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

look pleased to see company.”
    “I don’t like the look of that cane,” muttered Monk.
    Pat arched one pencilled eyebrow. “You’re just allergic to them after all the times Ham tried to brain you with his walking stick.”
    Monk scowled. “Take another look.”
    Pat did. “I see now. The cap is missing from the end.”
    “He just took it off.”
    “Why do you suppose he did that?” wondered Pat, brow creasing.
    “Gun or gas in the cane, maybe.”
    “Recognize him?” asked Pat.
    “Naw,” said Monk. “But after all that’s happened, I ain’t takin’ any chances. Step closer and roost on this rubber mat.”
    There was a rubber mat on the floor behind the long desk.
    Pat complied.
    The visitor with the large red hands and cane entered with his hat in hand. It was the type of hat called a Tyrolean. A stiff brush was tucked into the band on one side.
    “Good day to you,” he hailed, waving his hat. His voice sounded immensely pleased, like a voyager who had traveled far and had reached his long-awaited destination.
    “We’re busy.” Monk returned shortly. “Whatcha want?”
    “I seek the gallant known as Doc Savage.”
    “He ain’t here,” said Monk. “I’m his assistant, Monk. State your business.”
    The aristocratic man stood there on the decorative rug, cane gripped casually in both hands. He bent a supercilious eye on Monk Mayfair.
    “I have important information for Doctor Savage, and only for him,” he announced. “It is imperative that I consult with him.”
    Monk growled, “We don’t know where Doc is, or when he will be back. And if you try to use whatever kind of weapon you’ve got in that cane, it’ll be just too bad.”
    The visitor looked nonplussed in a casual way. He was, they saw, the cool and nervy type.
    “My information,” the man said without agitation, “concerns one Hornetta Hale.”
    Monk began, “If you would bust loose with some info—”
    “Watch it, Monk!” Pat suddenly warned.
    The visitor was tilting his cane up at Monk. The tip pointed at the notch between the hairy chemist’s tiny eyes.
    Monk tapped a small pedal on the floor.
    Results were instantaneous.
    The visitor shrieked unmanfully, dropped his came, and tied himself in a knot. Moaning, he tried to pick up the cane. When his fingertips came near the brass handle, blue sparks leaped toward him. This produced another howl of anguish.
    Scuttling like a crab, the man attempted to crawl out of the reception room, moaning and shrieking.
    Monk depressed the floor pedal again. He leaped out from behind the massive desk and across the electrified rug, which was woven of fine wire which could not be distinguished from the other fibers unless a magnifying glass was used. The current had merely given the man an uncomfortable shock.
    The visitor had quick wits. No sooner had the juice stopped contorting his paralyzed body than he yanked a small two-shot derringer from somewhere and gave Monk Mayfair both barrels in the stomach.
    The caliber of weapon was undoubtedly heavier than the typical .22 derringer round. Monk was thrown backward with great force. That was enough for the man to reach the elevator, although he stumbled once and had to pick himself up.
    The door responded instantly. That was fortunate for the man and unfortunate for the others. For Pat Savage had come flying out, a ludicrously large six-shooter in one tanned fist. She had extracted it from her commodious handbag.
    Pat aimed and managed to send one .44 slug ripping through the closing doors. After that, the cage was sinking.
    “Darn it!” she complained. She raced for the super-speed express elevator, with the intention of using it to beat the man to the lobby. Pressing the button, she discovered the cage was parked at the lobby level. Her eager expression sank to the marble floor.
    “Drat!” fumed Pat.
    Monk picked himself up with difficulty and grabbed a telephone. “Building electrician!” he shouted. When the connection came, he