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

stored at the seaplane base on the East River side of Manhattan island, at East Twenty-third Street. It was a two-place job, a glaring scarlet with black trim, boasting an engine that was overpowered for an aircraft of its class.
    The establishment had an ingenious method of putting planes in the water. Pat had only to start her trim little craft, taxi onto a concrete turntable, and wait while the mechanism was engaged.
    The turntable ramp was set at an angle so that one side dipped into the river. Pat’s plane was slowly rotated until the amphibian’s pontoon hull was delivered into the water.
    Advancing the throttle, Pat slid off like a duck entering a pond, taxied some distance, and the smart little ship got on step. After some bumping along, the scarlet amphibian took to the air, and overflew the breathtaking ironwork structure that was the Queensboro Bridge.
    Soon, she was winging toward the far tip of Long Island, near Montauk Point lighthouse.
    Finding an address from the air was practically impossible, but with the aid of a handy road map, Pat was able to locate the spot. Barnes Road wound along to the shore and Pat imagined that putting down at the far end was the best place to begin her investigation.
    She was mildly surprised to see a brick boathouse at the water’s edge, with a seaplane docked inside, its snout visible, prop gleaming in the sun. This part of Long Island is inhabited by the well-to-do, so perhaps it was not so unusual.
    Pat eschewed the hangar, however, beaching her ship in a sleepy cove. Tossing out a sea anchor, she picked her way carefully along jetty rocks until she reached solid ground. The area was sparse of homes, so Pat was not challenged by local folk.
    The bronze-haired girl hiked to the place where Barnes Road terminated.
    This time surprise seized her with greater force. For the number she sought—three hundred and thirty-four—was that of a brick mansion that plainly belonged to the seaplane hangar. Or vice versa, actually.
    “Looks like I beat the boys, for once,” she chortled as she reconnoitered the place.
    That was not all she beat, it developed.
    A long phaeton came sliding up. It eased onto a winding white gravel driveway and lurched to a stop.
    Out of it stepped the Continental visitor of the day, his Tyrolean hat jauntily askew. Evidently, he had the presence of mind to carry it from the scene of his late embarrassment.
    With him was a man wearing a rust-colored overcoat that Pat did not place. She had not been informed of the description of the earlier raiders on Doc Savage’s skyscraper establishment.
    “Mr. Trick Cane himself,” Pat muttered. She unlimbered her six-shooter, which was charged with the same mercy bullets Doc Savage had invented. She rarely flung lead indiscriminately, although Pat was not shy about doing so if the occasion called for it.
    As the pair entered the house, Pat slipped up, using topiary shrubbery for shelter. It allowed her to get within peeping-tom distance of a broad bay window.
    Men were inside. Several of them. They were competent looking men with intelligent faces. There was a woman, too. She was seated in a high-backed stuffed armchair. Pat did not place her, and the angle did not allow her to identify the femme as the missing Hornetta Hale—if indeed it was she.
    On the theory that a woman discovered in the company of such men as the Continental assassin and the others was as likely a kidnap victim as not, Pat resolved to liberate her at the earliest opportunity.
    Creeping around to the front door, Pat used a hairpin on the lock. One of her less ladylike skills was lock-picking. Doc Savage had taught her a few tricks of the trade, knowing of Pat’s propensity for getting herself into trouble. It was supposed that the bronze man had grown tired of rescuing his scrappy cousin from peril, and decided to equip her with a few necessary skills.
    The lock quickly surrendered. Pat slid in, gun in hand, and eased through a well-appointed