whirled just as a 
  shot crashed into the room. 
  The captive staggered, clawed 
  air, then slowly folded to the floor, landing 
  half on his side and half on his back, and 
  a small gout of blood tumbled from the 
  bullet hole in the center of his forehead. 
  Almost immediately, the lights went out. 
  Not only the lights within the office, but 
  the big airport floodlights as well. 
  Instantly, there was confusion. 
  Excited cries. 
  Everyone discovered this as they 
  raced outside to seize the killer who had 
  shot Philips. All they found was blackness 
  and confusion. The gunman had escaped. 
  Doc thought back grimly and 
  realized that he must have been close to 
  learning the solution of a great many 
  things; that accounted for Philips having 
  been killed. Only for a small detail, a 
  piece 
  of 
  instinctive 
  precaution, 
  Doc 
  Savage would have perhaps received the 
  same fate—he had been out of line with 
  the window in the airfield office. 
  There was a great deal of 
  dashing around, searching and asking 
  questions, but it came to nothing. 
   
   
  Chapter XI 
  SCREAM IN THE NIGHT 
   
  MONK and Ham were becoming 
  particularly 
  interested 
  in 
  finding 
  the 
  attractive, regal-looking Annabel Lynn. 
  Somewhere near the eastern shore of 
  Staten Island, the two were walking. It 
  was almost midnight, and intensely dark. 
  They had left their car parked at the end 
  of a road that led to a sandy stretch of 
  deserted beach; they were now headed 
  northward, toward the United States 
  government reservation known as Fort 
  Watson. 
  They were interested in finding a 
  girl with gray-blue eyes, who was tall and 
  slender and lovely, who, in well-dressed 
  Ham’s opinion—to say nothing of the 
  opinion of Monk—was one of the most 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  36 
  exquisite pieces of femininity he had ever 
  encountered. 
  Off to the right lay the ocean, and 
  through 
  the 
  darkness 
  came 
  the 
  occasional, mournful note of a fog horn, a 
  warning to liners entering the Narrows to 
  New York that there was shoal near. 
  Monk and Ham pushed along, 
  making noise for their own entertainment, 
  for another half mile. 
  Finally a wire fence loomed up in 
  the darkness, and on a pole embedded in 
  the sand was a sign: 
   
  WARNING 
  U. S. GOVERNMENT 
  RESERVATION 
  KEEP OUT! 
   
  The two men ignored the warning 
  and climbed through the wire. 
  Monk said gloomily: “I don’t think 
  Annabel Lynn is here. They don’t allow 
  women in these forts.” 
  “I was thinking of that,” agreed 
  Ham. “Maybe there was something phony 
  about that note at headquarters.” 
  Then the scream came out of the 
  darkness somewhere ahead, emanating 
  from a spot where there was the vague 
  outline of some massive structure above 
  the beach, and the terrified yell came from 
  there. And the outcry dispelled all 
  thoughts the two aids might have had 
  about there being no women allowed at 
  the fort, for it was a girl’s high-pitched, 
  frantic cry that they were hearing. 
   
   
  THEY lunged forward now. Up 
  the loose sand of the beach, climbing 
  over rocks and an embankment that rose 
  above the shore, the two raced toward the 
  source of that outcry. 
  A high wall of part of the fort 
  bulked before them. Last dying echoes of 
  the girl’s scream, like the last jangle of 
  breaking glass, seemed to come from 
  somewhere beneath this very wall, close 
  ahead. 
  Monk, worried, barked, “You got a 
  flashlight?” 
  Ham 
  was 
  already 
  pulling 
  a 
  flashlight from his pocket. He thumbed it 
  on, sent the white beam waving ahead, 
  and the glare revealed a prisonlike wall on 
  their left, with rough, stony ground 
  underfoot. 
  A blond girl in a two-piece knitted 
  suit was just lifting herself from her knees, 
  where she seemed to have fallen on the 
  stony ground below the fort wall. Her 
  shapely, slim legs flashed in the glow of 
  Ham’s flashlight as she started running 
  again, and her slender hand hovered near 
  her throat in terror. 
  “Annabel!” 
  Monk 
  howled. 
  “Annabel Lynn!” 
  Ham, always the more self-
  controlled of the two, drew up short. He 
  called to the tall blond girl, “Miss Lynn! It’s 
  the two Doc Savage men you met in 
  Washington!” 
  After that, the girl halted in the 
  flashlight glare, but seemed undecided as 
  to which way to turn or what to do. Then 
  she stumbled toward Monk and Ham 
  holding out her slim hands, gasping, “Oh, 
  thank heavens!” 
  Ham caught the girl’s hands, held 
  them 
  reassuringly 
  as 
  she 
  trembled 
  against him, while Monk glared wrathfully 
  at the dapper lawyer. 
  Monk, not to be outdone in 
  chivalry, grinned at the girl.  
  “Remember 
  me?” 
  the 
  hairy 
  chemist said hopefully. “I’ve been trying to 
  help you ever since we made that 
  appointment to meet in the restaurant in 
  Washington.” 
  For a moment, in her fright, the 
  girl stared at Monk.  
  The girl began talking. She said, 
  “My friend, Warren Allen, was with me. 
  Something is terribly wrong around here.” 
  She bit her lip. “We couldn’t get inside the 
  fort. We were prowling around, seeking 
  an entrance. You see, I have an uncle 
  who is connected with the army. He’s 
  supposed to be here at the fort, and I’ve 
  simply got to find him!” 
  She stopped for breath—or to get 
  her story straight; it was hard to tell which. 
  “Yes?” Ham prompted. 
  “Well, that’s when everything 
  occurred at once.” 
  “What happened?” 
  “Warren Allen and I were walking 
  along the base of this wall, and suddenly 
  two men appeared and grabbed him. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  37 
  There was a fight.” She paused and 
  shuddered. “Warren gasped out for me to 
  run. I guess that I . . . I got panicky and 
  screamed.” Annabel Lynn clutched at 
  Ham’s 
  arm 
  again. 
  “And 
  then 
  you 
  appeared. . . and now—we’ve got to find 
  Warren!” 
  Monk looked hopeful. If there was 
  going to be a fight, he would enjoy it; the 
  prospects seemed very good. 
  “Where did they take him?” the 
  chemist demanded.  
  Annabel Lynn waved her slender 
  arm, and her large gray-blue eyes again 
  mirrored fright. 
  “Back there some place!” she 
  gasped. “Please hurry!” 
   
   
  THEY rushed in the direction the 
  girl indicated, but found no Warren 
  Allen—they 
  encountered 
  nothing 
  whatsoever, in fact. 
  Then they located a huge hole in 
  the fort walls; an aperture where it 
  appeared as though a giant grinding-
  machine had pulverized sand, rock and 
  stone. The débris which had been the 
  solid wall was a loose heap on the earth. 
  The hole yawned black and 
  massive before their eyes. Behind it was 
  a wide-open entrance to the fort itself. 
  “Oh! What did that?” gasped 
  Annabel Lynn. 
  Ham said in awe, “It looks just like 
  that Treasury Building collapse.” 
  Annabel Lynn’s expression was 
  changing; something crept into the depths 
  of her lovely eyes; her shapely hands 
  clenched, and she started trembling. She 
  said in a strange voice, “It—Then it’s all 
  true!” 
  Curious, 
  watching 
  her, 
  Ham 
  asked, “What’s true?” 
  For a moment, it seemed that 
  Annabel Lynn was going to give a reply 
  that made sense. Then her eyes took on 
  a secretive look and she seemed to be 
  fighting to repress and get control of 
  herself. 
  Monk, puzzled, said, “Well, go on. 
  Tell us. What is the truth? What is behind 
  this?” 
  Abruptly, 
  the 
  girl’s 
  trembling 
  subsided. 
  She 
  looked 
  suddenly 
  composed. “I—It’s nothing. It was just 
  something that—I was nervous, and said 
  something that didn’t make sense.” 
  “None of it makes sense!” Monk 
  complained. 
  The girl looked at the hole in the 
  wall and suggested: “We’ve got to find 
  Warren Allen. Maybe if we crawled 
  through there, we could hear the two men 
  who seized him. They must be carrying 
  Warren.” 
  They followed the girl, but not 
  before they had exchanged significant 
  nudges in the darkness. Perhaps both 
  were recalling that they had seen Annabel 
  Lynn loitering near the scene of that 
  Treasury Building collapse in Washington. 
  There were things about Annabel 
  Lynn that were puzzling, to say the least. 
  They found two dead guards 
  inside the fort walls. 
   
   
  Chapter XII 
  DEATH FOR TWO 
   
  THE hole in the outer wall was 
  really a tunnel-size opening into a 
  basement storage room of some sort 
  inside the fort. The dead men—they had 
  died in peculiar positions, clutching at 
  their 
  chests—were 
  obviously 
  military 
  watchmen, for they carried watchmen’s 
  clocks and apparently had been making 
  the rounds of the huge, grim building. The 
  nature of the fate that had stricken them, 
  dropping them in their tracks, was a 
  mystery. There were no marks on their 
  bodies. 
  The room itself was a shambles. 
  Various gun parts must have been in neat 
  racks and steel bins along the stone 
  walls; now everything—parts, racks, bits 
  of steel—were scrap iron strewn about 
  the floor. 
  One wall showed indications of 
  caving in shortly. There were cracks in the 
  thick cement floor. 
  Annabel Lynn was shaking again. 
  Ham said quickly, “This place 
  looks none too safe. We’d better get out.” 
  The dapper lawyer produced a 
  flashlight which furnished a white funnel 
  of illumination. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  38 
  They advanced through various 
  other basementlike rooms, coming finally 
  to a heavy steel door with a sign in red 
  which warned: 
   
  KEEP OUT! 
   
  Monk, always inquisitive, opened 
  the door, poked in the beam of the 
  flashlight which he had taken from Ham. 
  He howled, “Yeo-o-ow!” He jumped back. 
  The girl and Ham leaped forward 
  to see what had drawn the startled 
  exclamation. Both gasped. 
  The room was a storage vault for 
  big 
  shells 
  and 
  various 
  kinds 
  of 
  ammunition. There 
  was a conveyer 
  device which led somewhere above, and 
  apparently the shells and other supplies 
  could 
  be 
  quickly 
  moved 
  to 
  gun 
  placements at various points of the fort. 
  Monk squealed, “Imagine if that . . 
  . that thing had hit this place instead of 
  the wall! It would’ve blown Staten Island 
  over 
  around 
  the 
  State 
  of 
  Iowa 
  somewhere!” 
  Ham was thoughtful. “I wish Doc 
  was here.” 
  Annabel Lynn’s pretty eyes were 
  wide. “I’ve got to tell Doc Savage the 
  truth,” she said grimly. “Only such a man 
  can stop this infernal thing in time.” 
  Hams eyes went sharp. “Just 
  what do you know about this mystery?” he 
  demanded. 
  The tall, blond girl frowned at the 
  nattily attired lawyer. “Have you ever been 
  to 
  Rockaway 
  Beach?” 
  she 
  asked 
  unexpectedly. 
  “No. But I know where it is.” 
  “Well, I was not sure until I trailed 
  it there,” the girl said. “I was swimming—
  when I thought no one was watching—
  and that terrible shaking sensation seized 
  me. It was like something tearing me 
  apart.” 
  “What was it?” 
  The girl shuddered. “I know by 
  this time that I miraculously escaped 
  death. Because Rockaway Beach is close 
  to Fort Atlantic, and that is where the gun 
  base collapsed. Uncle Jason knows about 
  that, and he can stop it. I mean, this 
  terrible thing—this whole mess—he can 
  stop it. I’ve got to find him.” 
  Ham nodded. “Which makes it all 
  very clear, I must say,” he suggested 
  dryly. “Now listen, why don’t you start at 
  the first and tell—” 
  From behind where they were 
  standing, a harsh voice rapped, “You’d 
  better skip it, sister!” 
  Monk whirled and let out a gulp. 
  The thick, solid-looking man standing in 
  the opening to a nearby passageway 
  apparently had no gun, although he 
  looked tough enough to get by without 
  one. 
  The hairy chemist had made a 
  dive for the big fellow. Monk was 
  impulsive. And it was then that the man 
  tossed the egg. 
  The object landed near Monk’s 
  feet, and it made a soft plop! Only it 
  wasn’t an egg; something that looked like 
  gas and smelled like a boiled cabbage 
  spread through the passageway. 
  Ham and Monk and the girl also 
  jumped clear of the gas mushrooming 
  from the hard floor. 
  The big, thickset attacker had 
  dived back into an adjoining room. Monk 
  rushed after him, howling at the same 
  time—those fighting howls of Monk’s were 
  extraordinary; usually Monk talked in a 
  thin, piping voice, but once he got in 
  battle, he bellowed like a bull. 
  Monk made a flying tackle at the 
  big man’s legs, dragged the fellow to the 
  floor. Then Monk picked up the assailant, 
  and bounced him off the nearest wall. 
  Ham, unsheathing his sword-cane, had 
  moved in to help. But the hairy chemist’s 
  heave 
  had 
  knocked 
  the 
  attacker 
  senseless. 
  Monk figured that he was getting 
  started at making a favorable impression 
  on attractive Annabel Lynn. “I could lick a 
  half dozen like him,” Monk boasted. 
  He got his chance. Three more 
  men came piling out of a doorway and 
  rushed to the attack. Monk whooped. 
  Ham swung to meet the attack with his 
  sword-cane. 
  Annabel 
  Lynn 
  seized 
  Ham’s 
  flashlight and sprayed light over the 
  scene. 
  A 
  gun 
  went 
  off, 
  its 
  crash 
  resounding around the stone walls. Ham’s 
  sword caught the man’s gun arm, 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  39 
  knocked it upward, and bullets dug dust 
  and cement from the ceiling. One of the 
  attackers screamed a warning against 
  using guns. “You fool!” the assailant 
  screeched 
  at 
  his 
  companion. 
  Stop 
  shooting! The shock may set off some of 
  this stored ammunition!” 
  Thereafter the fight settled into a 
  catch-as-catch-can, 
  knock-down-and-
  drag-out mêlée. Monk yelled and banged 
  heads 
  together. 
  Ham, 
  with 
  deft 
  movements of his sword, herded the 
  attackers Monk’s way for the chemist to 
  put on the finishing touches. 
  Then the attackers began leaving 
  the room as though it were full of 
  rattlesnakes. They had enough. They 
  went clattering and panting down a long 
  passageway. They passed through a door 
  and slammed it, made it fast. 
  The door was very strong; it took 
  time for Monk and Ham to tear it down—
  time enough for their defeated assailants 
  to escape, for they found no trace of the 
  men. 
  It 
  was 
  Annabel 
  Lynn 
  who 
  exclaimed worriedly, “The—whoever is 
  behind this menace—is getting frantic! 
  They’ll kill all of us—including Doc 
  Savage!” 
  Monk said, “Not if they don’t do 
  better than they’ve been doing.” 
   
