The Pirate of the Pacific ds-5

by Kenneth Robeson

Every slant-eyed devil was madly anxious to go along. TomToo was as famous a pirate as ever scourged the China coast. A hand in his slaying would be something to brag to one's grandchildren about when one was an old man and good for nothing but to sit in the shade of the village market and chew betel nut.

  A toothless giant, great brass earrings banging against the corded muscles of his neck, grabbed Doc and sought to pluck him out of the largest and fastest launch. The pirate never was quite positive what then befell him. But he staggered back with both hands over a jaw that felt as though it had tried to chew a fistful of dynamite which exploded in the process.

  Doc had no intention of being left behind. He wanted to see that Tom Too didn't talk the corsairs out of their murderous intention.

  "Let us proceed, my sons!" shrieked one of the men.

  The launches rushed across the bay, keeping in a close group.

  Doc now had a chance to observe the remainder of the pirate fleet. The vessels were anchored in the bay by the score. The red flush of dawn painted them with a lurid, sinister crimson glow, making them seem craft bathed in blood.

  Many were Chinese junks with bluff lines, high poops, and overhanging stems. These were made to appear top-heavy by the high pole masts and big sails with battens running entirely across. The steering rudders, sometimes nothing but a big oar, hung listless in the water.

  Many sampans mingled in the fleet, so small as to be little more than skiffs. Some were propelled only with oars, others with sails. All had little matting-roofed cabins in the bows.

  The rest of the armada was comprised of sloops and schooners of more prosaic description.

  "Tom Too boat, him come in bay chop-chop!" sang a man in beach English.

  Doc's golden eyes appraised Tom Too's craft.

  The vessel was as pretty a thing as ever graced a millionaire's private wharf. It was a fifty-foot, bridge-deck yacht. Its hull shone with the whiteness of scrubbed ivory. The mahogany of the superstructure had a rich sheen. Brasswork glistened.

  Several yellow men stood on the glass-enclosed bridge deck.

  "We no waste time in talk-talk!" shouted a pirate furiously. "All same finish job damn quick!"

  The group of launches spread out in a half moon. They held their fire until within less than two hundred feet of the pretty yacht.

  * * *

  THEN Maxim guns opened with a grisly roar. The weapons shook and smoked, sucked in ammo belt and spewed empty cartridges. A half dozen slant-eyed men clutched each weapon as though it were a mad dog, to keep recoil jar from throwing it off the target.

  Automatic pistols popped; rifles spoke with loud smashes. Doc saw the ancient gun with a barrel of bamboo spit its fistful of pebbles at the yacht like a shower of rain.

  Glass enclosing the bridge deck of the yacht literally vanished in the lead storm. The cutthroats inside, taken by surprise, were all but fused together in a bloody mass.

  "Sinkum boat!" howled a corsair. "Shoot hole in hull!"

  The guns were now turned at the yacht water line. The planking splintered, disintegrated. Water poured in. The yacht promptly listed.

  Suddenly there was a terrific blast in the yacht entrails. The hull split wide. A bullet had reached explosive, probably dynamite, carried in the little hold.

  The cruiser sank with magical speed. A single yellow head appeared, but the swimmer was callously murdered.

  "Tom Too gone join his ancestors!" squawled the killers. Doc Savage would have liked to inquire which of the men in the cruiser cabin had been Tom Too. But he couldn't do that, for he was supposed to have known the pirate king.

  The launchers now cruised about in hopes of picking up the body of Tom Too. Many a slant-eyed Jolly Roger expressed a profane desire to possess Tom Too's ears as a souvenir. Bandying ribald jokes as though the whole affair were a lark, the pirates reached an agreement to smoke Tom Too's head and mount it on a pole for all to observe. His body would be skinned, his hide tanned, and each man presented with a piece large enough for a memento. Human fiends, these!

  There was much talk as to who had actually killed Tom Too. Many claimed he had not appeared on deck at all, but had remained below like the hiding dog that he was, and had been slain by the explosion.

  They didn't find Tom Too's carcass. Disgusted somewhat, they headed for camp to celebrate.

