TEXT:  
   
   
   
  THE SPOTTED MEN 
  A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson 
   
  Originally published in DOC SAVAGE Magazine March 1940 
   
   
  A Complete Book-length Novel 
   
  by KENNETH ROBESON 
   
  A  human  fiend  gambles  the  minds  and  
  bodies  of  men—to amass a vast fortune! 
   
  Chapter I 
  THE RED SPOTS 
   
  THE midget racing car was about as 
  long as the tow-headed young man, provided 
  he had been lying down. But Tink O’Neil 
  wasn’t lying down. His long, lanky form 
  looked as if he were trying to get it beneath 
  the raised hood of the car. His tow head was 
  practically out of sight. 
  
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  2 
  Then the upper half of Tink O’Neil 
  came out from beneath the hood, and he 
  straightened. 
  His 
  tanned, 
  nice-looking 
  features were grease-smeared. Tink O’Neil 
  looked more like a garage “grease monkey” 
  than a clever young fellow who knew a whole 
  lot about engineering, steel and midget cars. 
  Tink O’Neil turned to the man sitting 
  on the track fence, grinned and announced, 
  “Well, she’s all set for a speed trial, Mr. 
  Mason. And you just watch; it’s going to be 
  pretty.” 
  Later, Tink O’Neil was going to 
  wonder why he ever made that statement. 
  He was going to regret, almost, that he ever 
  climbed behind the wheel of the fast-looking 
  little racer. 
  Tink O’Neil fastened down the hood. 
  The motor of the small car was already 
  turning over with a sweet pur. 
  The man on the fence said, “I’ll clock 
  you around once, then open her up when you 
  pass me.” 
  Tink O’Neil grinned. “Hope you see 
  me when I go by!” 
  The man on the fence looked like 
  somebody of importance. He was somewhat 
  stout, well dressed, with steel-gray hair and 
  good features. He was probably one of the 
  richest men in America. He was president, at 
  least, of one of America’s largest steel 
  companies. 
  He was J. Henry Mason, a man 
  known throughout the United States. 
  The steel millionaire said now, “Be 
  careful, Tink. Remember, this is really a test 
  of that new steel in the brake drums and the 
  rear axle—not a race in which you are 
  supposed to break your neck.” 
  The tone of J. Henry Mason’s voice 
  said that he liked this young man a good 
  deal. For Tink O’Neil was trouble-shooter at 
  one of the great steel plants of the 
  millionaire. He was a valued employee. And 
  he was always tinkering around with cars and 
  engines. 
  It just happened that his hobby was 
  midget racing cars. 
  Tink was climbing beneath the 
  wheel. He had a time tucking his long, lanky 
  legs beneath the cowling of the small car. He 
  pulled goggles down over his eyes. 
  J. Henry Mason got down from the 
  fence. For a large man, he moved with quick, 
  efficient steps. He added: 
  “Only a couple times around, Tink. 
  Don’t forget, I have an appointment to meet 
  Molly and that girl Pat Savage. They’re trying 
  out Molly’s new plane this morning. It’s got 
  that new T.3 steel in the wing construction. 
  So I haven’t much time.” 
  Tink O’Neil nodded. He gunned the 
  motor, and the soft purr became a roar. 
  There was the smell of castor oil, some of 
  which is used in all racing cars. Dust kicked 
  out behind the small car. 
  Tink started up, eased through the 
  speeds and jogged along at about fifty 
  around the half-mile dirt track. 
  J. Henry Mason watched with a half 
  smile on his features. Some lad—he thought. 
  Smart as a whip, and slated to get to the top. 
  He saw Tink around the two far curves, and 
  then the young man was coming into the 
  straightaway. He opened the car up wide. 
  The car came down the home stretch 
  like a flashing yellow comet. J. Henry Mason 
  stood ready with his stop watch. As Tink 
  streaked past, he clocked him. 
  Dust blanketed over the steel king. 
  He blinked, squinted, finally managed to see 
  the car roaring into the first turn. Tink O’Neil 
  was taking it wide at the start, cutting across 
  the arc and hitting the dangerous curve on 
  the inside rail as he got half way around. 
  Mason nodded approvingly. That 
  was the way to take them, he knew. 
  Then Tink was in the back stretch, 
  wide open, easing out in order to take the far 
  curve. He went into it in a cloud of dust and 
  spewing small stones. Almost instantly, he 
  was out of it and hammering down the home 
  stretch. Mason held his stop watch ready to 
  catch the time. 
  But something happened. 
   
   
  THE car seemed to be out of control. 
  It was swaying. 
  And then J. Henry Mason gasped as 
  he saw what was the trouble. 
  The back left wheel was coming off! 
  Attached to the wheel was part of the 
  rear axle. The thing came suddenly loose, 
  crashed the wooden guard rail of the fence, 
  
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  3 
  tearing down a dozen feet of the heavy 
  wood. 
  The car zoomed around in a crazy 
  circle. It made two complete turns, half of 
  another, shot backward along the dirt track. 
  J. Henry Mason cried out in horror 
  and leaped clear. The next moment, he 
  figured, it would go over and Tink O’Neil 
  would be ground to a pulp. For in these 
  midget cars there was no room for the driver 
  to get his whole body ducked down beneath 
  the protective cowling of the machine. 
  But, miraculously, the car did not turn 
  over. It ended up, instead, against the railing 
  with a crash. Oil smoke and dust temporarily 
  veiled it. J. Henry Mason held his breath. 
  Perhaps—  
  Then the cloud drifted away and he 
  saw Tink O’Neil climbing from the small car. 
  Tink’s goggles were pushed back from his 
  dust-smeared face, and where his eyes had 
  been covered they appeared like white small 
  saucers surrounded by grime and dirt. 
  Tink O’Neil said grimly, “Look, Mr. 
  Mason, this T.3—our new steel is supposed 
  to be tougher and stronger than any known 
  steel—was used in the axles and brake 
  drums, wasn’t it?” 
  Mason nodded. “Certainly, because I 
  supervised the job myself.” 
  “I know,” said Tink. “But do you know 
  what happened?” 
  “What?” the millionaire wanted to 
  know. 
  “That rear axle crystallized. I heard 
  the whine as it let go. It snapped right in two.” 
  “But—” 
  “And these brake drums. They did 
  the same. Wait, I’ll show you—” Tink was 
  already on the ground, sliding under a part of 
  the midget car that was clear of the track. 
  He continued: “I can’t understand it, 
  Mr. Mason. Every brake drum is split wide 
  open, and I had barely started to use the 
  brakes when I felt that rear wheel going. 
  They’ve cracked open just as though they 
  were made out of tin.” 
  Mason looked as if he was going to 
  choke. He exclaimed, “But T.3 is the greatest 
  steel 
  ever 
  produced! 
  It’s 
  going 
  to 
  revolutionize the steel industry. It’s going  
  to—” 
  From beneath the car, Tink O’Neil 
  said, “What did you say, sir?” 
  There was no answer. Tink frowned, 
  because the steel king’s words had broken 
  off abruptly. 
  He asked again, “What did you say?” 
  There was still no answer. And from 
  where he was, Tink could not see the giant of 
  a man who had stepped from the tall bushes 
  near the track rail and seized J. Henry 
  Mason. 
   