   
  HAM decided it might be a good 
  idea if they went back and questioned the 
  big 
  man 
  Monk 
  had 
  knocked 
  out. 
  Returning, they found that the gas had 
  cleared the space. And so had the big 
  fellow. He had disappeared. 
  “Boy, I’ll hit the next one so hard 
  he won’t wake up that quick!” Monk said. 
  Ham 
  suggested, 
  “We 
  might 
  search farther.” 
  Later, they located a stairway that 
  led upward. 
  Ham was carrying the flashlight in 
  one hand, his sword-cane in the other. 
  Annabel Lynn clung to Monk’s arm, 
  causing the hairy chemist to grin at Ham. 
  They passed through huge, vault-
  like rooms, emerged finally upon a drill 
  grounds; beyond were dark, sinister gun 
  pits of the long-range guns. They saw no 
  one, heard no one. 
  “Queer this place is so deserted,” 
  Monk said. 
  Ham said quietly, “I remember 
  reading that this place was temporarily 
  closed.” 
  Annabel, trembling, said wildly, 
  “Mercy, if anything happens to Uncle 
  Jason or . . . or Warren Allen! I . . . 
  understood that Uncle Jason could be 
  found here.” 
  “What made you think Uncle 
  Jason would be here?” 
  “A . . . a note he sent me.” 
  “Just who is this Uncle Jason?” 
  Annabel did not answer the 
  question directly, but explained, “You see, 
  the fort is temporarily closed. Those dead 
  watchmen back there were probably the 
  only men on duty. But in a few days coast 
  artillery units are scheduled to arrive here 
  for new-gun practice. Uncle Jason was to 
  be 
  here, 
  to 
  meet 
  someone 
  from 
  Washington tonight. They were making 
  some. . . some kind of preliminary plans, I 
  think. I . . . I don’t know much about Uncle 
  Jason’s relations with the army.” 
  Just then, through the gloom of 
  the outside drill yard, they heard someone 
  walking. 
  Ham unsheathed his sword-cane, 
  and sturdy Monk stood ready to jump 
  whoever was approaching. Ham also 
  snapped off his light. 
  Monk muttered, “Watch me pop 
  this guy one!”  
  The steps, quick with haste, came 
  closer. Ham said, “All right—now!” and 
  switched on the light. 
  Annabel Lynn cried, “Warren!” 
  Both aids of Doc Savage stared. 
  In the flashlight glare was revealed the 
  perfectly attired young Englishman of the 
  Washington restaurant—Warren Allen. 
  “They escaped from me!” Warren 
  Allen explained. 
   
   
  Chapter XIII 
  PERSONS MISSING 
   
  WARREN ALLEN’S expensive 
  imported clothes were mussed. 
  His light-blond hair had been 
  rumpled. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  40 
  “That attack on you, Warren? 
  What happened?” Annabel asked. 
  Apparently 
  the 
  man 
  had 
  remarkable emotional control, for he 
  seemed 
  unaffected 
  by 
  the 
  incident. 
  Calmly, he said, “I broke loose from them, 
  escaped, and later trailed them down to 
  the beach. They left in a small boat, 
  because I heard a gas engine out there 
  on 
  the 
  water.” 
  He 
  hesitated, 
  then 
  shrugged. “I wasn’t too keen on tangling 
  with them. They were armed.” 
  “Do you know what is behind all 
  this mystery?” Ham demanded. 
  “No idea at all.” 
  “But you’re mixed up in it.” 
  “I am only helping Annabel Lynn,” 
  Warren Allen explained virtuously. “She 
  asked me to come with her to help find 
  her uncle. It was a night trip, and this is a 
  lonely spot for a girl alone, so naturally I 
  came.” 
  Ham suggested, “We’ve got to 
  find a phone and get in touch with Doc. 
  He will want to know about this trouble 
  here.” 
  He led the way back into the fort. 
  Apparently lights in the place had been 
  put out of commission by the force that 
  had smashed a gigantic hole through one 
  wall, for Ham tried several light switches 
  and got no results. He continued to use 
  his flashlight. The others trailed behind 
  the lunging beam of light. 
  “Let’s scatter and look for a 
  phone,” Ham said. They separated. 
  In a small room, evidently a 
  commander’s office, Ham found a desk 
  phone. He lifted the receiver and rattled 
  the hook. For a while, he waited patiently. 
  There was no answer. 
  Impatient, the lawyer rattled the 
  hook and said, “Operator! Operator!” with 
  some sharpness. 
  The line was dead, and Ham 
  turned with the idea of rejoining Monk, 
  Warren Allen and the girl, who could not 
  be far away. 
  A man appeared in the doorway 
  with a great deal of blue-steel gun in his 
  fist and snarled, “That phone ain’t all 
  that’s gonna be out of order around here!” 
  The man stepped into the room, gun 
  leveling. 
  Ham jumped, snapping off his 
  flash and yanking his slender sword-cane 
  from its polished, wooden sheath. The tip 
  of the blade was coated with quick-acting 
  anaesthetic, and it frequently saved the 
  lawyer’s life. 
  Ham moved smoothly, in total 
  darkness, instinct telling him about where 
  the other man was. Abruptly, the gun 
  made a loud sound in the small room; it 
  almost hurt Ham’s eardrums. 
  Luckily, the lead went wild. Ham 
  stepped forward, speared with the sword. 
  He sought what he hoped was his 
  attacker’s chest. 
  Ham, however, made an error—
  he got too close to the man. Something 
  came out of the gloom and connected 
  with his lean jaw. He had a hunch what it 
  was—one of the long ramrodlike cleaning 
  bars for the big guns. It took the lawyer off 
  his feet, threw him across the room and 
  piled him headfirst into the far wall. 
  As he passed out, he had a hazy 
  recollection of someone snapping, “Now 
  we better get the one that looks like an 
  ape!” 
   
   
  MONK was having troubles of his 
  own at the moment. As he had ambled 
  into a room looking for a telephone, 
  something had hit him solidly from behind. 
  A muffled scream from the girl, 
  Annabel Lynn, and the beginning of an 
  outcry from Warren Allen made the 
  disaster rather complete. 
  Monk, dazed but far from kayoed, 
  went into action. They were trying—more 
  than one man had hold of him—to half 
  drag, half shove him into some space that 
  was beyond the room where Ham had 
  disappeared. It seemed to Monk that a 
  dozen thugs must have jumped him. 
  Fists slugged away at his battered 
  jaw; knuckles raked his scarred features. 
  It didn’t take much of that to get Monk 
  mad. He grabbed assorted legs, arms, 
  heads and did all the battering he could. 
  He heard breath explode from tortured 
  lungs; yelps of pain come from his unseen 
  assailants’ throats. 
  Monk convulsed and threw off his 
  attackers as though they were so many 
  midgets. He bellowed, and cracked heads 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  41 
  together. After a while he drew up short, 
  and he realized that he was swinging at 
  air. 
  “Blazes!” 
  he 
  snorted, 
  disappointed. 
  He 
  stumbled 
  over 
  senseless figures, bent down, searched 
  through 
  pockets 
  until 
  he 
  found 
  a 
  flashlight. Switching it on, he took one 
  look at the unconscious forms, shrugged 
  and dashed out to see what had 
  happened to the girl and her friend. Also 
  what had detained his partner Ham. 
  And Monk found no one. No 
  Ham. No girl. No Warren Allen. 
  Monk started a more complete 
  search of the place. 
  Ten minutes later, worried and 
  puzzled about the disappearance of 
  everyone, Monk raced to the car which he 
  and Ham had driven to the fort. Perhaps 
  they had gone back to the machine. 
  But they hadn’t. There was no 
  one at the car. 
  Monk decided he had better 
  reach Doc. Climbing in the car, he 
  switched 
  on 
  the 
  short-wave 
  radio 
  transmitter receiver located behind the 
  dash. When the set warmed up, he tried 
  to raise a reply from Doc’s skyscraper 
  headquarters. 
  He did not get Doc—what he got, 
  instead, was a dull rumbling noise that 
  mystified him at first; then he realized that 
  it was a voice, Renny’s voice, and the 
  giant engineer was saying over and over: 
  “Doc, are you listening in? Long 
  Tom and I seized somewhere near 
  Connecticut shore. Probably near New 
  London. Doc, hope you are listening in. 
  Long Tom and I need help. Hurry!” 
  Renny’s 
  bull-like 
  voice 
  soon 
  faded. Monk whirled various knobs on the 
  special built-in set. All he could get was 
  hum of the tubes themselves and static. 
  “Hell’s bells!” yelled Monk, who 
  rarely used profanity.  
  He forgot the senseless men back 
  at the fort. He forgot everything but 
  getting in touch with Doc Savage as soon 
  as possible. 
  Monk sent the big car hurtling 
  toward New York. In a remarkably short 
  time, he was in the express elevator being 
  lifted to the bronze man’s headquarters. 
  The sun was rising over the horizon and 
  shining brightly through hallway windows 
  up here high above the still-dozing city. 
  Monk, his short, stocky legs 
  moving like pistons, hurried to the great 
  door of bronze that was the main 
  entrance to the skyscraper headquarters. 
  The door opened before the 
  chemist was barely up to it, and Monk 
  started to exclaim, “Doc—” 
  But it wasn’t Doc. 
  It was homely Nanny Hanks, and 
  she let out a cry of joy, jumped toward the 
  chemist with open arms and said, “You 
  poor dear! Look at your face and clothes! 
  Something terrible must have happened 
  to you!” 
  Monk backed off from the woman 
  and stood glaring. Finally, he blurted, 
  “Look, Ham is missing!” 
  “Yes, but—” 
  “Annabel is missing!” 
  Nanny Hanks grimaced. 
  “And Warren Allen is missing! 
  And now Long Tom and Renny are in 
  some kind of jam. Have I got trouble!” 
  “You poor dear!” said Nanny 
  Hanks solicitously. 
  Monk threw up his arms, dropped 
  wearily into a chair. “And now you turn 
  up!” He shook his head sadly, asked, 
  “How did you get in?” 
  “I guess the place wasn’t locked. I 
  walked in.” 
  “You started out with us—and we 
  missed you down in front of the building. 
  What happened?” 
  “I went in a drugstore to get some 
  aspirin. This thing is giving me a 
  headache. When I came out, you were 
  gone. You ran off and left me.” Nanny 
  Hanks looked sadly at Monk and asked, 
  “You said Renny and Long Tom are in 
  trouble?” 
  Monk nodded dismally. “Yep.” 
  “Well, I can tell you something 
  about them.” 
  Monk jumped. “What?” 
  “I picked them up on the short-
  wave radio here,” Nanny Hanks went on. 
  “They discovered something out there at 
  Fort Atlantic, on Long Island.” 
  “Yes?” 
  “And now they’ve been grabbed 
  by somebody, because of what they 
  found out.” 
  