  Much strong Chinese wine would be consumed, pots of kaoliang cooked with rice prepared, and those who had opium would divide with those who had none. It would be a jamboree to remember.

  Doc Savage ducked away from this uproar at the first opportunity. His work here was done. He would join his waiting friends. A quick flight back to Mantilla, and they would assist Mindoro in setting up machinery which would make short shift of the leaderless pirates.

  Doc had not progressed fifty yards from camp when snarling, hissing yellow men set upon him.

  * * *

  THE slant-eyed fellows attacked in silence. Pistols were thrust in their belts. Pockets bulged with hand grenades. Yet they used only the crooked kris and short sword.

  It was obvious the assailants wanted to finish Doc without attracting notice from the pirate camp.

  Doc sprang backward, at the same time scooping up a wrist-thick bamboo pole which chanced to be underfoot. With this, he delivered a whack that bowled over the first swordsman.

  Since they wanted no noise, he decided to make some.

  "Help!" he piped in his shrill, assumed tone, "Help! Chopchop!"

  Instantly, pirates surged from the camp.

  Doc's assailants abandoned their effort at quiet. They plucked out firearms.

  Bounding aside, Doc put himself behind the bole of an enormous tree. Bullets jarred into the tree trunk. They did no harm — the attackers could not even see Doc behind the shelter. The tree was a good five feet thick, hiding Doc from view.

  The yellow men rushed the tree, came around it from either side.

  They stopped and goggled, eyes nearly hanging out.

  Their quarry had vanished as though by magic. For twoscore feet up the tree trunk, no branches grew. The possibility that their human game had run up the tree, squirrel fashion, was slow occurring to them.

  When they did look up, the foliage at the top of the tree had swallowed Doc.

  One of the gang hurled a grenade at the approaching pirates. The explosion killed two men. A short, bloody fight followed. No quarter was given or expected. Four minutes later, not one of Doc's attackers remained alive.

  Doc slid down the tree.

  "These fella tly kill me," he explained. "Who these fella? How they get this place?"

  He spoke in pidgin. The reply was couched in the same slattern tongue.

  "These fella belong Tom Too's bodyguald!"

  Cold lights came into Doc's strange golden eyes. "How they get this place?"

  "We not know."

  A short search was pushed in the immediately adjacent jungle, but no skulkers were found. The pirates repaired to their encampment. The preparations for the celebration went forward, although not as boisterously as before. The buccaneers were wondering how the members of Tom Too's personal bodyguard happened to be upon Shark Head Island.

  Doc was doing some pondering also. The thoughts which came to him were not pleasant. He had an awful suspicion Tom Too was not dead, after all.

  Within the hour, this suspicion crystallized into certainty.

  * * *

  A WEAZENED little yellow man appeared before Doc. No other corsairs were near.

  The shriveled fellow extended a bamboo cylinder.

  "This belong alongside you," he smirked.

  Doc took the bamboo tube. Inside was a rolled sheet of thick, glossy Chinese paper. It bore writing:

  The fox is not trapped so easily, bronze man.

  I had the foresight to come ashore during the

  night and send my boat into the bay with only

  the crew aboard, for I did not trust the rabble

  you have turned against me.r />
  The gods were with me last night, for I came

  upon a plane in the bay at the north end of the

  island. Five men loitered near.

  And now, bronze man, I have five prisoners

  instead of the three whom I held for so long.

  Your life is the price which will buy theirs. But

  I do not want you to surrender. You are too

  dangerous a prisoner.

  You will commit suicide, take your own life, in

  front of the assembled men of the camp. I will

  have observers present. When they bring me word

  of your death, your five men will be released.

  No doubt you distrust my word. But I assure

  you it will be kept this once.

  TOM TOO.

  * * *

  Doc read this missive through with the cold expressionless of an image of chilled steel.

  The shriveled messenger backed away. Doc let him go, apparently not even glancing toward the fellow.