   
  AT first, not getting any reply from 
  Mason, Tink O’Neil figured that the steel 
  millionaire had most likely walked back down 
  to the dirt track in order to inspect the broken 
  axle attached to the wheel, which had come 
  off. 
  So Tink went on prying at the broken 
  piece of brake drum which he had found as 
  he slid beneath the racing car. The brake 
  drum had cracked, and now he had a piece 
  of it almost free. He was quite anxious to 
  inspect it and to learn what had happened to 
  T.3. 
  As J. Henry Mason had mentioned, 
  T.3 was the latest invention of his vast steel 
  mills. It was a formula that was going to 
  cause a lot of changes in airplanes, 
  armaments and ships. Because it was the 
  toughest and strongest steel known—and 
  also the lightest in weight. 
  Mason had mentioned something 
  about his pretty daughter Molly trying out a 
  new plane, alone with someone named Pat 
  Savage. Tink recalled hearing something 
  about this from Mollie herself. 
  For Tink O’Neil knew Molly Mason 
  pretty well. He thought she was just about 
  tops. He even had hopes that some day—  
  Well, anyway, he saw a lot of her. 
  And Molly Mason had told Tink 
  O’Neil about her new plane, which was to be 
  ready today. A girl named Pat Savage was 
  going to go up with her. It seemed Molly had 
  met this other girl at an exclusive beauty 
  salon in New York. Pat Savage owned and 
  operated the beauty establishment. But Pat 
  Savage, according to Molly, was the kind of 
  girl who would rather be flying planes and 
  getting into some sort of adventure, instead 
  of staying in New York. 
  
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  4 
  MEET THE CHARACTERS IN "THE SPOTTED MEN" 
   
  DOC SAVAGE   One of the most famous and unusual men in the wide world. He's tops 
  mentally, physically, morally. He rights wrongs, and is the Nemesis of evildoers. He is skilled in 
  many things, but particularly in several branches of science. 
   
  RENNY   A giant of a man physically, and one of the country's outstanding engineers. His 
  correct name is Colonel John Renwick. And can he fight! 
   
  MONK   Another fighter—a tough brawler. His mail is addressed "Andrew Blodgett Mayfair"—
  but you'd never guess it from his appearance. He looks not unlike a gorilla. Yet he's a most 
  accomplished chemist. 
   
  HAM   Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks, if you want to be formal and snooty about it. 
  Like Renny and Monk, he's an associate of Doc Savage. He's a clever lawyer, a vicious 
  fighter—and incidentally one of the half-dozen best-dressed men in the U. S. A. 
   
  PAT SAVAGE   Doc's cousin. She's considerable of a girl, and she's got more than just looks 
  and figure. She has brains and courage, and likes to co-operate with Doc in his various adven-
  tures. 
   
  J. HENRY MASON   A millionaire owner of a steel pant. 
   
  MOLLY MASON   His daughter. She's a pal of Par Savage—and this got her in something of a 
  jam. 
   
  WALTER MASON   Molly's fat cousin. He seems sleepy and lazy, but don't get him wrong! 
   
  LEIDENBERG   Manager of J. Henry Mason's steel plant—and with a few private activities on 
  the side. 
   
  WILLIE WATT   Superintendent of the same plant. A fellow who seemed meek—but you know 
  that kind! 
   
  TINK O'NEIL   A trouble-shooter—and he shot so much trouble this time that it took Doc 
  Savage and his pals to straighten out things. 
   
   
   
  These things flashed through Tink 
  O’Neil’s mind as he crawled from beneath his 
  small racing car. They suddenly took on a 
  terrible significance. 
  Because Tink was staring at the 
  broken brake drum which he held in his 
  hand, and at the steel which composed that 
  brake drum. The same kind of steel that was 
  in the wings of Molly Mason’s new speed 
  plane. 
  The 
  tow-headed 
  young 
  troubleshooter’s mouth fell open, and he 
  started to exclaim, “Good grief, this is—” 
  He stopped, staring around for the 
  millionaire steel king. He looked back down 
  to the track, in order to call out the startling 
  information to J. Henry Mason. 
  But Mason was nowhere in sight. 
  That was odd, Tink O’Neil thought. 
  Because the dirt track was a small, private 
  proving grounds that only Tink and the steel 
  king ever used. It was deserted. There was 
  an empty, small grandstand and a judges’ 
  tower across the way, inside the rail. It would 
  be mighty easy to see anyone out there on 
  the stretch of straightaway. 
  
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  5 
  But there was no millionaire, no 
  sound. Only the quietude of early morning 
  and the soft rustling of birds in the trees 
  located inside the inner fence of the oval. 
  Puzzled, Tink O’Neil called the 
  millionaire’s name. He put down the heavy 
  piece of brake drum and started looking 
  around. And he came upon the footprints in 
  the dust not far from where his car had 
  cracked up. 
  One set of prints was much larger 
  than the other, as though they might have 
  been made by a man with huge feet. Tink 
  instantly knew that J. Henry Mason’s shoes 
  were nowhere as near as large as these. He 
  frowned. 
  The footprints made a crooked trail 
  inside the rail, disappeared beneath thick 
  foliage which grew almost up to the 
  protective guard rail of the track. 
  Tink ducked beneath the bushes, 
  prowled around for fifteen minutes and 
  found—nothing! 
  Suddenly, it came to him that there 
  was 
  something 
  awfully 
  queer 
  about 
  happenings during the past half hour. First, 
  his narrow escape from death. And now the 
  sudden disappearance of the millionaire steel 
  magnate. 
  Again Tink O’Neil thought of J. Henry 
  Mason’s statement about Molly’s new plane, 
  and the tryout which was taking place this 
  morning. Horror leaped over Tink. T.3 was in 
  that new plane—and now Molly was headed 
  toward death. 
  With panic seizing him, Tink O’Neil 
  abruptly made off across the dust of the 
  track. He changed into a fast sprint. He 
  recalled that there was a phone booth 
  beneath the grandstand. From there he could 
  call Molly and warn her—  
  And then he remembered that he 
  had no slightest idea as to just where the 
  plane tryout was to take place. There was no 
  way he could reach the girl! 
  And yet there was! 
   