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  42 
  That seemed to be all that Nanny 
  Hanks knew about the two aids of Doc 
  Savage, Monk discovered. He wondered 
  how Nanny Hanks happened to be a radio 
  operator—the short-wave set up here was 
  complicated. For that matter, there were a 
  number of things about Nanny Hanks that 
  made food for wondering, once one 
  started thinking. 
   
   
  Chapter XIV 
  TRUCK THAT DISAPPEARED 
   
  NANNY HANKS had been correct 
  in stating that Long Tom and big-fisted 
  Renny were in trouble; she had not been 
  trying to fool Monk on that point. But she 
  was in error on one thing—the giant 
  engineer and his sickly-looking partner 
  were now nowhere near Fort Atlantic; 
  they were captives in a plane somewhere 
  over Connecticut. 
  True, they had been at Fort 
  Atlantic. Following Doc’s instructions, 
  Renny and Long Tom had proceeded to 
  the Long Island fort in one of the bronze 
  man’s planes. There, they had spent 
  considerable time making an investigation 
  questioning officers, building-engineers 
  and contractors. 
  But no one had any explanation 
  for a gun foundation that pulverized into 
  loose sand and crumpled cement. 
  It was some time after this that 
  Long 
  Tom, 
  prowling 
  through 
  the 
  disintegrated foundation with a flashlight, 
  suddenly scooped up a fistful of sand and 
  examined it closely. 
  Long Tom exclaimed after a 
  moment, “Might pay us to analyze this!” 
  Renny, watching his unhealthy-
  looking partner, remarked, “Holy cow! It’s 
  only plain sand. What can you learn from 
  that?” 
  “What’s the harm in trying?” 
  asked Long Tom. 
  They saw fort officials, and were 
  given permission to use a small but well-
  equipped laboratory on the reservation. 
  Long Tom was an electrical wizard; he 
  had often been compared with that 
  electrical genius the late Steinmetz. 
  Though 
  sand 
  and 
  cement 
  particles 
  appeared to be a peculiar thing to interest 
  an electrical expert, they nevertheless 
  held Long Tom’s attention. 
  Long Tom, watched by Renny, 
  finally straightened from the laboratory 
  workbench and exclaimed, “I think I’ve got 
  something here!” 
  It was near dawn; the two aids 
  were alone in the small laboratory. The 
  remainder of the army reservation was in 
  darkness. 
  Big Renny’s voice boomed in the 
  small room. “Got what?” 
  “The reason for that gun-base 
  foundation disintegrating,” continued Long 
  Tom. “Also, something else.” Long Tom’s 
  eyes were very bright in his pale face. His 
  mop of pale hair was rumpled, almost 
  standing on end. 
  “Well, what? Holy cow! Cut out 
  the suspense.” 
  “I can tell you what is doing it!” 
  Long Tom almost shouted. 
  At this point, there was a discreet 
  knock on the door of the small lab, and 
  Renny turned to answer it, opening the 
  door. A nattily uniformed sergeant stood 
  outside, a man who said quietly, “Sorry to 
  disturb 
  you 
  gentlemen. 
  But 
  the 
  commander wishes to see you.” 
  “Commander?” 
  “Yes. It’s quite important. I have a 
  car waiting.” 
  A moment later Renny and Long 
  Tom followed the army sergeant outside. 
  Long Tom stared about in the night. He 
  exclaimed, “What the hell! I don’t see any 
  car!” 
  A dozen more men appeared out 
  of the darkness. They hardly had the 
  military appearance of trained soldiers. 
  They were a dozen assorted thugs in 
  khaki—not even wearing regulation army 
  fatigue garb, but merely garments which 
  resembled regulation. 
  They closed in on Renny and 
  Long Tom, and short clubs the dozen 
  men carried started swinging at the two 
  Doc aids. Someone growled in Long 
  Tom’s thin face, “Brother, I reckon you 
  figured out this business too late!” 
   
   
  THE assailants made an error in 
  sizing up skinny Long Tom and Renny. 
  They had evidently decided that the giant 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  43 
  engineer, Renny, might give them trouble, 
  but puny-looking Long Tom would be a 
  cinch. One man only tackled the thin 
  electrical wizard; the rest made for Renny. 
  The one man found himself flat 
  on the ground within a second after he 
  made a clutch for Long Tom. 
  The other men were piling on 
  giant Renny. Long Tom flew into the 
  mêlée and started grabbing throats, and 
  the 
  attackers 
  conceivably 
  got 
  the 
  impression a bobcat had suddenly been 
  turned loose. Long Tom moved with 
  blurred, amazing speed. 
  Renny was flailing with his two 
  pail-size fists. 
  The fight—a tangled, swaying, 
  snarling mass—worked its way toward the 
  nearby beach. Purposefully, Renny and 
  Long Tom got the mêlée into the surf. 
  They ducked heads into the salty water. 
  More attackers came running 
  along the beach, to the aid of their 
  henchmen. That finished the affair. Renny 
  and 
  Long 
  Tom 
  were 
  overpowered, 
  knocked senseless. 
  They were carried to their own 
  plane and dumped into the baggage 
  compartment. They were then tied hand 
  and foot. The plane, carrying Renny and 
  Long Tom and some of their captors, then 
  took off in the darkness preceding dawn. 
  It was some time later that Renny, 
  recovering from the knockout, managed 
  to squirm his way along the floor of the 
  baggage compartment in which they had 
  been locked, and managed to locate a 
  spare short-wave radio. The radio was an 
  emergency unit carried in one of Doc’s 
  metal equipment cases. Renny got it out, 
  put it in operation, and began calling with 
  his mouth so close to the mike that his 
  tone was a mumble. 
  From conversation overheard by 
  Renny, he estimated their whereabouts. 
  Feet and hands bound, and his thoughts 
  rather hazy, he did his best. 
  This was the call that Monk had 
  heard on Staten Island, and which had 
  sent him back to headquarters—the same 
  call of which Nanny Hanks told Monk at 
  Doc Savage’s headquarters. 
  Back 
  at 
  Doc 
  Savage’s 
  headquarters, Nanny Hanks and homely 
  Monk were puzzled—or at least, Monk 
  was bewildered. They had not decided 
  what should be done. Monk, also, was no 
  little worried about the predicament of his 
  partner Ham. 
  Shortly after this, Ham arrived—
  not the smartly-dressed, dapper pride of 
  Harvard, but a bedraggled, weary-looking 
  Ham, 
  with 
  his 
  face 
  bruised, 
  his 
  expensively tailored clothes in shreds. 
  Even his usually polished sword-cane 
  was scuffed. 
  Ham stalked into the room and 
  sank into a chair. 
  “Where’s Annabel Lynn?” Monk 
  asked. 
  “Haven’t you got her?” Ham 
  demanded. “There was a lot of excitement 
  out at that fort, and when it was over, I 
  couldn’t find anybody. I just got back from 
  there.” 
  “No, I haven’t got the girl. I 
  thought she was with you.” 
  “That’s 
  a 
  fine 
  note!” 
  Ham 
  complained. He lifted his voice to a yell. 
  “Why in blazes didn’t you take care of her, 
  you homely dope!” 
  Nanny Hanks got between the 
  two aids before mayhem could be 
  committed. 
  She said, “Mercy me, you two 
  better think about Doc Savage!” 
  “Doc?” 
  Ham 
  asked. 
  “What’s 
  wrong?” 
  “He left a message for you,” said 
  Nanny Hanks quietly. 
  Monk jumped. “Message?” 
  It was the first time Nanny Hanks 
  had mentioned the message. 
  “I heard it,” said the stout woman, 
  matter-of-factly. 
  She 
  motioned 
  to 
  a 
  cabinet built into the wall. “It’s on that 
  recording machine.” 
  The 
  machine 
  was 
  a 
  device 
  constructed with two electromagnets, 
  between which passed a thin steel wire. 
  The apparatus used a similar principle to 
  the phonograph, only in this case the 
  recording 
  was 
  made 
  by 
  variable 
  magnetizing of the wire instead of on a 
  record. By playing the wire back, the 
  original recording could be obtained. 
  Ham ran the wire through the 
  instrument and the deep, magnetic voice 
  of Doc Savage said, “Have gone to 
  Connecticut. Renny and Long Tom in 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  44 
  trouble near New London. Suspect they 
  are held at some cove near there. And 
  whole mystery seems to have that 
  direction. Let Nanny Hanks help you and 
  follow. Will contact you later.” 
  Monk groaned. “I heard Renny 
  callin’ for help, too! Got the message just 
  before I drove back here from the fort.” 
  The chemist suddenly looked worried, 
  added: “Blazes, what about Annabel Lynn 
  and that Englishman? You say you never 
  saw them after we got separated, lookin’ 
  for a telephone there at the fort?” 
  Ham shrugged hopelessly. “They 
  were gone. No trace of them. I have a 
  hunch those crooks captured them and 
  made off in a boat.” 
  For a moment, there was gloomy 
  silence. 
  Ham 
  growled 
  something 
  and 
  started toward another room, to get a 
  change of clothing. 
  Nanny Hanks said, “Wait, you 
  two. You want to know something?” 
  Monk would have liked to ignore 
  the woman, but curiosity impelled him to 
  ask, “What?” 
  “I know where that Long Tom and 
  Renny are!” 
  Both men gave a start. Ham had 
  paused in the doorway to the adjoining 
  room. His eyes narrowed, and he said, 
  “You seem to know everything. How 
  come you’re so full of information, but you 
  only put it out by dabs and dribbles?” 
  Monk scowled and added, “Yeah. 
  How come?” 
  “Don’t you ever trust anybody 
  when they ask you to?” Nanny Hanks 
  countered. 
  “Not if I can get out of it.” 
  “I don’t see how you can get out 
  of trusting me,” Nanny Hanks said. “I 
  know where Renny and Long Tom 
  probably can be found. I’ll take you there. 
  Or you can refuse my help, if you wish.” 
  “We’re not refusing anybody’s 
  help,” Monk said. 
  Shortly after this, they got started. 
  They went back down to the street, where 
  Monk had left the limousine; Nanny 
  Hanks and Ham piled in. 
  They failed to notice the truck 
  which pulled away from the curb a half 
  block behind them. The vehicle was one 
  similar to the sound trucks used by news-
  reel companies, only its paneled sides 
  were painted black. The truck kept behind 
  the two aids of Doc Savage as they drove 
  toward Connecticut. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE was flying low 
  over the curving Connecticut shore line. 
  The 
  bronze 
  man, 
  using 
  binoculars 
  occasionally, was at the moment intent on 
  scanning every inlet and cove that was 
  tucked away south of New London. The 
  plane in which Doc flew was the 
  government ship borrowed at the time of 
  Doc’s experience with Philips, the would-
  be killer who had been slain before he 
  could give information while under the 
  influence of truth serum. 
  The fact that the bronze man had 
  borrowed a military plane was being kept 
  secret. Now that Doc Savage’s life was in 
  danger, there was no sense of inviting 
  menace by taking the chances of enemies 
  recognizing one of his own planes. 
  Government planes of this type were 
  plentiful enough to confuse a foe. 
  The mystery had cropped up in a 
  new place. During the night, so Doc had 
  been informed, a submarine lying at 
  anchor at the New London sub base, had 
  gone to the bottom. Luckily, no men had 
  been lost. Divers had been sent down to 
  learn what had caused the sinking of the 
  sub. 
  Their report had been that a 
  section of the submarine had collapsed. It 
  could have hardly been a flaw in the 
  workmanship, for the sub had been in 
  commission for some months. As one 
  diver reported, it was as though some 
  impossible force had caused a good 
  portion of the sub to simply collapse. 
  Furthermore, Doc had picked up 
  Renny’s call for aid. That had simplified 
  matters a great deal, for Renny had left 
  the portable radio which he had used 
  switched on, and it had been a simple 
  matter to use the direction finder with 
  which the navy plane was equipped. Doc 
  had been rotating the directional loop, 
  watching the pointer, comparing it with the 
  compass card—and flying, he knew, 
  steadily nearer and nearer the radio which 
  Renny had used. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  45 
  Suddenly, as the bronze man 
  leaned over the cockpit and studied the 
  shore line below, he dipped his elevators 
  and dropped swiftly. His flake-gold eyes 
  were sharp. 
  To any other observer, the cove 
  which Doc had just passed might have 
  appeared as a sleepy, deserted little inlet 
  far out near an isolated, drab bit of coast 
  line. Trees grew up close to the water’s 
  edge; there wasn’t a sign of life anywhere. 
  But 
  concealed 
  beneath 
  tree 
  branches dipping over the shore edge, 
  Doc Savage saw the bit of something that 
  gleamed in the hot sun. He circled low, 
  came back, throttled his motors, and 
  skimmed more closely over the quiet-
  looking inlet. This time his unusual eyes 
  caught sight of a low metal wing, 
  streamlined and sleek—the wing of a fast 
  amphibian plane moored close under the 
  trees along the shore, and covered with 
  fresh-cut branches. 
  There was nothing unusual about 
  a plane being tied up in a cove along a bit 
  of lonesome Connecticut coast—but what 
  was startling was that the plane was one 
  of the bronze man’s own ships! The radio 
  he had traced down with the direction 
  finder was obviously on that ship. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE barely grazed the 
  treetops with the plane’s undercarriage, 
  gunned the motor, gained a little altitude 
  and took a quick survey of the shore line 
  beneath him. Adjacent to the cove in 
  which he had seen his own ship, he saw 
  another inlet that was one of the many 
  indentations in this dreary stretch of land. 
  He glided down to a smooth 
  landing, taxied toward the shore, cut his 
  motors and climbed out in hip-deep water. 
  The inlet was calm, smooth. He anchored 
  the navy plane and started quickly toward 
  the nearby woods that crowded close to a 
  rocky beach. 
  Doc considered the possible fate 
  that might have befallen Renny and Long 
  Tom as he worked his way silently toward 
  the adjacent cove. The big engineer and 
  the electrical wizard, Long Tom, had been 
  sent to the Long Island location of Fort 
  Atlantic to investigate the mystery of the 
  worthless gun-base. The two aids had 
  used one of Doc’s amphibians for a quick 
  flight to the fort—which was the last he 
  had heard of them until now a call for aid 
  had come over the special wave length 
  used by all the bronze man’s radio sets. 
  Obviously, 
  it 
  had 
  come 
  from 
  the 
  streamlined amphibian lying here in this 
  cove. So Renny and Long Tom had been 
  in trouble on their own plane. 
  He kept to the woods, circled the 
  cove until he was beyond and behind the 
  concealed 
  plane. 
  Doc 
  heard 
  no 
  movement. It was hot and quiet. Bees 
  buzzed 
  lazily 
  somewhere 
  close 
  by; 
  evidently there was a bee tree near. 
  For 
  several 
  moments, 
  from 
  concealing bushes, Doc watched the 
  moored plane. Apparently there was no 
  one about. Silently, he moved out into the 
  open and headed quickly toward the ship. 
  It was only necessary to take a dozen 
  steps through shallow water in order to 
  reach the amphibian; he swung agilely 
  aboard. 
  There was a control compartment 
  forward, a small cabin to the rear of this. 
  Doc opened the cabin door, squinted his 
  eyes a trifle against the gloom inside the 
  ship, 
  then 
  stepped 
  inside. 
  Muffled 
  through-the-nose sounds came from the 
  two figures lying bound and gagged upon 
  the floor. 
  One figure was well over six feet, 
  with a long sad face that looked as 
  unhappy as an undertaker viewing the 
  Fountain of Eternal Youth, and who, when 
  untied, stood up and said, “Holy cow, 
  Doc!” in a voice that crashed in the cabin 
  interior. 
  “You hurt, Renny?” Doc asked. 
  “My dignity hasn’t been helped 
  any.” 
  “How about Long Tom?” 
  “Oh, they didn’t do anything but 
  boot both of us around,” Renny said. 
  “However, I think they were going to kill 
  us later.” 
  Doc got Long Tom untied and on 
  his feet. 
  “You two might explain what 
  happened.” 
  Renny rumbled, “We got out to 
  Fort 
  Atlantic. 
  Long 
  Tom 
  discovered 
  something about the way the cement of 
  that 
  antiaircraft 
  gun 
  base 
  had 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  46 
  disintegrated, and was just going to report 
  the fact when an army of guys jumped 
  us.” 
  “At least a dozen of them,” Long 
  Tom put in more accurately. “They got us 
  tied up and took us to our plane. And here 
  we are!” 
  “Where are the men now?” 
  “They’re 
  somewhere 
  close, 
  I 
  think. We gathered that they only kept us 
  alive because they’re meeting someone 
  near here. Seems they’re waiting for 
  some further orders. Incidentally, while we 
  were flying here, Renny managed to crawl 
  to the microphone and send out that 
  message before they came back to gag 
  him.” 
  “You have any ideas about this 
  thing?” Doc asked the electrical wizard. 
  “It’s something which is moving 
  from place to place.” Long Tom frowned. 
  “But I can’t understand why it has got a 
  mad on at government buildings. Hell, we 
  ain’t at war with anybody!” 
  “That’s true,” admitted the bronze 
  man. “And yet, whatever this thing is, it is 
  obviously directing itself against the 
  security of coast-line fortifications.” 
  Renny, puzzled, asked, “Anybody 
  declared war on us?” 
  Doc shook his head. “Relations 
  with all foreign countries are the same as 
  usual,” he said. 
  “Which 
  means 
  everybody 
  in 
  Europe’s tryin’ to borrow money from us,” 
  boomed Renny. 
  Doc, happening to glance outside 
  the cabin window, said quietly, “It wouldn’t 
  be surprising if those men yonder were 
  some of them.” 
   