  The messenger mingled with the pirates, dodging about in the yellow horde with great frequency. It was apparent he was seeking to lose himself. Several times, he glanced furtively in the direction of the big brown man to whom he had delivered the message tube.

  Doc seemed to be paying no attention. Finally, he entered a convenient tent of poles and matting.

  The weazened messenger scuttled out of camp. He took to the jungle undergrowth and traveled with extreme caution. Each time he crossed a clearing, he waited on the opposite side a while, watching his back trail. He discerned nothing to alarm.

  Nevertheless, the man was being followed. Doc Savage traveled much of the time in the upper lanes of the jungle, employing interlacing branches and creepers for footholds and handgrips. His tremendous strength, his amazing agility, made the treacherous and difficult way seem an easy one.

  The shrunken messenger quickened his pace. He had been promised a reward for delivering the bamboo message tube. Tom Too had told him where it would be hidden, in a hollow tree not far ahead.

  He reached the tree, thrust an arm into a cavity in the trunk, and brought cut a packet. It was several inches square, very weighty.

  "Him heavy like velly many pesos inside!" chortled the man.

  Greedily, he tore off the wrappings.

  There was a red-hot flash, a leviathan of flame that seemed to swallow the man's body. A mushroom of gray-black smoke spouted. Out of this flew segments of the unfortunate one's carcass, as though the fiery leviathan were spitting it out.

  The package had contained a bomb.

  Tom Too had planned that this man should never lead any one who followed him to the hiding place of the master pirate.

  Chapter 18

  PAYMENT IN SUICIDE

  DOC SAVAGE circled the spot where the weazened man had died. He sought the trail left by the one who had placed the bomb. His golden eyes missed nothing, for they had been trained through the years to pick out details such as went unnoticed to an ordinary observer.

  A vine which hung unnaturally, a bush which had been carefully bent aside and then replaced, but which had a single leaf wrong side up — these vague signs showed Doc the course taken by the bomb depositor. The fellow had come and gone by the same route.

  The trail turned out to be a blank. It terminated at the beach, where a boat had landed the man and taken him away.

  Taking to the trees for greater speed, Doc hurried to the bay at the north end of the island. The plane was there, anchored a few yards offshore.

  There was no sign of life about, except the jungle birds which twittered and screamed and fluttered the foliage.

  Doc stood by a sluggish stream which emptied into the bay a few yards from the plane. He decided to try something.

  Moving a little more than a rod down the shore, he suddenly sped into the open, crossed the narrow beach and shot like an arrow into the bay. He had appeared with blinding suddenness, and was in the water almost before an eye could bat.

  Hence it was that a watching machine gunner got into action too late. A stream of bullets turned the water into a leaping suds where Doc had disappeared.

  The gobble of the rapid firer galloped over the bay surface like satanic mirth. Then the noise stopped.

  The gunner ran into the open, the better to see his quarry upon appearance. The man was stocky, broad, with a head like a ball of yellow cheese. He stood, gun ready perhaps a hundred yards from where Doc had entered the water.

  Minute after minute, he waited. An evil grin began to wrinkle his moon of a face. He had killed the bronze devil!

  He did not see the foliage part silently behind him. Nor did he hear the mighty form of a man who glided up to his back.

  Awful agony suddenly paralyzed the fellow's arms. He dropped his machine gun. He groveled, struggled, kicked. He was flung to the sand. There he continued his fighting. But he might as well have tried to get out from under the Empire State Building.

  He could hardly believe his eyes when he saw the giant who held him was the man he thought he had murdered.

  Doc had simply swum under water into the sluggish creek, crawled out and crept silently through the rank undergrowth to the attack.

  * * *

  WITHOUT voicing a word, Doc continued to hold his Victim helpless for the space of some minutes. Doc knew the psychology of fear. The longer the would-be murderer felt the terrible clutch of those metallic hands, the more terrified he would become. And the more frightened he was, the sooner he would tell Doc some things he wanted to know.

  "Where is Tom Too?" Doc demanded. He spoke in his normal voice, couching the words in English.

  "Me not know!" whined the captive in pidgin.