   
  IT came to Tink in a flash. He 
  recalled that this girl Pat Savage, who was to 
  fly with Molly this morning, was a cousin or 
  something like that of a person named Doc 
  Savage. Tink, from time to time, had heard 
  details about Doc Savage. 
  He remembered that Doc Savage—
  they called him the Man of Bronze—was 
  supposed to be a mental giant, a scientific 
  genius of some sort. Perhaps Doc Savage 
  could get in touch with this girl Pat Savage—  
  Tink O’Neil reached the phone 
  booth, found a nickel in his grease-smeared 
  jumper and finally got hold of Long Distance. 
  He recalled that Doc Savage had his 
  headquarters in New York. But he had no 
  idea just how he was ever going to explain 
  how to reach him. 
  He said, “Look, I haven’t any change 
  here, operator. But it’s urgent that I reach a 
  person named Doc Savage, in New York. 
  You’ll have to reverse the charges if you can. 
  Maybe the New York end can help you find 
  the address of Doc Savage. Or perhaps—” 
  The operator’s words shocked Tink 
  O’Neil. For she said, “Oh, it’s no trouble at 
  all. I can get Doc Savage for you in a 
  moment. Just hold the line.” 
  Tink gasped. Apparently this fellow 
  Doc Savage was well known to the telephone 
  company. He must get a lot of phone calls, 
  the tow-headed young man thought—  
  He heard the connection being 
  made, and the operator talking to a man who 
  said this was the headquarters of Doc 
  Savage. The man wanted to know who was 
  calling. Operator relayed the question. 
  “Tell him it’s James O’Neil,” Tink said 
  excitedly. “But that won’t mean a thing to 
  him.” He thought quickly. “Look, inform him 
  that it’s about his cousin Pat Savage. Tell 
  him it’s terribly urgent, a matter of life or—” 
  Abruptly, Tink paused. He listened in 
  partial awe to the voice which came clearly 
  and yet quietly over the wires. The voice held 
  a strange, compelling quality, and had the 
  clearness of a deep-toned bell despite the 
  fact that it was miles away. 
  The unusual voice said, “This is Doc 
  Savage speaking. What is it you wish to say 
  about Pat Savage?” 
  Breathlessly, Tink O’Neil told what 
  he knew about Molly Mason’s appointment to 
  fly a new plane with Pat Savage. He tried to 
  tell something about what had happened 
  here at the track, but he was so excited he 
  
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  6 
  got incoherent. And so he switched back to 
  the girls, and yelled: 
  “Look, Mr. Savage, I’ve heard of 
  those short-wave radios and some of the 
  gadgets you use in your work. Well, you’ve 
  got to reach them—somehow. Get hold of 
  them and stop them from going up in that 
  new plane!” 
  “Why?” The question, some strange 
  quality of the tone, partially calmed Tink 
  O’Neil. 
  “Because,” Tink went on, “they’re in 
  terrible danger. You see, it’s about T.3, 
  and—” 
  Abruptly, Tink O’Neil stopped. And 
  stared. Gawked in wide-eyed astonishment 
  at the figure standing just outside the phone-
  booth door. 
  It was a man of giant size. He must 
  have been close to seven feet tall. From the 
  waist up, he was naked. 
  For just an instant, recognition 
  flashed across Tink’s face. This giant fellow 
  was Jeff Hanson, one of the steel workers 
  from Open-hearth Shop No. 5, located only a 
  mile from here. 
  And then, in the next moment, Tink 
  gasped, “No! It can’t be!” 
  For Big Jeff Hanson, for all his 
  muscular hulk, was a quiet, plodding worker 
  who never as much as raised his voice or 
  showed the slightest anger. He was a brute 
  of a man as gentle as an ox. 
  But this man here— 
  Tink drew back in fear. The man’s 
  left eye was closed, squinted shut in a 
  peculiar manner that gave his whole face the 
  silly expression of a lunatic. He was giggling 
  softly, and at the same time watching Tink 
  O’Neil. 
  And this was only a half of the horror 
  of the man’s appearance. 
  For from the waist up, where he was 
  naked, his body was covered with livid red 
  spots, like blotches of inflamed red pimples. 
  The red spots were on the face as well, and 
  added to the closed, squinting eye, they 
  made the giant look like a painted clown. 
  A clown that was stark mad! 
  One word flashed through Tink 
  O’Neil’s whirling brain. Smallpox! The red 
  marks made him think of the dreaded 
  disease. 
  But even this wasn’t half as dreadful 
  as the fellow’s insane regard. He made a 
  movement toward Tink. 
  The receiver still in his hand, Tink 
  O’Neil yelled into the mouthpiece, “He’s 
  crazy! He’s crazy as a loon. And he’s 
  covered with red spots. I—” 
  Tink O’Neil’s words ended in a 
  gurgle as the giant figure seized him, slapped 
  a hand over his mouth and dragged him from 
  the phone booth. 
  The telephone receiver swayed back 
  and forth on its short length of cord. 
   
   
  Chapter II 
  THE MADMEN 
   
  TINK O’NEIL was not a coward. And 
  for all his lankiness, he was as hard as the 
  steel which had been his business for several 
  years past. 
  And it is quite likely that he would not 
  have stood a chance against the giant of a 
  half-naked man except for one thing. The 
  menacing red spots. 
  Sight of the spots drove Tink O’Neil a 
  little berserk. They scared him. And so he 
  fought like fury. 
  He broke free of the giant figure’s 
  grasp, ducked low, and butted the grinning 
  lunatic with his head. Tink O’Neil put all the 
  steam he had into the flying dive. 
  It felt as though he had smacked up 
  against a brick wall. The giant figure stood on 
  spread feet, and his eye kept squinting and 
  he merely grinned foolishly. He made some 
  sort of sound like a giggle, and launched out 
  at the young trouble-shooter again. 
  Startled, Tink O’Neil side-stepped, 
  spun away from the groping, huge arms. He 
  shuddered at sight of the hairy torso covered 
  with the red spots. He took out at a gallop in 
  a direction away from the giant figure. 
  But the madman ran after him, 
  gobbling up distance as his massive feet 
  slapped the ground. Tink managed to get 
  clear of the grandstand, reached the dirt 
  track again and went sprinting back toward 
  where his wrecked racing car was against 
  the fence. 
  
