Buttons changed the subject with an angry grunt.
“How about Bandy?”
“He ain’t showed up.”
“Yeah? Well, he hasn’t had time. He’ll be here… Huh!.. There he goes now!”
The scheming pair sidled into a convenient doorway. They could see Bandy walking — turning often to look alertly behind — toward the skyscraper entrance.
“Did you fix things for ‘im?” Buttons whispered.
“I sure did!”
“Good! Bandy won’t be around much longer to devil us,” Buttons chuckled fiercely. “Or Doc Savage either! Our plan will take care of that gent!”
“He may be smart enough to see through…”
“Not a chance!”
The two fell silent, watching Bandy enter the lobby of the cloud-piercing building.
Unaware of the evil attention centered upon him, Bandy walked straight to one of the elevators which was in all-night operation.
“I’m lookin’ for a jasper named ‘Doc Savage’. Got any idea where I can find ‘im?”
The elevator operator smiled at Bandy’s engaging cowboy drawl. “Mr. Savage is in his office on ‘86’, I believe.”
The express elevator lifted Bandy to the 86th floor. He experienced no difficulty in locating the door he sought. The plain panel bore in small bronze-colored letters:
Clark Savage, Jr.
Bandy discerned a push button beside the door. He thumbed it, then stepped back. Without being aware of doing so, he held his breath, wondering what manner of man this remarkable Doc Savage would be.
He was destined never to learn. His arms abruptly began to twitch…
…and the movement turned into a mad flailing. His eyes shut tightly in agony! His lips writhed!
“Nate Raff!” he shrieked. “Nate Raff…”
The words rattled and stuck in his throat. He sought vainly to scream again, his jaws straining wide with the frightful effort.
Then pivoting slowly as he collapsed, he slammed his length on the richly-tiled corridor floor. A few spasms shook his stocky little figure…
…then it became slack and immobile.
Bandy had ridden his last bronc unless they have cowponies in the Hereafter.
He was dead.
The door of Doc Savage’s office whipped open an instant after Bandy had expired.
The man who stood in the opening, presented a striking figure. By his appearance alone, he would have been outstanding among any assemblage of men.
In stature, he was a giant although proportioned with such symmetry that only his relation to the size of the door in which he stood showed his bigness. His every line — the metallic tendons of his hands, the columnar cording of his neck — denoted great physical Strength. The man had the gigantic muscles of a Samson!
Bronze was his color motif. His features might have been done by some skilled sculptor in the metal, so regular were they. His hair was of a bronze a trifle darker than his skin. It was straight, close-lying.
His eyes caught — and held — attention, above all else. They were weird, commanding eyes like nothing so much as pools of flake-gold. They radiated a hypnotic quality — an ability to inspire fear or respect, to convey threat, domination, or command. Even in repose, they glowed with the heat of an indomitable will.
By his appearance alone, he seemed to weave a spell, this Man of Bronze whose fame was trickling to the far ends of the Earth. He was a man once seen, never to be forgotten — this Doc Savage!
Roving swiftly, his gaze swept the situation in the corridor, perceiving not only the body of Bandy Stevens but also ascertaining that no one else was in sight.
Suddenly, he whipped back into his office! The speed with which he moved was amazing for he seemed hardly to go before he was back with a strange mechanical device of chemical-filled tubes and atomizer-like spray nozzles.
The apparatus was small enough to fit compactly in the big Bronze Man’s palm. He manipulated it an instant.
The contrivance — utilizing chemical reaction — was capable of indicating instantly the presence of poison gas in the air.
Satisfied that no delay vapor was present, Doc Savage laid the device aside. He sank down beside the body and held one of the limp wrists briefly. He examined the dead man’s hands. After that, he remained statuesque, quiescent.
A low, fantastic sound now filled the corridor. Mellow trilling, the sound partook of the nature of a whistle. It was like the song of some exotic bird of the jungle or the note of a wind filtering through a frozen forest. It was melodious, yet adhered to no particular tune.
It was part of Doc, this unique sound. A tiny, unconscious thing which he did in moments of intense concentration. His lips did not move as he made it. And it was difficult — for one not knowing — to believe the note came from Doc, such a strange essence of ventriloquism did it hold.
Doc arose and stepped to the call button beside the door. He scrutinized this.
The fact that he went directly to the push-button emphasized the analytical power of his mind — his ability to discern in a minimum of time the solution of the deepest mystery.
For the call-button held the explanation of Bandy Stevens’s demise.
It was coated with a poison so potent that a small quantity of it upon the skin would bring quick death!
Doc Savage re-entered his office. The room was furnished for quiet luxury. A large safe stood against one wall and a massive exquisitely inlaid table shimmered in the glow of indirect lighting.
Adjoining this room was another, richly-carpeted. Its walls lined with bookcases. Other ponderous volumes reposed in cabinets which stood thick on the floor.
Doc crossed this vast Library to his experimental Laboratory. He moved through a forest of stands and cases which held intricate chemical and electrical apparatus, and secured a bit of peculiar cloth and a stout glass jar.
With the cloth, he wiped the poison from the push-button. Then he sealed the rag in the jar. Should Doc wish to analyze the poison to determine its nature, he had merely to soak the cloth in a simple chemical solution. The fabric would dissolve, leaving the poison behind, unchanged in nature and ready for his skilled scrutiny.
A swift search of the deceased Bandy Stevens produced the well-stuffed wallet, some small change, and a watch. The wallet bore Bandy’s name. There were no cards or letters for identification.
Doc removed the chamois money-belt… withdrew the 2 envelopes — one large and brown, the other small and white… and inspected them.
On each was written Doc Savage’s name.
At the point of opening them, he suddenly slid both into his pockets. He glided down the corridor. He reached the end-most elevator. A touch upon a concealed button caused the doors to open.
He entered. The cage dropped like a falling rock! This was a private lift, operating with extreme speed. It made very little noise.
As he neared the street level, a sporadic series of sharp reports became louder. In the 86th floor office, the bangings had been very faint. But Doc had heard them and recognized their nature.
Gunfire!
The speed elevator braked to a stop, its doors opening quietly. Doc drove a swift glance at several large mirrors across the lobby. These were part of the modernistic decoration scheme although they had been installed only after Doc became a tenant in the skyscraper. They were arranged so as to reflect the interior of the lobby to anyone within the elevator cage.
Doc saw no one.
2 shots slammed noisy echoes!
The firing was outside.
An automobile engine began to moan loudly.
2 men appeared on the sidewalk. They dived headlong for a door, tore it open, and pitched through. Tumbling to the tiled floor, they rolled wildly to one side, striving hurriedly to reach shelter.