   
  HIS two aids swung to follow 
  Doc’s gaze, and it was big Renny who 
  breathed, “Holy cow! Look at the size of 
  them. If you ask me, every one of those 
  guys is a trained soldier.” 
  At least a dozen men of massive 
  stature were lined along the shore. 
  Several had already started through the 
  shallow water toward the plane. Nordic in 
  type, all well over six feet, the men spoke 
  to each other in a foreign tongue. 
  They had no suspicion of trouble. 
  When they were very near the 
  plane, Doc Savage moved. The cabin 
  door had been open. From the pocket of 
  his 
  concealed 
  equipment 
  vest, 
  Doc 
  grasped a fistful of small pellets. Several 
  of these he tossed out upon the water, in 
  front of the approaching mob. 
  Immediately, the water must have 
  created some chemical reaction in the 
  pellets, 
  for 
  they 
  burst 
  with 
  terrific 
  detonations, knocked up sheets of water, 
  and blue flame seared the nearer of the 
  yelling attackers. They started to retreat 
  with singed faces and scorched hair. 
  “Come on!” Renny bellowed. He 
  leaped out of the plane, followed by 
  unhealthy-looking Long Tom. Doc threw 
  some more of the pellets and joined his 
  two aids. 
  The exploding missiles created a 
  barrage behind which moved Doc and his 
  partners. Renny leaped through a sheet 
  of rising flame, let out a bull roar and 
  started swinging. 
  Within seconds, everyone of the 
  blond-haired giants had disappeared into 
  the woods. The surprise had been 
  complete. 
  For a while there was yelling and 
  the sound of brush being trampled and 
  confusion. And finally—silence. Silence 
  that was thick and still and enveloping. 
  “They’re gone,” Doc advised. “We 
  might remove the distributor mechanism 
  from the motor so that they cannot steal 
  the ship in case they do come back. Also, 
  try contacting Monk and Ham. A woman 
  named Nanny Hanks is with them.” 
  Doc Savage explained briefly 
  about the woman undercover operative. 
  He said nothing regarding her forged 
  identification card—strangely enough, the 
  bronze man seemed content to give 
  Nanny Banks free rein. 
  Long Tom removed an essential 
  part from the distributor on the motor; the 
  motor could not possibly be started 
  without the part. Next, he moved into the 
  cockpit, and tuned in the short-wave 
  radio. Tubes hummed. “Hello Monk—
  hello Ham,” Long Tom said into the 
  microphone. 
  “Blazes!” said a small voice from 
  the speaker. 
   
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  47 
   
  “THAT’S 
  Monk!” 
  Long 
  Tom 
  exclaimed. Doc and Renny had joined 
  him. 
  Doc picked up the microphone. 
  “Monk?” he queried. 
  The hairy chemist yelled, “Doc, 
  where are you? Have you found Renny 
  and Long Tom?” 
  Doc explained what had taken 
  place, gave his location, asked where the 
  chemist and his partner were now. 
  Monk replied, “U. S. Highway ten 
  miles west of New London. Look, Doc, 
  there’s been a truck following us all 
  morning. We’re lettin’ them keep us in 
  sight, and thought we might lead them 
  into a trap.” 
  “What kind of truck?” Doc asked. 
  “One of the movie sound trucks, it 
  looks like,” Monk hurried. 
  Doc’s 
  eyes 
  were 
  suddenly 
  thoughtful. 
  He said quickly, “Keep the truck in 
  sight, Monk. And now here’s what you are 
  to do.” 
  The bronze man, in corning down 
  for a landing on the adjacent inlet, had 
  taken in the surrounding terrain carefully. 
  The U. S. highway ten miles west of New 
  London passed through a village only 
  about two or three miles from this isolated 
  shore spot, and Doc had observed a 
  dusty, winding road that led from the main 
  highway back in this direction. 
  Doc gave brief directions, told the 
  hairy chemist how close they could come 
  to this inlet by taking the old road. He 
  finished with, “Let those in the truck see 
  you turn in here. Draw them in. That is 
  important. We’ll handle the rest.” 
  “O. K., Doc,” said Monk. 
  Later, Doc and Long Tom and 
  Renny waited somewhere along the 
  narrow dusty road, where it wound down 
  and ended in woods near the shore. The 
  big limousine containing Monk and Ham, 
  and Nanny Hanks swung into view. 
  Doc quickly directed the car 
  beneath concealing trees off the road. 
  “Where’s the trailing truck?” 
  “Close 
  behind 
  us!” 
  Monk 
  explained. 
  Sending Nanny Hanks to a place 
  of safety, Doc and his men prepared to 
  waylay the truck. They waited five 
  minutes . . . ten. 
  It was obvious that their quarry 
  had, either through luck or cleverness, 
  outsmarted them. 
   
   
  Chapter XV 
  DOC TRAILS NANNY 
   
  AT ten that same night, the 
  disappearance of the sound truck, the 
  vanishing of tall and regal Annabel Lynn 
  and her friend, Warren Allen, remained a 
  puzzle. 
  Monk and Ham, worried about 
  Annabel, had told Doc Savage what they 
  knew of Uncle Jason, whom the blond girl 
  was seeking. Apparently, Jason was the 
  key to the mystery, Monk and Ham 
  assured Doc that the girl had told them. 
  Search for the sound truck had 
  covered nearby Connecticut communities, 
  but they had found no trace of the vehicle. 
  At 
  ten 
  thirty, 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  contacted an army official in New York, 
  using a radio set installed in the army 
  plane that had been placed at his 
  disposal. Doc spoke for some time with 
  the official. 
  He came back to report, “Annabel 
  Lynn and Warren Allen are somewhere 
  near New London. They have been seen 
  there tonight.” 
  When they joined homely Nanny 
  Hanks, she made no comment as 
  Annabel Lynn’s name was mentioned. 
  Previously, she’d always had a remark to 
  put in. But since the bronze man’s 
  statement concerning Annabel Lynn and 
  Warren Allen being seen somewhere near 
  New London, Nanny Hanks had remained 
  unusually quiet. 
  It was shortly after this that Monk, 
  looking around to make certain that 
  Nanny Hanks wasn’t on the verge of 
  making another pass at him, let out a 
  startled bark. 
  “What’s wrong with you now?” 
  Ham asked.  
  “She’s gone again!” 
  “Who?” 
  “That vanishing wonder around 
  here—Nanny Hanks!”  
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  48 
  Doc Savage seemed to reach an 
  abrupt decision; he spoke tersely. 
  “All of you start a search for 
  Annabel Lynn and that friend of hers—the 
  Englishman,” Doc ordered. “Bring them 
  back here, if you locate them.” 
  Without further explanations, Doc 
  left his men. The bronze man—he had not 
  mentioned the fact to the others—had 
  seen the departure of Nanny Hanks; he 
  had watched, and he knew in what 
  direction she had gone. He now followed 
  her through the night. 
  The bronze giant carried a small 
  case taken from the limousine that Monk 
  and Ham had driven out from New York—
  a metal case of the type used as 
  containers for the variety of scientific 
  gadgets which he had occasion to use. 
   