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  7 
  He gulped in chunks of air as the 
  giant fellow closed in behind him. Tink 
  O’Neil’s gray eyes were wide in his dirt-and-
  grease-smeared face. He had to hold out 
  another moment, because back near the 
  midget racer there was something—  
  The giant, giggling man was almost 
  on top of him when Tink reached the pile of 
  stuff near the fence. The objects were tools 
  which the sandy-haired young man had 
  brought along when he drove the racer to the 
  small track. In the pile was a heavy wrench. 
  Tink scooped up the wrench, whirled 
  around and took a swing at his assailant. He 
  missed the giant figure by a fraction of an 
  inch. 
  And the fellow merely stood there, 
  grinning, one eye squinting crazily. 
  Tink was aghast. He knew that if he 
  had connected with the heavy wrench, that 
  he probably would have brained the crazed 
  man. 
  Then, oddly, the giant fellow stared 
  queerly at Tink. He seemed to be turning 
  something over in his mind, if you could say 
  that he was capable of concentration. 
  On a sudden impulse, he jerked 
  around and started running like mad in the 
  opposite direction. 
   
   
  FOR an instant, Tink O’Neil merely 
  stared. Then he took out after the giant 
  figure. For as long as this fellow with the red 
  spots had not actually seized him, Tink 
  O’Neil 
  was 
  not 
  so 
  scared. 
  He 
  was 
  determined to learn more of this crazy 
  mystery. 
  Mystery of a wrecked racing car, of 
  the disappearance of millionaire J. Henry 
  Mason—and the appearance of a madman 
  with red spots. 
  Tink was certain that the giant man 
  was a steelworker. He most certainly looked 
  like a man Tink knew at the open-hearth 
  shop. And yet—  
  Tink abruptly yelled, “Hey!” 
  Because the giant he was chasing 
  had made suddenly for the wrecked car. In 
  passing the machine, the fellow dived down 
  and jerked up the piece of broken brake 
  drum that Tink had, a little earlier, been 
  inspecting. With the drum in his huge hands, 
  the man leaped toward the brush and 
  undergrowth just inside the inner rail. 
  He disappeared. 
  But Tink O’Neil was able to follow the 
  loud sounds of his crashing feet. Tink’s 
  progress, however, was slower. 
  He finally emerged on the far side of 
  the oval, and saw—some distance away—
  the giant fellow streaking across to a 
  roadway that wound through woods beyond 
  the testing grounds. Tink followed. 
  And ten minutes later it dawned on 
  Tink where the giant was headed. For ahead, 
  the great line of mammoth smokestacks had 
  loomed up in the air. There was the black 
  smoke, the smell of the great steel mills. It 
  was the big Open-hearth Shop No.5. 
  They were approaching the plant 
  from the rear, and the road snaked in and out 
  of the trees. Ahead, Tink still heard the 
  crashing of the giant figure’s feet, though he 
  only caught glimpses of the spotted man 
  from time to time. 
  Finally, Tink arrived at the gate in the 
  high steel fence that surrounded the big 
  shops. No one was around, but he saw the 
  marks of the giant’s shoes in the dusty road. 
  Tink put on a burst of speed, raced into the 
  long storage yard surrounding the huge 
  towering, smoke-blackened buildings. 
  And a dozen yards ahead, a freight 
  train—it consisted of five or six open cars 
  loaded with pig iron—backed into the yard 
  and cut off the young trouble-shooter’s 
  progress. 
   
   
  BY the time the slow-moving train 
  had 
  gone 
  past, 
  Tink’s 
  quarry 
  had 
  disappeared. He saw no signs of the giant 
  man. 
  But what he did see was the excited 
  group of steelworkers headed for the huge 
  entrance doors of the open-hearth shop. Tink 
  ran up to them. 
  He caught the excited talking, the 
  shouts of dismay that came from the throats 
  of the husky steelworkers. Like the giant 
  crazed man had been, they wore only thick-
  soled work-shoes and trousers. From the 
  waist up, they were naked and grimy and 
  sweat-smeared. Obviously, the men had just 
  come running out of another of the shops, 
  
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  8 
  and were headed toward the vast, vaulted 
  length of No. 5. 
  Tink asked, “What’s wrong?” 
  The workmen knew the young, tow-
  headed engineer. Tink had devised a number 
  of improvements around the various steel 
  shops. He was favored by the men. 
  “Wrong?” exclaimed one of the 
  workers. “Hell, Tink, plenty’s wrong! Come 
  along.” 
  Tink joined the excited group of men, 
  and another said to him, “Say, maybe you 
  can talk to him!” 
  “Talk to whom?” Tink asked. 
  “Johnson.” 
  “What about Johnson?” 
  “He’s cracked up! The heat’s got 
  him, Tink. He’s in No. 5 here and they say as 
  how he’s stark mad!” 
  Shock ran through lanky Tink O’Neil. 
  What was this damnable mystery that had so 
  abruptly hit the steel plant? A worker 
  attacking himself. And now another gone 
  berserk! 
  He led the group of steel workers 
  inside the vast space of the foundry. Heat—
  heat that was well over a hundred degrees—
  hit them in the faces like a blast of air from a 
  furnace. 
  There 
  was 
  the 
  misty, 
  thick 
  atmosphere of molten steel and the blast 
  furnaces, and the roar of air being forced into 
  the bottom of the towering cupolas. A huge 
  crucible of molten steel hung from an 
  overhead crane, but the crane operator was 
  sitting in shocked wonder, unable to lower 
  the molten steel because of the confusion on 
  the dirt floor beneath him. 
  Half a hundred husky steelworkers 
  were lined up on that floor, staring in 
  amazement at one who was on the runway 
  above them. 
  The runway was a platform in front of 
  the line of giant furnaces. It was from here 
  that the furnaces were “tapped” and the 
  white-hot metal drawn off into the great 
  crucibles. But there was no work going on 
  now. 
  The single workman was moving 
  along the platform, his eyes glazed, a sound 
  like giggling coming from his slack mouth. 
   
