Doc Savage: The Miracle Menace by Kenneth Robeson, Lester Dent, Will Murray

filling station, probably for a drink of water. He got a whiff of Spook Davis and promptly stopped. Spook still reeked of whiskey, and he also looked as if he might be well oiled.
    The Saint assumed a holier-than-thou expression and said, “My brother, it is the weakness of the flesh only that makes us err. Your soul, I know, finds your present condition most repugnant.”
    “I don’t know about my soul,” Spook said, teetering over to peer into the gas tank. “But my stomach is beginning to resent it.”
    The Saint pulled a paper folder from his burlap coat and presented it.
    “What’s this?” Spook wanted to know.
    “A written gem, my brother,” intoned the Saint. “You must read it, for printed there is the kernel of that superb thesis so little understood by this benighted and sinful world. Namely, that the soul is the subconscious guidance of mortal destiny, the power that takes us poor human sheep by the hand and guides us around all pitfalls.”
    Spook grunted, “I don’t get this. What are you guys, anyway?”
    “We are the Silent Saints, apostles of the one true spiritual way,” the other explained.
    “Sure. It says that on the truck.”
    “If your sinful soul craves more knowledge of us, we have our Complete Super-Giant Summary of the True Path of the Silent Saints. It is in book form, which we sell for one dollar to cover the cost of printing.”
    Spook grinned. “Another racket, eh?”
    “Your poor brain, sinfully robbed of its true right by the alcoholic demon, knows not what the evil in your body moves you to utter, my brother.”
    Spook, looking indignant, gritted, “Listen, my brother, if you think—”
    “Tush, tush,” said the Silent Saint mildly. “We are the faith of peace, dwelling nine months out of the year close to the soil in the Promised Land, and for three months of the year traveling to the corners of the nation with our proselytizing units, spreading the true path.”
    IN the west, a streak of lightning bounded along the horizon after which there was a rather resounding grunt of thunder, promise of an approaching rainstorm, which probably accounted for some of the unnatural stillness of the night.
    Gulliver Greene lounged against the tailboard of the truck, listening to the lecture which Spook Davis was receiving, and also watching for a chance to ask one of the Saints privately if he knew a Saint Pete, an inquiry which Gull believed was justified in view of the fact that the girl had worn dark burlap clothing such as these men wore.
    Spook Davis said, very solemnly, “Thank you, my brother, for your good words. Now I am going to tell you something that I have never breathed to a living soul. Would you believe it, but once my soul left me entirely.”
    He was off, exaggerating.
    Spook continued, “Yes, my good brother, for a whole year, I was without any soul. It left my earthly body, and I, the part of me that is physical, remained in a trance—”
    Gull noted one of the Saints on the other side of the truck and started around the rear to speak to the fellow privately.
    Both chance and man’s natural curiosity caused Gull to glance into the van. He yanked it open, then stood on tiptoe and stared.
    Enough light from the filling station marquee entered the van to show the contents—canvas, bundles, folding chairs, some planks, a throne-like chair, and a man sitting in the chair with a canvas strap around his chest and knotted in front, holding him to the chair. A lap robe lay across his knees.
    The strange man had a thin, ascetic face, a high forehead and a firmly lean mouth. He wore his hair long—almost as long as a woman’s tresses. His eyes were open, and were remarkable eyes, being dark, fixed and staring as if sightless. This queer individual was very pale, skin like a waxen dummy.
    Gull squinted, for it struck him there was something familiar about the strange, trance-like figure sitting there. The face, it must be. But where had he seen