   
  NANNY HANKS lost no time in 
  reaching the main highway that led 
  toward the seaport town of New London. 
  She got out on the highway pavement 
  and started trying to thumb a ride; there 
  was determination in the way she went 
  about getting a lift. 
  Doc 
  Savage, 
  suspecting 
  her 
  purpose, moved back to the security of 
  high bushes bordering the road. In the 
  next few moments, as Nanny Hanks tried 
  for rides, the bronze man worked quickly 
  with materials taken from the equipment 
  case. 
  When the woman undercover 
  operative was picked up by a passing 
  truck, 
  a 
  bent, 
  long-looking 
  farmer 
  appeared beside the road and raced after 
  the vehicle. The stoop-shouldered farmer 
  was Doc Savage, and he managed to 
  swing onto the tailboard of the truck. The 
  highway was a through route to Boston; 
  many trucks were on the road, and there 
  was considerable traffic noise, so that it 
  was very infrequently that Doc caught a 
  word from the driver’s compartment. 
  Seated in the big cab of the truck, 
  the driver asked, “Going far, mom?” 
  “Reckon not,” she said. “Just a 
  piece. I’ll let you know after a bit where I 
  want to git out.” 
  Doc, moving back to the rear of 
  the truck, watched the road and wondered 
  if the woman’s destination was New 
  London. 
  They were soon entering the 
  street-lighted 
  outskirts 
  of 
  the 
  town. 
  Rumbling through downtown streets, Doc 
  kept a sharp lookout, prepared for the 
  truck to stop. It did not halt. 
  They rolled on out of town, across 
  the narrow Thames River, then the truck 
  suddenly slowed. Doc dropped off quickly, 
  took cover and watched Nanny Hanks 
  climb out. The section was a river-front 
  district of shacks and places to hire 
  fishing boats and tackle. 
  The bronze man waited until the 
  truck had gone on, and Nanny Hanks had 
  moved ahead, then stepped out boldly 
  and 
  followed 
  the 
  homely 
  woman, 
  depending on his disguise. 
  Soon he was walking back along 
  the side of the highway, thence down a 
  flight of rickety wooden steps that led to a 
  string of fishing shacks and water-front 
  boat-rental docks. 
  Being summer, and warm, many 
  of the places were open all night. They 
  rented canoes, rowboats and skiffs for 
  fishing. Several buildings ahead, Doc saw 
  dumpy Nanny Hanks climbing into a flat-
  bottomed rowboat; evidently she had just 
  rented the craft. 
  Doc, stalling for time, started 
  looking over some boats. Perhaps a 
  farmer interested in taking himself a night 
  rowboat ride was a little unusual, but 
  when Doc tendered a sizable deposit to 
  the caretaker on duty, no questions were 
  asked. 
  Nanny Hanks had disappeared 
  downstream, rowing close along the 
  shore, by the time Doc pushed off in his 
  own craft. A significant point occurred to 
  the bronze man. On this very side of the 
  Thames, not far above here, was located 
  the U. S. Naval Station and submarine 
  base. But Nanny Hanks apparently was 
  not headed that way—she was going 
  downriver toward Long Island Sound, less 
  than three miles away. Doc followed 
  quietly, making no noise as he managed 
  the oars expertly in the calm water. 
  After a while, Doc heard no dip of 
  oars ahead, no creak of oarlocks in the 
  still night. He held his own oars out of the 
  water and listened tensely. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  49 
  Ahead, 
  a 
  voice 
  spoke 
  challengingly. Nanny Hanks replied. Then 
  the two voices lowered, and there was 
  talking; Doc could not catch the words. 
  But he heard the woman’s rowboat bump 
  some kind of dock; then steps were 
  hurrying swiftly along a string-piece. 
  There was a sharp clank like an iron door 
  closing and then silence. 
  Doc moved ahead quietly, found 
  a wooden dock, carefully tied his rowboat. 
  He swung up a ladder to the planks, 
  started walking toward shore, then halted. 
  On the far side of the dock 
  something loomed up out of the water—
  something that hardly belonged here, 
  several miles downriver from the naval 
  station. It was the conning tower of a 
  small submarine, and the major part of 
  the sub was beneath water level. 
   
   
  WITH as little sound as possible, 
  Doc stepped down a short gangplank that 
  led to the conning tower hatchway. His 
  powerful fingers, working carefully, found 
  and gripped the hatch opening and raised 
  silently. 
  A glow of light came from the 
  control room below, and voices talking, 
  several of them. Doc listened. 
  Nanny Hanks was saying, “—and 
  so he’ll be at the navy yard tomorrow. You 
  can make an appointment with him.” 
  “At what time?” a voice with a 
  foreign accent asked. 
  “About eleven o’clock tomorrow 
  morning,” replied Nanny Hanks. 
  “Jason Lynn is ready to make a 
  deal, yes?” The speaker had a sleekly 
  smooth voice, markedly foreign. 
  “Yes,” said Nanny Hanks briefly. 
  “I understand you are moving to the base 
  near Boston tonight.” 
  “Correct.” 
  “And what about this girl—this 
  Annabel Lynn?” 
  The purring laugh came again. 
  “Don’t worry about Annabel Lynn!” 
  That seemed to be the end of the 
  interview; there was sound of feet moving 
  about. Doc started to lower the hatch 
  opening—and someone landed on his 
  back 
  with 
  the 
  force 
  of 
  a 
  hurtling 
  juggernaut. 
  He was thrown to one side by the 
  impact. The hatch cover slipped from his 
  grasp, slapped down with a crash. Doc 
  whirled, tried to reach for the shoulders of 
  the man who had somehow managed to 
  slip up on him so silently. 
  He saw three figures. Vague, 
  heavy men, menacing forms in the gloom 
  of the river front. The one man who had 
  jumped the bronze man gripped Doc’s 
  arms. He yelled to his two assistants, 
  “Quick! Slug him!” 
  But Doc took them off guard. He 
  moved with blurred speed, sent the man 
  holding his arms over his head. The fellow 
  landed in a sprawl somewhere on the 
  dock. 
  Another 
  assailant 
  leaped 
  in, 
  confident that he was going to finish off 
  the man in the farmer’s garb. An arm 
  slapped him side-wise and he tumbled 
  into the water. 
  The third found hands around his 
  neck; he was yanked off his feet. He went 
  up in the air, kicking frantically, and he did 
  a somersault, hit the water alongside the 
  dock. 
  Doc Savage had no desire to be 
  recognized; so far, wearing the disguise, 
  he did not believe they had guessed his 
  identity. He deliberately let the first of the 
  men coming up out of the sub hit him with 
  a pipe wrench. He had seen the wrench 
  as the man came out of the hatch; it 
  swung a second later, and Doc let it land, 
  being sure to go backward so that the 
  blow had no more force than a hard-
  slugging fist. 
  Doc toppled backward toward the 
  water, made a splash as he hit the 
  surface and went under. He didn’t come 
  up. 
  The wrench-wielder yelled, “Got 
  him! He’s done for!” 
  Men crowded around the string-
  piece and looked relieved when the 
  slugged figure did not again come to the 
  surface. 
  “Who was he?” 
  “Some apple-knocker who came 
  aboard to gander.” 
  “He hear anything?” 
  “What difference does it make 
  now?” 
  Doc Savage dived deep, swam 
  underwater for many yards and emerged 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  50 
  some distance from the spot, coming up 
  close to shore, then working his way 
  carefully out of the river. On dry land he 
  moved silently through marsh grass 
  bordering the spot. 
  Sometime after midnight, the 
  bronze man returned to the meeting place 
  at the cove where the amphibian plane 
  was anchored. 
  His men had not yet returned, so 
  Doc left a message for them. 
  Then he took his borrowed army 
  plane that was still lying at anchor in the 
  adjacent inlet and flew to New York. 
   
   
  Chapter XVI 
  JASON 
   
  SOMETIME before dawn that 
  morning, there was mysterious trouble at 
  the 
  defense 
  fortification 
  outside 
  the 
  channel entrance to Boston Harbor. The 
  fort was built on a point of land near 
  Neponset. The single road that wound out 
  to the spot was always under heavy 
  guard; later, army sentries on the road 
  declared no movement of cars or persons 
  had occurred during the night. Likewise, 
  airplane 
  sound-detectors 
  placed 
  at 
  strategic points along the coast line 
  showed no unaccounted-for planes in the 
  vicinity. 
  But nevertheless a fantastic thing 
  happened 
  at 
  the 
  fortification, 
  and 
  somehow the news leaked out and got 
  into the newspapers. Extras were on the 
  downtown Boston streets by ten o’clock 
  that morning. And Doc Savage read the 
  headlines as he rode toward a Boston 
  hotel. 
  Several gun placements at Fort 
  Point—that was the newest location 
  menaced—had 
  completely 
  collapsed, 
  apparently by some power that had 
  weirdly disintegrated sand, stone and 
  cement. Huge long-range guns, so the 
  papers 
  said, 
  were 
  useless 
  wrecks 
  embedded in the pulverized foundations. 
  It would take weeks to dig them out, and 
  even then many of the long-range 
  weapons themselves were said to be so 
  damaged as to be worthless. 
  Less than a half hour before, the 
  bronze man had arrived from New York. 
  He had left the army plane at New York, 
  returned in one of his own planes. A 
  strange assortment of equipment was 
  stored in the plane, where it was under 
  police guard in Boston Harbor. Besides 
  his visit to the Boston hotel—the Pilgrim 
  Prince—Doc was also anxious for word 
  from Renny, Long Tom and the others. 
  On his message left at the meeting place 
  at the cove, he had mentioned this hotel. 
  The desk clerk nodded, “Colonel 
  Jason Lynn will see you at once, Mr. 
  Savage. Room 213.” 
  Doc got up and disappeared 
  toward the elevators, and as he did so, 
  Monk and Ham, in some kind of heated 
  argument, walked into the hotel entrance. 
  Neither of them had seen the 
  bronze man, although they had found the 
  message about the meeting at this hotel. 
  A girl with pretty red hair had 
  paused to glance at dapper Ham, the 
  scarred-faced, homely-looking Monk. 
  The red-haired girl giggled, then 
  hurried toward the exit of the hotel. 
  A moment later the page boy 
  came up to Ham and Monk and asked, 
  “Are you the gentlemen who are to meet 
  Mr. Savage?” 
  They nodded. 
  “Well, you are to go up to Room 
  213,” said the page boy. 
  Upstairs, they were introduced to 
  Jason Lynn by Doc Savage. 
   
   
  JASON LYNN 
  was a large, 
  pompous 
  man 
  with 
  heavy 
  walrus 
  mustache and a prominent stomach, 
  rather 
  the 
  picture 
  of 
  a 
  comic-strip 
  financier. 
  Doc Savage said, “This is Jason 
  Lynn, Annabel’s uncle. We had just 
  agreed on that fact when you arrived.” 
  “Yes, I have a niece named 
  Annabel Lynn,” agreed the old fellow. 
  “Then,” said Monk, “you can 
  explain this business of things falling to 
  pieces. Now, start at the beginning and 
  tell us the whole story.” 
  “I don’t know what you’re talking 
  about,” Jason Lynn said. 
  “You don’t!” 
  “Emphatically.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  51 
  Monk looked a little groggy. “You 
  mean to tell me that we’ve got our noses 
  in another empty hole?” The homely 
  chemist turned to Doc Savage. “Maybe 
  this is the wrong Uncle Jason, Doc.” 
  “He is the only Uncle Jason that 
  Annabel Lynn has, Doc explained. “I 
  checked with people who know Annabel 
  Lynn—you will recall that she was fairly 
  well known in Washington—and this is the 
  only Uncle Jason she owns.” 
  “I’m sure Annabel has no other 
  Uncle Jason,” said Jason Lynn. 
  “Perhaps,” ventured Jason Lynn, 
  “you are victims of one of my niece’s 
  hallucinations.” 
  “Hallucinations?” 
  “Off moments, if you like that 
  expression better,” said Jason Lynn. He 
  assumed an air of reluctantly making an 
  admission. “You see, my niece Annabel 
  does queer things at times. I am afraid—
  well, she had a hard fall when she was a 
  child, which might explain it.” 
   
   
  WHEN 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  was 
  downstairs and out on the street, he 
  moved to a spot where Monk and Ham 
  had parked the large limousine. 
  Renny and Long Tom were 
  waiting in the machine. 
  “Any luck?” Long Tom asked. 
  Monk made a zero circle with his 
  fingers. 
  “Yes, 
  let’s 
  kind 
  of 
  have 
  a 
  roundup,” Renny suggested. “It might 
  help.” 
  Ham said, “I’ll contribute this 
  much: We know that buildings, planes, 
  forts and guns are falling to pieces.” 
  “Yeah. As if an angry ghost was 
  goin’ around raisin’ the dickens,” Monk 
  said. 
  “Where do you get that ghost 
  stuff, stupid?” Ham demanded. 
  Renny boomed, “Ghost, or no 
  ghost, there’s men mixed up in it, too. A 
  mysterious gang that keeps bobbing up. A 
  gang that we’ve trailed as far as Boston.” 
  “Our summary,” Doc Savage said, 
  “leaves us where we started.” The bronze 
  man now issued instructions. “All of you 
  get to the plane as soon as possible.” He 
  gave the location of the ship. 
  “Do not watch the plane so much 
  as keep an eye open for persons who 
  seem to have a suspicious interest in it,” 
  Doc said. 
  His explanation did not make 
  much sense, and he did not elaborate 
  upon it, but turned and walked away, and 
  Monk and the others, after staring after 
  him, puzzled, entered the limousine and 
  drove off in the direction of the harbor 
  where the plane was moored. 
  Doc Savage—this would have 
  surprised Monk and the others—went 
  back to Jason Lynn’s hotel room and 
  knocked on the door. 
  “What is it?” Jason Lynn called. 
  “Telegram marked urgent,” Doc 
  Savage said, changing his voice. 
  Jason Lynn opened the door. “I 
  say! What . . . what—” 
  Doc walked in, closed the door, 
  said quietly, “Sorry. I wanted to have 
  another talk with you.” 
  “I have no desire—” 
  “I was fairly certain you wouldn’t 
  have,” Doc Savage said, and he took 
  Jason Lynn by the neck with both hands 
  and they began fighting. 
   