   
  TINK O’NEIL, like the others near 
  him, stared in horror. The man was Johnson, 
  a worker with a long and efficient record. 
  Johnson had never been known to lose his 
  temper. He got along well with his fellow 
  men. He had a wife and four kids, and he 
  never missed a day at the shops. 
  But now the man was stark mad. 
  Tink, with a start, noted that one of Johnson’s 
  eyes was closed in a squint much like that of 
  the giant who had attacked him. And there 
  were the unsightly red spots—the pimply, 
  gruesome spots that had likewise been on 
  the bared torso and face of the first crazed 
  man. 
  The madman stopped his prowling 
  along the platform, gripped an iron guard rail, 
  and leered down at his fellow men. It was 
  then that Tink stepped forward. 
  A gasp went up behind him as Tink 
  cupped his hands around his lips and 
  shouted, “Johnson! You come down here!” 
  In emergencies, Tink O’Neil had 
  commandeered men before. And there was a 
  tone in his words now that caused the 
  grinning, red-spotted man to turn his head 
  and look at the tow-headed trouble-shooter. 
  The man’s mouth opened and a 
  sound like a grunt came from his throat. He 
  was trying to speak, to say something 
  coherent. The onlookers could tell that from 
  the strained expression on Johnson’s face. 
  Tink O’Neil called, “It’s all right, 
  Johnson. Come down. No one’s going to 
  bother you!” 
  The red-spotted big man seemed to 
  gather a little something of Tink O’Neil’s 
  words. He gave a half nod, then moved 
  toward an iron ladder that led down from the 
  platform. 
  Others moved back in fear as the 
  perspiring, massive worker approached Tink 
  O’Neil. Someone said guardedly, “Don’t be a 
  chump, Tink. The guy is nuts!” 
  But Tink O’Neil stood where he was. 
  Johnson came close up to him, 
  watching Tink carefully as he moved slowly 
  across the big floor of the shop. Then he 
  paused, his one eye half squinting, the ugly 
  red spots gleaming beneath the sweat of his 
  bared body. 
  Tink said quietly, “What is it, fella? 
  What happened to you?” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  9 
  The man kept staring. The other 
  workers had moved far back against a wall. 
  Their eyes were wide. 
  Suddenly, 
  without 
  warning, 
  big 
  Johnson let out an unholy yell and leaped 
  past Tink O’Neil. One workman had been 
  slower than his partners in moving back from 
  the spot. 
  The man was seized by wild-eyed 
  Johnson, hefted like a small child above the 
  crazed man’s head, and raced down the long 
  length of the shop floor. 
  A man screamed. Tink O’Neil leaped 
  to race after the madman, but even as he 
  moved he knew he was too late. 
  A dozen feet from the suspended, 
  overhead crucible of molten steel, big 
  Johnson paused, then hurled the man he 
  held as though the poor fellow might have 
  been a toy. 
  He hurled him up into the mammoth 
  caldron of molten steel. 
   
   
  LATER, the madman escaped. After 
  his blood-chilling act, he continued his plunge 
  through the long foundry and out a doorway 
  at the far end. Some of the more courageous 
  workmen 
  followed. 
  They 
  searched 
  the 
  extensive yards of the steel plant. Five 
  hundred men joined in, and many had clubs 
  and weapons. 
  But they found no trace of red-
  spotted Johnson. 
  Tink reported the disappearance of 
  J. Henry Mason. He did not tell this to the 
  men in the shops. Instead, he went to a 
  phone in a small office at one end of the big 
  foundry. He called the front office and told 
  the plant manager of the mystery. 
  He wasted little time in explanations. 
  There was no time for that now. He had to 
  reach Molly, who was going to take up a 
  plane in which there was some of the famous 
  T.3. He had to save her life! 
  Tink, avoiding the others, hurried 
  from the open-hearth shop and quickly 
  reached his small coupé, parked not far 
  inside the gates of the vast plant. It was only 
  a ten-minute ride to the big home of J. Henry 
  Mason. Perhaps someone there could tell 
  him exactly where the girl and Pat Savage 
  had gone. 
  For even though Tink had put 
  through a call to Doc Savage, he doubted 
  that the remarkable bronze man could do any 
  good. He was too far away, to begin with. 
  Tink drove madly. The millionaire’s 
  palatial residence was on the main highway 
  leading into Buffalo. Luckily for Tink O’Neil, 
  he did not have to get into the traffic of the 
  large city. The estate was well on the 
  outskirts, and only a short drive from the big 
  steel plant. 
  The grounds bordered the highway 
  itself, but the rambling stone house was set 
  far back beneath enshrouding trees and 
  carefully-tended shrubs. Tink slammed his 
  small car up the circling drive, jammed on his 
  brakes before a long veranda and leaped 
  out. He had already seen the man on the 
  front porch. 
  It was Molly’s cousin, Walter Mason. 
  Even sounds of Tink O’Neil’s noisy 
  arrival had not aroused the fat young man 
  from a peaceful slumber in a reclining chair. 
  Walter Mason was more than fat. He 
  bulged. His various chins bulged, his 
  stomach bulged past his chest and his thick 
  lips puffed out as he snored contentedly. He 
  had thin, scraggly blond hair and his big head 
  appeared to bulge out beneath that hair. 
  Tink O’Neil shook Walter Mason and 
  cried, “For Heaven’s sake, man, wake up!” 
  Walter Mason stirred. Or rather, 
  some of him moved and the rest just 
  trembled like jelly. He opened his eyes. 
  He had round, bright eyes in a round, 
  fat face. 
  He murmured, “Huh?” 
  Then he recognized Tink O’Neil and 
  sat up with an effort. He said, puzzled, “What 
  the devil’s wrong with you? Look like you’ve 
  seen a ghost, Tink.” 
  “Look!” Tink O’Neil gasped. “You’ve 
  got to tell me where I can find Molly. It’s 
  awful. It’s terrible. We’ve got to tell her about 
  T.3 and that her plane might crash, and—” 
  Fat Walter Mason made no further 
  attempt to get up. That would have been too 
  much of an effort, and the lazy young man 
  never exerted himself unless absolutely 
  necessary. 
  He said with a sigh, “For the love of 
  Pete, will you sit down and stop that 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  10 
  shouting? Here, I’ll order you a drink. You are 
  a sight. You look like you need one—” 
  The fat man was reaching toward a 
  button attached to a cord near the head of 
  his chair. He kept pawing around with his 
  flabby hand, attempting to locate the cord 
  without raising up. 
  “Listen,” rapped Tink O’Neil. “I guess 
  I’ll have to take time to tell you—” 
  Briefly, he told about the crack-up of 
  the racing car, of the strange disappearance 
  of J. Henry Mason. Also of the mad workmen 
  at the steel plant. He ended with: 
  “Don’t ask me what it is. Don’t think 
  I’m wacky. It’s something terrible that’s 
  happening and . . . and we’ve got to reach 
  Molly. Her life’s in danger, man!” 
  At last, as Tink talked, Walter 
  showed interest, and then worry. He sat up. 
  The chair creaked beneath him. But his 
  bright, alert eyes were now sharp. 
  “Grief!” he exclaimed. “Then we’ll 
  have to do something.” 
  Tink O’Neil sighed. “That’s what I’ve 
  been trying to tell you! Well, where can we 
  locate her?” 
  Walter Mason tugged at one of his 
  chins. “Let me see,” he said musingly. “She 
  was out long before I got up this morning. 
  And I was just catching a little nap now. I 
  haven’t the slightest idea—” He snapped his 
  fat fingers. “But perhaps the servants will 
  know.” 
   