  Doc carried the man into the jungle, found a small clearing, slammed the fellow on his back. The prisoner tried to scream, thinking he was to be slain.

  But Doc merely stared steadily into the man's eyes. The gunner began to squirm. Doc's golden eyes had a weird quality; they seemed to burn into the soul of the captive, to reduce his brain to a beaten and helpless thing.

  The man tried to shut his eyes to shut out the terrible power of those golden orbs. Doc held the man's eyelids apart.

  Hypnotism was another art Doc had studied extensively. He had drained the resources of America on the subject, had studied under a surgeon in Paris who was so accomplished a hypnotist that he used it instead of an anaesthetic when he operated upon patients. A sojourn in mystic India had been added to Doc's perusal of the art. And he had conducted extensive experiments of his own. His knowledge was wide.

  The gunner was not long succumbing. He went into sort of a living sleep.

  "Where is Tom Too?" Doc repeated his earlier query.

  "Me not know."

  "Why don't you?"

  "Me left at this place, watch canvas sky wagon. Tom Too no tell place him go."

  Doc knew the man was telling the truth. The hypnotic spell was seeing to that.

  "What about the five white men who were in the plane?" he demanded.

  The reply was three words that froze Doc's great body.

  "Him all dead."

  * * *

  FOR a long minute and a half, Doc neither moved, spoke, or breathed. The prisoner was not lying, not pulling a trick. The news was a ghastly shock.

  "How did it happen?" Doc asked, and his voice was a low moan of a whisper that the gunner hardly heard.

  "Tom Too, him use poison gas. Five white men, him sit on canvas sky wagon. Gas come. Five white men fall off, sinkee like log."

  "Did you see this happen?"

  "Too dalk see. Me hear. Men scleam, make big splash."

  Doc was done. He dropped a hand into a pocket, brought it out with the needle-containing metal thimbles affixed to the finger tips. He touched the gunner. The fellow promptly slept.

  Doc strode into the water and swam toward the plane. A few yards from it, he suddenly put on a terrific burst of speed. His corded arm shot up, grasped a wing strut. He s
wung aboard not an instant too soon — a great, slate-colored monster reached unsuccessfully for him, tooth-armored jaws gaping.

  A shark! Other triangular fins cut the near-by surface.

  Doc showed no perturbation over his narrow escape. But he felt slightly sick. No need to hunt for the bodies of his friends on the bottom of the bay, not with these hideous sea scavengers around.

  Doc examined the fuel tanks of the plane, found them half full. He gave brief attention to the feed lines, up near the tanks.

  The contents of the plane had not been disturbed. Doc got certain articles which he intended to use. They made a bundle a foot through, nearly four feet long.

  He reached shore by the simple expedient of lifting the anchor and letting the breeze drift the amphibian to the beach.

  Departing from the spot, he noted several birds lying dead in the jungle. The feathered bodies bore no marks. The gas released by Tom Too had undoubtedly killed them.

  Doc did not attempt to search the island. It would have taken many hours to do a thorough job.

  He headed for the pirate camp. He made speed, but he was careful of the bundle he carried.

  The murderous horde were proceeding with their celebration over the death of Tom Too. They did not yet know he was not dead. The festivities consisted exclusively of drinking, gorging with food, smoking opium, to say nothing of frequent fights arising over disputes about whose bullet had actually slain Tom Too.

  Doc singled out a husky half-caste who showed in the way he hogged wine and food that he was of a greedy nature. Several times, this fellow filched a jar of the celebration wine and carried it to his matting tent.

  Doc was there to meet him when he arrived with one of the jars. In the seclusion of the tent, a lengthy conversation occurred. Once, when the half-caste learned some surprising news, it seemed certain a fight was imminent.

  But a large roll of Luzon Union currency changed hands. After that, the half-caste became all smiles and nods of agreement.

  The fellow belted on a big sword and went out to join the celebrants.

  For upward of an hour, Doc worked furiously in the matting tent.

  Stepping outside, he got a barrel of the gasoline used in the launches riches. This he placed, the bunghole open, near the matting tent.