   
  Chapter XVII 
  TWO OF A KIND 
   
  AT eleven o’clock that morning, 
  tall, pompous Jason Lynn climbed from a 
  cab in Charlestown, a part of Boston 
  where the navy yard was located, and 
  met a man who was waiting for him in 
  front of a building near one of the gates to 
  the naval base. 
  Jason 
  Lynn 
  was 
  carrying 
  something in a brief case, and he handled 
  the bag carefully. 
  The man who met Jason Lynn 
  was outstanding in neither appearance 
  nor dress; quite plain and quiet-spoken, 
  he appeared to be a foreigner of some 
  sort. 
  Jason Lynn asked, “The meeting 
  has been arranged?”  
  The man nodded. “The deal, if 
  satisfactory, will be closed today.” 
  They got in another cab, rode for 
  some time as the quiet stranger gave 
  directions to the driver. Somewhere north 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  52 
  of Boston, near the water front, they got 
  out and the man led Jason Lynn to an old 
  house squatting like a fat hen near a row 
  of docks. 
  “In here,” the man directed. 
  The cab left. Apparently the 
  neighborhood was deserted. 
  The house was the only one in 
  the vicinity, and even the windows were 
  boarded. The two men went inside. 
  To Jason Lynn, the stranger said, 
  “You understand, I believe, that you are to 
  go blindfolded? That was the orders from 
  our leader.” 
  “Quite,” said Jason Lynn. 
  He was quickly blindfolded, led 
  down a flight of stairs and along a 
  passageway. 
  The 
  tunnel 
  apparently 
  ended beneath a dock, because there 
  was the salty smell of the ocean and the 
  sound of foghorns offshore. 
  Jason 
  Lynn 
  was 
  led 
  up 
  a 
  gangplank, across a deck, down a 
  companionway and into a darkened 
  cabin. Soon there was the throb of 
  engines, and the boat cast off. 
  For some time, Jason Lynn was 
  left in the cabin. He was permitted to 
  remove the blindfold, but he noted that 
  the porthole opening had been painted 
  black on the outside. Lights were turned 
  on within the cabin. There was no way to 
  tell whether the vessel was heading out to 
  sea, or moving up the coast line. 
  Jason picked the lock rather 
  expertly. Then he eased open the door 
  and stepped out into a passageway; a 
  moment later he was gliding along the 
  corridor. 
  Voices were talking behind a 
  closed cabin door farther along the 
  gloomy passageway. For some moments, 
  Jason Lynn listened. When there was 
  movement inside the cabin, as if the 
  occupants were preparing to leave, he 
  hurried back to his own room. 
  He 
  had 
  not 
  been 
  able 
  to 
  understand the voices in the cabin. 
   
   
  ABOUT two hours later, throbbing 
  of the boat’s motors stopped and shortly 
  the vessel bumped against something 
  that might have been a wharf—or another 
  boat. There was no motion except a 
  gentle rocking. 
  The quiet, plain-looking man who 
  had first met Jason Lynn returned to the 
  cabin, said, “All right. Bring your case. 
  The boss is here.” 
  Jason Lynn was escorted to 
  another cabin. In the room were seated 
  several men who were obviously hired 
  thugs. The one person who did not look 
  like a gunman was masked and sat 
  behind a large desk across the cabin. 
  In a quiet, well-modulated voice, 
  he said, “You have the plans for your 
  device with you?” 
  The 
  Englishman, 
  instead 
  of 
  answering the question directly, said, “I 
  am ready to make a deal. The U. S. 
  government is ready to pay a handsome 
  price for my invention, sir. If your offer is 
  sufficient, however, that is a different 
  story.” 
  “One thing,” said the masked man 
  seated opposite. “You are positive that 
  your device can stop this—well, shall we 
  give it the name the newspapers are 
  beginning to use—the angry ghost?” 
  “Absolutely,” said Jason Lynn. “It 
  has been tested—though U. S. army 
  officials think I am still working on it. They 
  need that device, sir, to stop the havoc 
  being wrought by—yes, we might as well 
  call it the angry ghost.” 
  The masked man smiled thinly. 
  “Fine! We’ll give you a million dollars for 
  those plans. And I would like to close the 
  deal here and now.” 
  “You have the currency?” 
  The 
  masked 
  man 
  placed 
  a 
  suitcase on the desk and opened it. It was 
  full of bills of large denomination. 
  Jason Lynn stood up, opened his 
  briefcase, dumped out a stack of perfectly 
  blank papers. 
  Yelps of rage came from the 
  hard-faced men seated in the cabin. The 
  masked man demanded, “What kind of a 
  trick is this?” 
  Very calmly, Jason Lynn said, “No 
  trick, my dear man. I merely wanted to 
  know that you meant what you said about 
  buying my invention. The real plans are 
  safe in a vault at my hotel. I shall be glad 
  to return with them later, and you can 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  53 
  have the money ready. Meanwhile, I must 
  add a little to my price.” 
  “Price? What do you mean?” 
  “Simply this,” said Jason Lynn. “I 
  happen to know that you are holding two 
  people captive. One is my niece, Annabel 
  Lynn. The other is her friend, Warren 
  Allen. They must be put ashore with me 
  and set free. Otherwise the deal is off!” 
  The masked man gave a start. 
  Then he said, “You’re quite a clever 
  person, sir.” 
   
   
  THEY used care—the long ride in 
  the boat, then the blindfold was put on his 
  eyes—in returning Jason Lynn to the 
  shore somewhere north of Boston. It was 
  dark when the boat put in, and apparently 
  the trip had occupied the long period of 
  time in order to make source of the 
  contact confusing. 
  Jason Lynn got a surprise as 
  soon as he stepped on shore.  
  Young Warren Allen and blond 
  Annabel Lynn rushed to him, the girl 
  crying, “Uncle Jason!” She was almost in 
  tears as she kissed him. 
  “Great 
  Scott!” 
  gasped 
  Jason 
  Lynn. “How did you get here? I thought 
  they had you prisoner?” 
  “They did. They just put us 
  ashore!” 
  Jason Lynn saw now that the 
  vessel that had brought him was a sleek, 
  fast yacht. The quiet-looking man who 
  had originally met him called down from 
  the deck: 
  “We are returning your niece and 
  her friend to you as a gesture to show you 
  that we are straight shooters. We finish 
  our deal tomorrow night. The place: 
  Kittery Point near Portsmouth. You will 
  find an old shack exactly one mile north of 
  the Point, at a small inlet. Wait until you 
  see a signal from offshore at ten o’clock.” 
  Jason Lynn called, “Quite clear. I 
  shall bring the plans with me. Have the 
  money ready.” 
   
   
  AT the hotel entrance, Warren 
  Allen said, “I have an errand to do, my 
  dear. I take it you’re going to Kittery Point 
  too?” 
  The blond, tall girl nodded. “Call 
  me later. We can catch a train first thing in 
  the morning.” She hooked her arm 
  through her uncle’s. “We’ll all go together. 
  And Warren—thanks for not asking 
  questions. 
  You’re sweet for helping 
  without knowing what it is all about.” 
  Warren Allen departed, and the 
  girl and Jason Lynn hurried to Jason’s 
  room. 
  Once inside, Annabel Lynn drew 
  up short, gave a startled gasp, and stared 
  from the Jason Lynn with her to the Jason 
  Lynn waiting across the room. 
  There were, it appeared, two 
  pompous Jason Lynns! 
  But the Jason Lynn with the girl—
  the one who had made the trip—placed 
  his hands on his face, twisted at his 
  features, and waxlike substance and the 
  walrus mustaches came off. From his 
  eyes, he removed small colored glass 
  shells that had concealed orbs of rich 
  flake-gold. From beneath his clothing he 
  removed padding that had made him look 
  stout. 
  Annabel Lynn cried, “Why . . . you 
  . . . you’re Doc Savage! 
  Doc said, “Quite!” His English 
  accent was perfect. 
  Doc said to the girl’s real uncle 
  into whose arms she had now run, “The 
  place is Kittery Point, near Portsmouth, 
  tomorrow night.” 
  The real Jason Lynn looked 
  startled. “That’s almost on top of Fort 
  Smith!” 
  “Exactly,” said Doc. “They plan to 
  kill two birds with one stone. You had 
  better proceed there by train. Do nothing 
  that will arouse their suspicions.” Doc 
  explained about the signal that was to be 
  given at ten o’clock, at the inlet near 
  Kittery Point. “My men will be close by.” 
  The bronze man looked at blond 
  Annabel Lynn. 
  “I don’t understand this,” the girl 
  said. 
  “Your uncle and I came to an 
  agreement,” Doc explained. “We fought a 
  little, then we made up. We understand 
  each other now—we have decided to 
  work together.” 
  Nodding to Jason Lynn, Doc went 
  out. Half an hour later, at the harbor water 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  54 
  front, a navy gig ferried him out to the 
  large plane that was being guarded by his 
  men. 
  Monk, Ham, Renny and Long 
  Tom were there. 
  Nanny Hanks, who had been 
  seated out of sight in the rear of the plane 
  cabin, now came forward. 
  Monk pointed at Nanny Hanks. 
  “She cropped up again,” he 
  explained. 
  Nanny Hanks grinned. “I wanted 
  to be in on the ghost-catching,” she said. 
   
   
  Chapter XVIII 
  THE ANGRY GHOST ARRIVES 
   
  LATER that night, Doc Savage’s 
  group, with equipment, moved northward 
  from Boston Harbor in Doc’s large plane. 
  The bronze man himself was at the 
  controls, 
  and 
  towering 
  Renny, 
  the 
  engineer, did the navigating—and the 
  navigating was no small task, because 
  the night was very dark. On board were 
  Long Tom, Monk, Ham and Nanny Hanks, 
  and the cabin of the ship was crowded 
  with a weird assortment of scientific 
  apparatus and devices. 
  Doc said, “We’ll land somewhere 
  just north of the river entrance to 
  Portsmouth, Maine.” 
  Doc had a map in his hands and 
  now he spread it out; he indicated various 
  positions on the map. “Monk, you will go 
  here with one of the sound-detector 
  devices—one of the electrical listeners 
  such as the army and navy uses to locate 
  planes. We have several along.” 
  Doc moved his finger a trifle on 
  the map. “Long Tom will be here. And 
  Ham, you cover this point. All of you will 
  carry short-wave radio equipment and 
  report any movement of anything out at 
  sea, or in the air. I will be somewhere 
  near here.” The bronze man indicated 
  another point, the isolated inlet near 
  Kittery Point 
  Doc returned to the controls; 
  Renny had been flying. It was Doc who 
  brought the huge plane down, near dawn, 
  at a spot on a lonesome shore line below 
  Kittery Point. The bronze man explained: 
  “We have about six hours start. 
  But there is no time to lose.” 
  They taxied the huge ship to 
  shore and started unloading; afterward 
  Doc directed the concealing of the big 
  plane with branches and foliage cut on 
  shore. 
  Monk got Doc Savage aside, 
  asked, “Say, Doc, about this sour-puss, 
  Nanny Hanks. I don’t trust her. We know 
  she’s not a government agent. By havin’ 
  her around, ain’t we harboring a viper in 
  our bosoms, as the sayin’ goes?” 
  Doc said, “Nanny Hanks is a very 
  clever operative of the United States 
  government,” he stated. “She pretended 
  to be a fake in order to get in with foreign 
  secret agents and learn their movements. 
  What she has accomplished has never 
  been 
  done 
  by 
  any 
  other 
  woman 
  operative.” 
   