   
  WALTER waddled off into the big 
  house. Tink followed. And five minutes later, 
  after questioning half a dozen servants, they 
  knew no more than they had to start. 
  Apparently pretty Molly Mason had told no 
  one where she was going to try out the new 
  plane. 
  But fat Walter seemed more worried 
  about J. Henry Mason himself. He said. “But 
  what’s happened to him? Gracious, we 
  simply must call the police or do something!” 
  Tink ordered, “Wait!” 
  “But—” 
  “I’ve already called on a man who 
  can do more than the police. I’ve got in touch 
  with Doc Savage!” 
  Walter Mason looked at Tink. “You 
  mean, the Doc Savage?” 
  Tink O’Neill nodded. “And now, 
  about Molly—” 
  But Walter was already headed 
  toward a phone in the spacious center 
  hallway. He said, “Gosh, Doc Savage knows 
  J. Henry. I’m going to make certain he’s 
  going to help us.” 
  Tink watched the fat young man. 
  Walter was not worried about lovely Molly. 
  Instead, his fear was for the millionaire. Tink 
  could understand that. J. Henry Mason kept 
  up a small trust fund for Walter. And now the 
  fat, lazy fellow was worried about the source 
  of that income. A day’s work would probably 
  kill Walter, Tink knew. 
  In a few moments, Walter was 
  connected with Doc Savage’s headquarters 
  in New York. Tink waited until Walter had 
  hung up, then asked, “Well?” 
  “One 
  of 
  Doc 
  Savage’s 
  aids 
  answered,” supplied Walter. “He said that 
  two men named Monk Mayfair and Ham 
  Brooks are seeking the girls in their plane. It 
  seems they’ve already been in touch with 
  them, and—” 
  Tink’s eyes brightened hopefully. 
  “Where are they?” he prodded. 
  “They took off from that private field 
  out near Lake Erie, outside Buffalo. And 
  they—” 
  But Tink was already headed back 
  toward the veranda. He called back, “Then 
  I’m going to that airport, too. Maybe I can 
  rent a plane and locate them!” 
  Walter Mason sighed and wiped 
  perspiration from his chins and sat down in 
  the nearest chair. He looked all worn out. 
  Tink O’Neil was back in his car in a 
  moment and racing out of the winding drive. 
  He 
  was 
  unaware 
  of 
  his 
  disheveled 
  appearance. His straw-colored hair was 
  rumpled; his white jumper smeared with 
  grease and dirt of the racetrack. But his 
  pleasant gray eyes were bright. 
  So Doc Savage had two of his aids 
  in touch with the girls in the plane? Perhaps 
  they had already told Molly and Pat Savage 
  about the danger of T.3. 
  Tink felt suddenly elated. These aids 
  of Doc Savage were said to be good. They 
  did things in a big way, and in a hurry. 
  Tink eased on his brakes for the 
  sharp turn into the highway that would take 
  
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  11 
  him to the airport. Perhaps he would meet 
  these two aids of Doc Savage, be in time to 
  help them— 
  But, just then, it looked as if he 
  wasn’t going to be in time to help anyone. 
  Because the half-naked giant of a man 
  stepped out from the nearby trees and 
  leaped on the car’s running board. 
  Tink drew back in horror. The man 
  had the unsightly red spots. His left eye was 
  closed in that peculiar grinning squint. And 
  the man himself was giggling a little. 
  It was the giant of a fellow who had 
  attacked him at the dirt track. 
   
   
  Chapter III 
  THE BLACK PLANE 
   
  HAD young Tink O’Neil, at the 
  moment, seen the two aids of Doc Savage 
  who were in the plane on the way from New 
  York, he might not have been so certain that 
  the two men were going to be of any help. 
  Both men acted as though they were 
  more interested in slaughtering one another 
  than going to the aid of two pretty girls. 
  One of the two was seated at the 
  controls of the streamlined, fast plane. He 
  was an individual made to stop traffic at busy 
  street corners. He often had. 
  As wide, almost, as he was tall, all 
  visible parts of him were covered with bristly 
  red hair that looked like small rusted nails. 
  His head was flat, and he had little bright 
  eyes sunk deep in his face. He looked not 
  unlike a gorilla in shabby clothing. 
  It was exactly because of this 
  appearance that Lieutenant Colonel Andrew 
  Blodgett Mayfair got his nickname of “Monk.” 
  The tall, slender man who stood in 
  the control cockpit of the plane, glowering 
  down at Monk, was in startling contrast to the 
  apelike fellow. 
  One word described him. Dapper. He 
  wore the smartest in daytime attire. He 
  carried a polished black cane. He was dark 
  and not unhandsome, with sharply defined 
  features. 
  He 
  was 
  Brigadier 
  General 
  Theodore Marley Brooks, but everyone 
  called him Ham. His pet pastime was 
  squabbling with Monk; in fact, the pair of 
  them—really very good pals—were on the 
  verge of a squabble right now. 
  However, crackling of a small loud-
  speaker in the cockpit caused both aids to 
  stop their argument and listen. 
  Shortly a pleasant voice said, “Ham, 
  are you still on the way out here to this 
  airport?” 
  Monk jumped. “That’s Pat!” he said. 
  He referred to Pat Savage, the lovely 
  cousin of Doc Savage. 
  Ham leaped forward and lifted a 
  small hand microphone from a nearby hook. 
  This was the second time this morning they 
  had been in contact with Pat Savage via 
  short-wave radio. 
  Ham said, “Yes, Pat, we’ll be there 
  shortly. And you girls wait right there at the 
  airport, as Doc ordered.” 
  The lawyer had to bat Monk’s hand 
  away as the hairy fellow tried to grab the 
  mike. 
  Pat’s voice came back on the 
  speaker. “See here,” she said crisply, “Molly 
  Mason and I have figured out Doc’s purpose. 
  He hates to see me go up in planes. That 
  was just a stunt to stop me. So we’re taking 
  off immediately.” 
  Ham looked as if he had swallowed 
  something containing tacks. He got white. 
  Monk exclaimed, “Goshamighty! Doc 
  said they might get killed!” 
  Frantic, Ham clutched the hand 
  mike. He yelled, “Listen, Pat, wings of that 
  plane you’re going up in—” 
  And then he paused, for the loud-
  speaker near him had stopped its crackling. 
  Pat had switched off. 
  Monk groaned. The lawyer’s hand 
  was trembling. All thoughts of the argument 
  which had just taken place between the two 
  was abruptly forgotten. 
  For both realized how much lovely 
  Pat meant to the Man of Bronze. Besides, 
  they were both crazy about Pat Savage. 
  Monk settled down to getting all the 
  speed possible out of the plane. He said, 
  “Blazes! We’ve got to stop them!” 
  For once, dapper Ham agreed with 
  his apelike partner. 
  “Yes,” Ham breathed, and it was 
  almost a prayer. 
  
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  12 
  Both men were grimly silent as the 
  fast plane streaked through the sky. 
  A half hour later Monk, still at the 
  controls of the speedy plane, picked up the 
  hazy outline of Lake Erie in the distance. He 
  was soon skirting Buffalo and seeking the 
  small airport which Pat, in her first contact 
  with the two aids, had said they were using. 
  It was a clear morning, warm and 
  cloudless, and Monk had no trouble in soon 
  locating the airfield. He turned to his dapper 
  partner and said, “We’ll be there in a minute. 
  Blazes, I hope those girls didn’t—” 
  Monk paused, looking at Ham. For 
  the lawyer, instead of listening to his partner, 
  was staring overhead through a window 
  above them. 
  Abruptly Ham commented, “That 
  buzzard—or whatever it is—is sure moving 
  fast!” 
  Monk twisted his head upward and 
  looked also. His little bright eyes squinted. 
  Suddenly he let out a yip. 
  “Buzzard, hell!” he squeaked. “That’s 
  a plane! And the blasted thing’s diving right 
  at us!” 
  Monk was correct. 
  For the black spot that looked like a 
  large bird suddenly took on more form and 
  became a black plane of latest design. It was 
  diving with the rush of a plummet, directly 
  over their heads. 
  Monk let out a howl, sent their own 
  ship into a dizzy sideslip as he tried 
  frantically to get out of the way of the diving 
  plane. 
  A moment later, the black plane 
  skimmed past their nose and shot on ahead. 
  It must have been going better than three 
  hundred miles an hour. 
  Monk let out his breath. “The blasted 
  fool!” he piped. “Must be one of them crazy 
  test pilots. Guess he didn’t see us.” 
  But there was no relief in Ham’s 
  voice as he exclaimed, “Maybe he planned 
  on missing us. Look!” 
  And almost before he had pointed 
  ahead, they swept into the black cloud. The 
  thick, inky smoke that had poured out from 
  the exhaust of the plane ahead. The other 
  plane itself had disappeared, and Monk 
  found himself flying blindly through the stuff 
  that was thicker than fog. 
  Ham yelled, “It’s a trick! Pull out of 
  this stuff!” He glanced quickly at the 
  altimeter. “Don’t dive. We’ve only two 
  thousand feet. Go up!” 
  Monk yanked back on the stick and 
  they shot upward through the inky substance. 
  That is, from the angle of the plane they 
  could tell that they were climbing steeply. 
  And then, suddenly, Monk’s brow 
  was furrowed and he was pulling excitedly at 
  the gas-control arm. 
  “What’s wrong now?” demanded 
  Ham. 
  “The motor’s choked! She’s going 
  dead on us. She’s gonna stall!” 
  Ham, the lawyer, could think swiftly 
  in emergencies. Monk was still fooling 
  around with the gas throttle, swearing 
  because the ship’s motor sputtered and the 
  plane refused to climb out of the surrounding 
  black cloud. 
  Ham ordered sharply, “We’ll go into a 
  spin, you blasted idiot! Dive! Dive as far as 
  you can, and maybe we’ll clear this stuff.” 
  Monk 
  reacted 
  mechanically. 
  He 
  threw the ship into a sudden plunge, opened 
  the gas throttle wide. The motor kept 
  sputtering, threatening to stop at any 
  moment. 
  Ham was shouting, “Something in 
  the exhaust from that plane choked our 
  engine. Try to keep it going, and maybe we’ll 
  hit clear air again.” 
  Next, both aids were abruptly tugging 
  at their collars. Their faces reddened. A part 
  of the black cloud had seeped into the plane 
  cockpit, and apparently the stuff contained no 
  oxygen, for they found it hard to breathe. 
  Behind them, the two pets were 
  gasping also. 
  Monk was the chemist in Doc 
  Savage’s organization. And despite his 
  apelike appearance, he was a good chemist. 
  He was one of the best. 
  Hairy Monk, between gasps for fresh 
  air, was sniffing now. He announced, “Smell 
  of that black stuff tells me it is a form . . . of 
  chemical they use . . . in planes . . . fighting 
  forest fires. It . . . it chokes off oxygen!” 
  Ham’s eyes were bleared. But he 
  was staring at the altimeter. He suddenly 
  pointed a finger at the instrument and choked 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  13 
  out, “Look out! We’ve only got three hundred 
  feet!” 
  Even as he said this, they cleared 
  the black fog and shot out into bright daylight 
  again. They had plunged another two 
  hundred feet while Ham was speaking. 
  And both men saw the choppy water 
  beneath them. Lake Erie! A moment more, 
  and they would have plunged into it! 
  But Monk leveled off, the plane 
  motor picked up again as its carburetor 
  sucked in fresh air, and they again zoomed 
  upward. 
  Both aids stared upward at the 
  floating black cloud. 
  Monk snorted, “Blazes! I’m gonna 
  find that black plane and chase that danged 
  pilot to hell and gone! Just wait until I—” 
  Ham was straightening his collar. He 
  was breathing better again, and he had been 
  watching the sky around them. 
  He said, “That cloud has dispersed 
  enough so that you can see. You aren’t going 
  to catch anyone, if you ask me.” 
  It was true. The black plane had 
  disappeared. 
   
   
  BUT both men were puzzled about 
  the mysterious attack. As Monk said: 
  “What connection did that guy have 
  with the girls? Why did he want to stop us?” 
  Ham shrugged. “Only thing I know is 
  that Doc got a request from some man 
  named Tink O’Neil, telling him about Pat 
  going up in a plane with a girl named Molly 
  Mason. We were to stop them, because it 
  has something to do with a thing called T.3.” 
  Monk nodded. Doc had told them 
  something of the urgent phone call received 
  early this morning from Tink O’Neil. 
  “And,” the hairy chemist added, “this 
  crazy guy who phoned yelled something 
  about a giant with red spots. He musta been 
  nuts!” 
  Ham’s features, however, looked 
  worried. “We’d better hurry up and locate that 
  airport again,” he suggested. “It’s damned 
  queer why that black plane tried to put us out 
  of business.” 
  Abruptly, the radio 
  loud-speaker 
  crackled again. Ham jumped to grab the 
  microphone, so he could answer in case it 
  was Pat Savage. 
  And it was. 
  Pat’s voice came breathlessly over 
  the speaker: “Ham! Monk! We’re in trouble! 
  Are you listening?” 
  The lawyer quickly tuned in on Pat’s 
  wave length. He said worriedly, “What’s 
  wrong, Pat?” 
  Doc 
  Savage’s 
  lovely 
  cousin 
  continued: “We took up this new plane. I . . . I 
  guess Doc was right after all. Ham, there’s 
  something wrong with one of the steering 
  control cables!” 
  Monk’s little eyes fairly popped. “Ask 
  her where they are!” he said shrilly. 
  Ham did, and Pat’s voice came back: 
  “A small airport five miles south of Buffalo. 
  Ham, the cable—” 
  There was a short silence, then Pat’s 
  frantic voice again: “We . . . we’ve gone into 
  a nose dive. We can’t pull out of it!” 
  The speaker went silent. Both aids 
  stared. 
   