   
  THE day was quiet—a cocked-
  gun kind of quiet. Concealed at vital 
  points along the rocky coast line, Doc’s 
  assistants used sound-detector devices. It 
  was Ham who noted that all the detectors 
  were placed in the vicinity of Fort Smith, 
  adjacent to Kittery Point. Instructions to 
  each man was to report immediately on 
  any movement of anything out at sea, or 
  in the air. 
  Doc had his other equipment 
  installed in a shack at the isolated inlet at 
  Kittery Point. Strangely, this seemed to 
  include most of the bronze man’s more 
  antiquated apparatus. 
  Monk saw that Doc had simply 
  gathered together a litter of apparatus that 
  looked impressive. 
  Annabel Lynn, accompanied by 
  her uncle, Jason, and Warren Allen 
  arrived at nine that night. It was only an 
  hour now to the appointed time when the 
  contact was to be made. 
  The bronze man explained to 
  Jason Lynn, his niece Annabel and 
  Warren Allen, “You will stay ashore when 
  the contact is made.”  
  Jason Lynn swallowed. “But—” 
  “Allow us to handle everything.” 
  Shortly thereafter, Doc Savage 
  put on the make-up that transformed him 
  into a second pompous Jason Lynn. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  55 
  Lights were turned off inside the shack; 
  they waited in silence. Fog rolled in from 
  the Atlantic and clung wetly to clothing; 
  there was the sound of surf on the nearby 
  rocky shore, and frequent dismal croaking 
  of night things in the darkness. 
  It was near ten when the radio 
  began speaking in the darkness of the old 
  shack. It was Long Tom’s voice, and the 
  electrical expert sounded excited. 
  “Doc!” Long Tom’s voice came, 
  “Something out here offshore. It’s heading 
  for the inlet. Can’t tell what the thing is, 
  but 
  there’s 
  powerful 
  motor 
  sound. 
  Something that sounds like Diesels!” 
  Speaking 
  into 
  the 
  radio 
  microphone, Doc advised, “Return here at 
  once.” 
  In the following minutes, Renny, 
  Monk and Ham each reported similar 
  movement of the unseen vessel. 
  “Come back here at once,” Doc 
  directed each of them. 
  They assembled in a compact 
  group—Jason Lynn, Annabel, Warren 
  Allen, Monk, Ham, Renny, Long Tom, 
  Nanny Hanks and Doc Savage. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  said, 
  “We 
  will 
  separate now, and meet at the shack 
  down by the beach. We can go more 
  quietly one at a time. I will go first. The 
  rest of you scatter, and make your way as 
  silently as you can to the shack.” 
  The bronze man left the others, 
  moved rapidly, and was soon lost to sight 
  in the night. 
  When Monk and Ham reached 
  the shack, they discovered Renny and 
  Long Tom already there. Some time later, 
  Warren Allen put in an appearance, then 
  Nanny Hanks. 
  There was quite a delay before 
  Annabel Lynn and her uncle, Jason Lynn, 
  arrived. And not long thereafter, Doc 
  Savage joined them. 
   
   
  THE bronze man indicated the 
  shack in which he had placed the 
  conglomeration of apparatus. 
  “As you know,” he said, “Jason 
  Lynn had invented a method of ending 
  this fantastic menace that has become 
  known as the angry ghost. 
  “Unknown to any of you, we 
  visited the laboratory,” Doc continued, 
  “and secured the necessary apparatus, 
  which we have assembled here in this 
  shack. We 
  are 
  about 
  to 
  test 
  the 
  effectiveness of our machinery.” 
  “You think the angry ghost is 
  going to pop up around here?” Monk 
  asked innocently. 
  “Exactly,” Doc said. 
  “And the gadget in there”—Monk 
  pointed at the shack—”will lay the ghost. 
  That the idea?” 
  “Yes.” 
  Monk 
  couldn’t 
  help 
  snorting. 
  “What makes you so sure the angry 
  ghost, as they call it, is going to be here?” 
  “The submarine is approaching,” 
  Doc said. 
  “Sub— 
  Holy 
  cow!” 
  Renny 
  rumbled. “That was what I picked up over 
  the listener.” 
  Doc 
  said, 
  “The 
  submarine 
  probably brought the angry ghost to those 
  forts where the gun bases were damaged, 
  and it must have been lying in the East 
  River when the bridge collapsed in New 
  York City.” 
  “But what about the Treasury 
  Building collapse in Washington, the 
  attack on our headquarters when your 
  instruments were smashed, and some 
  other times.” 
  “Recall the truck in which you 
  were hauled about in Washington, when 
  you were prisoners?” Doc asked. “Half of 
  the truck body was partitioned off, I 
  believe you said.” 
  “Yes.” Monk’s jaw fell. “Great 
  Scott, Doc! You mean we were riding 
  around with the thing in the other half of 
  that truck?” 
  “Very likely. And you recall the 
  sound truck which was following you 
  toward New London—the sound truck we 
  failed 
  to 
  capture? 
  That 
  truck 
  was 
  undoubtedly used to transport this—well, 
  the angry ghost. 
  “For a time,” Doc conceded, “I 
  was on the wrong trail. I thought the 
  menace was coming from the air. I 
  borrowed an army stratosphere plane, but 
  did not find anything.” 
  They could hear the submarine 
  engines now without any aid from the 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  56 
  supersensitive electrical pickups. The 
  craft had moved into the cove, and 
  seemed to be anchoring. 
  Doc said, “No time for more talk. 
  Nanny Hanks—Jason Lynn—Annabel—
  Warren Allen—you four get up the hill to 
  the right of this shack. Wait there. If 
  anything happens to us—if we should fail 
  to whip this thing—you will flee for your 
  lives. Run for it. Get to the army or navy 
  authorities and tell them all you know.” 
  Jason Lynn, Annabel, Warren 
  Allen and Nanny Hanks left Doc Savage 
  and the others. It was very dark. Jason 
  Lynn led the way for the first few minutes; 
  then Warren Allen spoke up in a hoarse 
  whisper. 
  “Mr. Lynn, said Warren Allen, 
  “aren’t you losing your way? You’re not 
  heading for the hillock where Doc Savage 
  told us to wait.” 
  “Maybe I am getting lost in the 
  dark,” Jason Lynn said, rather gruffly. 
  Within the next few yards, Jason 
  Lynn 
  chose 
  a 
  convenient 
  spot 
  to 
  stumble—a spot where there were plenty 
  of rocks. When he stood up again, he 
  carried a round rock, slightly larger than a 
  baseball, in his fist. 
  Jason Lynn used the rock to 
  strike Warren Allen on the head. Warren 
  Allen dropped, instantly senseless. 
  “You want me to tie him?” Nanny 
  Hanks asked calmly.  
  “Yes,” said Jason Lynn. “Tie him 
  and gag him. We’ve got a lot to do, and 
  not many minutes to do it.” 
   
   
  Chapter XIX 
  THE GHOST LAYING 
   
  DOC SAVAGE gathered his men 
  on the beach and said, “Now here is the 
  plan. I am going out as Jason Lynn, 
  presumably carrying the designs for the 
  device to stop the angry ghost. After I 
  reach the submarine, you raid the 
  submarine. Close in fast, and if we make 
  a good surprise attack, we may be able to 
  whip them.” 
  “How do we get out to the sub?” 
  Ham asked.  
  “Better swim,” Doc said. “They 
  would spot a boat.” The bronze man 
  moved into some nearby bushes and 
  came out with several small sacks filled 
  with ordinary cork fishnet floats such as 
  fishermen use. 
  “Here are floats,” he said. “After 
  you get in the water, discard corks until 
  these will just keep you on the surface. If 
  searchlights are swung toward you, you 
  must be able to submerge and stay under 
  until the light moves on.” 
  “But Doc,” Monk gulped. “What if 
  this angry ghost takes a hand in the 
  fight?” 
  Doc was already moving down to 
  the beach. He did not answer. 
  A boat came from the submarine. 
  “Jason Lynn,” called a quiet voice. 
  “Here,” Doc said. He looked and 
  sounded like Jason Lynn. 
  “Get in the boat,” he was ordered. 
  Moments later he was in the small 
  rowboat and pulling out of the inlet. A 
  searchlight sprang toward them from 
  close offshore, and Doc knew that there 
  was deep water all around here. It was 
  easy for the sub—he knew that it was the 
  small submarine he had seen near New 
  London—to come in close. The sub soon 
  loomed out of the half-mist 
  Looking back, Doc observed that 
  objects on shore were indistinct seen from 
  here. The men rowing the collapsible 
  steel boat, two of them, said nothing. 
  The boat bumped the steel, dark 
  sides of the submarine. Immediately, 
  someone spoke. “Jason Lynn?” 
  “Yes,” said Doc. 
  “Over this way,” said the voice. 
  Then 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  saw 
  the 
  speaker’s figure, standing near a curved 
  ladder that led overside. The bronze man 
  swung aboard. He was immediately 
  escorted down the hatch to the control 
  room just below. 
  The quiet-looking man with the 
  accent, the one who had contacted Doc 
  the day before, stood in the small room 
  that was lined with switchboards and 
  devices for control of the submarine. 
  Other men crowded in through a heavy 
  steel bulkhead doorway. All were big and 
  grim-faced and quiet. 
  There was no sign of the masked 
  man. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  57 
  The quiet-voiced man said, “I’m 
  afraid this is as long as you fool us. You 
  see, we happen to know that you are Doc 
  Savage.” 
   
   
  GUNS appeared, a ring of them 
  that menaced the bronze man. 
  The fellow with the quiet voice 
  was obviously elated.  
  “We 
  aren’t 
  fools, 
  as 
  you’re 
  discovering,” he said. “We know that you 
  talked to Jason Lynn, and persuaded him 
  not to sell out to us, as well as help trap 
  us.” 
  One of the ring of men cocked his 
  revolver and asked, “Now?” 
  “Not yet,” the quiet-voiced man 
  said quickly. “We will let him live for a 
  minute or two. He is a very famous man. 
  He deserves a few moments and a few 
  last words.” 
  Doc said, “Good idea. You may 
  not be as smooth as you thought.” 
  “Eh?” They stared at him, startled. 
  “When I went to the rear admiral 
  in Washington and offered to help, I 
  began to get an inkling of the truth,” Doc 
  Savage 
  explained 
  without 
  particular 
  emotion. “The navy didn’t want the truth to 
  get out—didn’t want the world to know 
  that an enemy could wander up and down 
  our coast line with impunity, putting 
  bridges and forts and guns out of 
  commission. So my offer of help was 
  refused—because things I do sometimes 
  get into the newspapers.” 
  The quiet man smiled. “You know, 
  then, that my country is trying to borrow 
  money from your United States?” 
  “Yes. I know, too, that your 
  country was one of those which borrowed 
  heavily from America during the World 
  War, then repudiated its debt—as a result 
  of which repudiation, America would 
  refuse to make your nation a loan now.” 
  “That is true. Why deny it?” 
  “So 
  your 
  country 
  began 
  a 
  campaign 
  of 
  extortion. 
  You 
  started 
  demolishing forts and bridges and public 
  buildings. The idea was merely to create 
  so much fantastic damage that you would 
  force the United States to make the loan. 
  In other words, you thought you would 
  convince the government it was cheaper 
  to make the loan than to suffer all this 
  damage and embarrassing publicity.” 
  “All quite true. What else do you 
  know?” 
  “A secret agent of the United 
  States government was serving as go-
  between for you and the United States 
  government,” Doc said. “The agent was a 
  woman—Nanny Hanks.” 
  The other smiled, but nodded. 
  “Nanny Hanks must have told you that. 
  So she is really a Federal agent! We 
  thought she was a fake. Her credentials 
  were forgeries.” 
  “Deliberately forged to deceive 
  you and others.” 
  “Who would Nanny Hanks want to 
  deceive beside ourselves?” The man was 
  becoming intensely interested. 
  “Annabel Lynn, for one,” Doc 
  said. 
  “You know who Miss Lynn really 
  is?” 
  “A secret agent for the English 
  government,” 
  Doc 
  said. 
  “She 
  was 
  assigned to the task of finding the secret 
  of—shall we continue to call it the angry 
  ghost?” 
  “And her uncle, Jason Lynn?” 
  “An inventor, on the staff of the 
  English army research department, who 
  had perfected what he is convinced is a 
  defense against the—angry ghost.” 
  The quiet man smiled thinly. “That 
  term—the angry ghost—is childish,” he 
  said. “Suppose we call the device by its 
  true designation.” 
  “Which is?” 
  “A sonic cohesion destroyer,” the 
  man explained. “By the way, we also 
  happen 
  to 
  know 
  that 
  Jason 
  Lynn 
  furnished this apparatus, a neutralizing 
  device, and that you have it set up in a 
  shack on shore, on the chance you might 
  get an opportunity to use it. I think we will 
  destroy that shack and the apparatus 
  now, then send a raiding party ashore to 
  find the real Jason Lynn.” 
   
   
  THE “sonic cohesion destroyer,” 
  as the man had termed it, was mounted 
  on an elevator so that it could be lifted out 
  through a hatch in the submarine deck. 
  The contrivance was in place, a highly 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  58 
  complicated 
  assortment 
  of 
  electrical 
  mechanism—tubes, wires, coils—and big 
  parabolic reflectors. 
  “Did you,” said the quiet-voiced 
  man, “ever see an opera singer break a 
  wineglass by singing close to it?” 
  “It is a well-known trick,” Doc 
  admitted. 
  “That explains, in a general way, 
  how our device functions,” the man 
  advised. “Every object has a vibrating 
  point, and that is why the wineglass, for 
  instance, breaks. We have gone a step 
  farther—or 
  our 
  inventors 
  did—and 
  discovered that every molecule of matter 
  has a vibrating point. In other words, 
  when subjected to a certain wavelength of 
  combination sonic and electric nature, any 
  molecule 
  can 
  be 
  so 
  disturbed—not 
  shattered, mind you, but disturbed—that it 
  loses its cohesion with other molecules.” 
  “And cohesion is destroyed? The 
  object falls to dust?” 
  “Exactly.” 
  “You explain it very simply,” Doc 
  said. “You must be familiar with it.” 
  “I am Ambrose Zoanisti,” said the 
  man proudly. “I helped perfect the 
  device.” 
  “I see.” Doc made his voice 
  properly impressed. “And you are going to 
  destroy Jason Lynn’s apparatus for 
  breaking up your sonic-electrical wave 
  with a counter wave of similar nature. The 
  apparatus which you say you know is in 
  that shack?” 
  “I am.” 
  Ambrose 
  began 
  manipulating 
  controls of the apparatus. It was quite a 
  complicated process, and twice he swore 
  violently before he got the readings of 
  meters balanced to suit him. 
  “Searchlights!” he barked sharply. 
  Searchlight 
  beams 
  from 
  the 
  submarine lunged toward shore, impaled 
  the old shack, and held it. 
  Ambrose jerked a switch. There 
  was some hissing and buzzing from the 
  apparatus, 
  and 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  was 
  conscious 
  of 
  a 
  terrific 
  trembling, 
  uncontrollable and utterly unpleasant, 
  which seized his body. Striving to control 
  his muscles, he looked around, and saw 
  that the trembling had seized the others, 
  as well. 
  Ambrose saw that Doc Savage 
  was alarmed, and gave a wolfish, 
  trembling smile. 
  “Merely 
  a 
  vibratory 
  harmonic 
  setup in the vicinity of the cohesion-
  destroying beam,” Ambrose said. “Very 
  unpleasant, but not harmful—unless your 
  body is subjected to it for too long a 
  period.” 
  Doc watched the shack. It slowly 
  crumbled and fell, turning into a cloud of 
  smoky-looking dust, which settled after 
  squirming around in the glare of the 
  searchlights. 
  “You see,” said Ambrose proudly. 
  Doc Savage had glanced about—
  and seen Monk. The homely chemist was 
  close to the hull of the submarine. A few 
  moments more of diversion were needed 
  to enable Monk and the others to get 
  aboard; Doc furnished it with a remark. 
  “The shack,” he said, “merely held 
  some old apparatus from my laboratory—
  stuff that looked impressive enough to 
  fool the man we wanted to fool.” 
  “Fool the man—” Ambrose gave a 
  violent start, ogled Doc Savage. 
  Doc nodded. “You see,” he said, 
  “we knew another thing—we knew the 
  identity of your boss. We knew who was 
  really in charge of this trouble.” 
  Before the other could make any 
  comment on that, Monk and the others 
  came up over the side of the submarine. 
  There was a guttural shout, and instant 
  confusion. 
   
   
  DOC 
  SAVAGE 
  had 
  been 
  searched, but not bound. He wrenched off 
  his coat, threw it down, stamped on it—
  making sure his shoe soles crunched 
  certain buttons on the coat, and these 
  broke into sizzling flame and the whole 
  coat began smoldering and giving off evil-
  looking vapor which came from the 
  chemicals with which the coat was 
  saturated. 
  Doc threw the coat down the 
  hatch. Gas from the blazing garment 
  would 
  uncontrollably 
  sicken 
  anyone 
  unlucky enough to get into the stuff. 
  Doc himself managed to tie his 
  handkerchief 
  over 
  his 
  mouth. 
  The 
  handkerchief, 
  a 
  thick 
  fibrous 
  cloth 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  59 
  saturated with chemicals, was a filter 
  which would serve as a fairly effective gas 
  mask. 
  Monk and others were wearing 
  similar handkerchief masks. 
  Doc lunged at Ambrose as the 
  man leaped away from the intricate sonic 
  cohesion destroyer apparatus. He swung 
  a fist. Ambrose made a barking sound, 
  walked backward; his knees hit the rail 
  and he flipped over into the sea. 
  Renny was howling, swinging his 
  big fists. Whenever he missed a blow, he 
  all but followed his huge fist into the air. 
  When he did not miss, he bruised flesh or 
  broke bones. 
  Monk had started 
  his usual 
  howling. He had two men down, was 
  trying to roll with them into the sea. 
  Ham had bad luck, and lost his 
  sword-cane before he got a chance to use 
  it. A man snatched the weapon, hurled it 
  into the sea. 
  Long Tom, standing clear of the 
  general mêlée, unlimbered one of the 
  supermachine pistols—small weapons, 
  not much larger than automatics—which 
  spouted 
  mercy 
  bullets, 
  slugs 
  which 
  produced quick unconsciousness without 
  doing much physical damage. 
  There were not many men on 
  deck. The fight was fairly even. They 
  stood a good chance of winning—until 
  someone in the sub control room began 
  filling the ballast tanks and submerging 
  the underseas craft. 
  The sub went down quickly, with 
  crash-dive speed. Men were fighting to 
  get the hatches closed. 
  Monk 
  fought 
  clear 
  of 
  his 
  opponents, raced along the deck, and 
  grabbed the painter of the collapsible 
  boat. But instead of leaping into the boat, 
  he yanked the little craft up bodily on 
  deck. 
  The collapsible boat was not 
  heavy, and Monk was fabulously strong. 
  Monk jammed the small craft, bow-first, 
  into the handiest deck hatch opening. He 
  remained there, fighting off men who tried 
  to get the boat out of the hatch, until water 
  came boiling up over the deck and 
  washed him away. 
  Monk had effectively prevented 
  the closing of the hatch, so that a flood of 
  sea water poured into the craft as it sank. 
  Doc, diving clear of the swirl of 
  water, lifted his voice. 
  “Flares!” he shouted. “Use flares.” 
  The flares were small pellets, 
  magnesium 
  combined 
  with 
  other 
  chemicals, which floated and burned with 
  intense glare, unhampered by water. 
  By that light, Doc Savage located 
  Ambrose and another man swimming in 
  the bay. He overhauled them, laid his fist 
  against 
  their 
  jaws 
  to 
  produce 
  unconsciousness, 
  and 
  towed 
  them 
  ashore. 
   
   
  THE navy planes arrived shortly 
  after midnight. They had been summoned 
  by Doc Savage, using his portable radio, 
  and they brought divers and diving 
  equipment—as well as Rear Admiral 
  Benton. 
  Rear Admiral Benton was the 
  high navy officer who had refused Doc 
  Savage’s help in Washington, and he was 
  a little sheepish about the whole thing. 
  “We made an error in judgment,” 
  he said. “Although, as a matter of fact, we 
  had been specifically warned that you 
  were not to be called in to aid in the 
  case.” 
  “I 
  understand,” 
  Doc 
  said 
  pleasantly. 
  “I fear the public won’t,” the rear 
  admiral muttered. “Here is a little half-
  baked European country which was trying 
  to extort a big loan from the United 
  States, and going up and down our coast 
  destroying military equipment and public 
  structures at will. And we refused help 
  from the one man who finally managed to 
  corner the troublemakers and overcome 
  them—meaning yourself.” 
  “The public need not know about 
  this,” Doc Savage said. 
  Rear Admiral Benton swallowed 
  twice. “You mean that?” he asked. 
  “Of course.” Newspaper publicity 
  was one of the things which Doc Savage 
  had found it wise to avoid whenever 
  possible. He explained this. “Let it be 
  known 
  simply 
  that 
  the 
  Federal 
  government cornered the extortionists 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  60 
  and overcame them. As a matter of fact, 
  that is what happened. As you know, I 
  have a Federal commission as a secret 
  agent, as well as a commission as a naval 
  officer, retired.” 
  The divers came in and reported. 
  “There are a number of the gang 
  alive in the sub,” they explained. “They 
  can be gotten out alive. The water where 
  the craft is lying is not deep.” 
  “How about the apparatus they 
  were 
  using—the 
  sonic 
  cohesion 
  destroyer?” 
  “It can be lifted intact.” 
  “Get it up,” the rear admiral 
  ordered grimly. “We’ll put that thing in the 
  vaults at headquarters, along with some 
  other little surprise weapons we’re saving 
  for anybody foolish enough to force this 
  country into a war.” 
  The matter as a whole had been 
  satisfactorily settled. Of the extortionists—
  they were no better than extortionists, 
  although they had been attempting to 
  work on an international plane—had been 
  caught, those who had not drowned when 
  the submarine sank. 
  Monk cornered Doc. “Enlighten 
  me on some things. Nanny Hanks misled 
  you in the first place. She sent you on a 
  wild-goose chase to that reservoir in 
  Washington, remember? She said we 
  were being held prisoner there.” 
  “At that time,” Doc explained, 
  “Nanny Hanks had orders to keep us from 
  becoming involved in the mystery. The 
  government, you understand, was in a 
  predicament. It hoped to solve the thing 
  without our help. Specific orders had 
  come from the foreign extortionists to 
  keep us out of it, and that was what 
  Nanny Hanks was trying to do.” 
  “What about when she sent you 
  to that reservoir? Nanny Hanks said we 
  were 
  there, 
  and 
  we 
  weren’t 
  even 
  prisoners. Instead, you almost fell into a 
  trap.” 
  “Nanny Hanks was trying to help 
  me get on the trail of the gang. She didn’t 
  approve of her orders to keep me out of it. 
  She knew the gang had been using that 
  reservoir hide-out. The government, you 
  know, had learned a great deal about this 
  gang.” 
  “Nanny Hanks knew the bridge 
  was going to collapse. How come?” 
  “The extortionists, for the greater 
  effect, had notified the government that 
  bridge would fall at a certain time. The 
  bridge was heavily guarded—but not 
  against a submarine and a fantastic 
  shattering device such as this gadget.” 
  Monk nodded, said, “But two or 
  three other things bumfoozle me. Who 
  sent that note to entice Annabel out to the 
  Staten Island fort—looking for her uncle?” 
  “The extortionists wrote it. They 
  were trying to get their hands on the girl.” 
  “Her uncle wasn’t even there?” 
  “Of course not,” Doc said. “He 
  was in Boston. If she had taken the time 
  to check with that Boston hotel where he 
  lived, she would have found him safe. I 
  merely checked with the hotel later, and 
  found him without difficulty. I got her 
  uncle’s address, incidentally, from officials 
  of 
  the 
  intelligence 
  department 
  in 
  Washington, who knew it.” 
  Monk pondered. “Why were the 
  instruments shattered in your lab, Doc?” 
  “To bumfoozle us, as you put it. 
  The gang evidently had two of these 
  gadgets, and they used one on my office 
  at exactly the time they worked on the 
  Treasury Building in Washington. That 
  was to confuse us—two menaces striking 
  in different places at the same time, and 
  that sort of thing.” 
  “It was pretty involved,” Monk said 
  gloomily. 
  “Guess 
  we 
  never 
  will 
  understand why they did some of the 
  things they did.” 
   
   
  THE one point unsettled was the 
  disposition of Annabel Lynn and her 
  Uncle Jason. 
  “Technically, they are foreign 
  secret agents, and therefore liable to 
  arrest 
  and 
  prosecution,” 
  said 
  Rear 
  Admiral Benton. “However”—he studied 
  Doc Savage thoughtfully—”I think we 
  shall ask you for suggestions about that.” 
  Doc’s reply was prompt. “The 
  Lynns were instrumental in capturing the 
  real head of the plot in America,” he 
  pointed out. “This way, and we’ll show 
  you.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE ANGRY GHOST xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  61 
  The bronze man guided them to a 
  spot in the brush nearby, where a bound 
  figure lay. The bound man glared at them, 
  said several things, using words which 
  could not be found in any dictionary. 
  “Warren Allen!” Monk exploded. 
  “The leader of that submarine 
  gang,” Doc said. “Warren Allen signaled 
  them with a flashlight as they were 
  coming into the cove tonight. That is how 
  they happened to know about the fake 
  apparatus we rigged in the shack. As a 
  matter of fact, that is why we did so much 
  futile chasing about throughout the affair. 
  Warren Allen was keeping them posted 
  as to our moves.” 
  Warren Allen was handcuffed and 
  hauled away. 
  Monk 
  watched 
  him 
  go 
  with 
  considerable pleasure. 
  “That,” said Monk, “leaves the 
  coast clear for me, as far as Annabel 
  Lynn is concerned.” 
   
   
  THE END 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
                             
   
   
   
   
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/R/Robeson, Kenneth/084 The Angry Ghost.pdf