   
  Chapter IV 
  THE SKINNY MEN 
   
  THE plane was a cabin job with a 
  single metal wing. Interior of the cabin was 
  decorated in soft-toned blue, and the leather 
  seats were of the same pale hue. 
  The faces of the two girls in the 
  cockpit of the streamlined ship were also 
  about the same color. 
  The tall, well-formed girl at the 
  controls had red-gold hair, blue eyes and a 
  nice mouth. Except for one fact, she would 
  have appeared startlingly beautiful. But this 
  beauty was now dimmed by contrast with the 
  second girl, seated beside her. 
  The one at the controls was Molly 
  Mason, one of the wealthiest girls in the 
  United States. 
  The second, more beautiful one was 
  Pat Savage, cousin of the remarkable Man of 
  Bronze. 
  Pat had the bronze-gold hair, the 
  golden-hued skin coloring of her famous 
  cousin. She was also tall, slender and with 
  the kind of figure that belongs behind 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  14 
  footlights. Her eyes were also of an unusual 
  gold shade. 
  Pat had just dropped the radio 
  microphone. Her eyes were wide and 
  frightened as she stared at her companion, 
  Molly Mason. 
  Pat Savage cried, “Good heavens, 
  what shall we do?” 
  It could be seen that the girl at the 
  controls was frantically trying to work a 
  rudder of the plane. The plane itself was 
  headed downward toward the earth at terrific 
  speed. 
  Molly Mason gasped, “It’s . . . it’s 
  jammed. I can’t work the rudder. We’ll crash!” 
  Pat was clinging to a support. She 
  leaned over, motioned the other golden-
  haired girl out of the seat and said, “Here, let 
  me try it.” 
  Pat Savage knew how to fly planes. 
  Often, unknown to her cousin Doc, she had 
  received expert instruction from various of 
  the bronze man’s aids. 
  The terrific plunge of the plane had 
  Molly Mason weak and trembling. She 
  flopped into the adjoining seat and stared in 
  terror. She managed to cry, “That new 
  steel—T.3—was used in the rudder wires. It’s 
  the strongest thing known. But now”—she 
  pointed with a shaking hand out the window 
  near her—”it . . . it’s snapped! We can’t work 
  that one control!” 
  Pat Savage was the calmer of the 
  two. Her lips set grimly and she worked with 
  the controls. Suddenly, she threw the plane 
  over and sent it into a sideslip. Air hammered 
  past the cabin of the hurtling ship. Pat 
  wiggled the plane back and forth. 
  And abruptly the ship leveled off and 
  went streaking ahead in a flat plane. 
  Momentarily, its terrible plunge had been 
  stopped. 
  Tense, Pat gripped the controls, and 
  she scarcely breathed as she slowly worked 
  the fast plane around to an easy, falling 
  spiral. 
  She said tightly, “I think we can bring 
  it down this way. Air pressure kicked the 
  rudder around. If nothing happens—” 
  Molly Mason nodded, her slim body 
  taut. She glanced out a side window, 
  exclaimed, “We’re practically over the field. 
  This is the place where I told father to meet 
  us. Careful, Pat!” 
  But Pat didn’t have to be warned. 
  She had managed to get partial control of the 
  plane, and now each manipulation she made 
  was done with infinite caution. 
  They dropped lower and lower in the 
  long spiral, and soon the small airfield was 
  just beneath them. It was scarcely more than 
  a large clearing in surrounding woods. There 
  was a single old hangar, and obviously the 
  field was seldom in use. No one appeared on 
  the ground below them. 
  But as Pat carefully straightened the 
  plane out for a pancake landing, Molly Mason 
  exclaimed: “There—just off to the side of the 
  field! Father’s sedan. He must be waiting for 
  us!” 
  Pat was too busy to look. The field 
  was flying up at them now. She tensed, gave 
  a little prayer and brought the ship down. 
  They bounced wildly once, settled, 
  then remained on the ground and rolled 
  furiously toward the trees bordering the edge 
  of the small field. For a moment, it looked as 
  though they were going to crash the big 
  limousine parked right at the border line of 
  trees. 
  At the last moment, however, Pat 
  sent the plane in a sliding half circle and 
  brought it to an abrupt stop in a cloud of 
  kicking dust. They came to a stop with a wing 
  tip not six feet away from the waiting car, 
  now half concealed in the dust cloud. 
  Molly Mason gave a quick cry of 
  relief and jumped toward the cabin door. Her 
  tall, graceful figure had lost its tenseness, 
  and she said, “Pat, you’re wonderful! I never 
  could have done that!” 
  Right behind the wealthy girl, Pat 
  gave a relieved sigh and commented, “Gosh, 
  this ground sure looks swell again!” 
  But as they jumped out to the ground 
  both drew back in terror. For the assorted 
  thugs who closed in on them from the sedan 
  looked far more menacing than the earth at 
  four thousand feet. 
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
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  15 
   
  The trio menacing them looked like hungry undertakers viewing the Fountain of Eternal Youth! 
   
   
  THERE were three men of varying 
  sizes. One was very short and thin, another 
  medium and also thin, and the third a 
  beanpole of a fellow even skinnier than the 
  other two. 
  But the most unusual thing about all 
  three was the gloomy expression of their 
  bony faces. Each was dressed in severe 
  black, and along with the gloomy expression, 
  the trio looked like hungry undertakers 
  viewing the Fountain of Eternal Youth. 
  Pretty Molly Mason screamed. She 
  stared toward the big limousine and called, 
  “Father!” 
  One of the skinny men grabbed her. 
  He said without expression, “Yell your head 
  off, baby. Your old man ain’t within fifty miles 
  of here!” 
  Molly Mason’s softly curved lips 
  parted in horror. “But,” she gasped, “he was 
  to meet us here!” 
  The one holding her said gloomily, 
  “He ain’t meeting anyone, toots.” 
  Molly Mason forced back a sob. She 
  kicked, squirmed, tore at her captor’s form. 
  But the man—and it was the little skinny 
  one—must have been built of whipcord and 
  wire. He handled the tall, slender girl easily, 
  started dragging her toward the big car. 
  It took the other two to manage Pat 
  Savage. 
  Pat jerked free of the beanpole-
  looking fellow, cuffed him across the face, 
  neatly tripped his partner and spun back 
  
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  16 
  toward the open plane door. Pat’s dress 
  swirled around her trim legs. She reached 
  the cabin door, slammed it behind her and 
  threw the catch in place—all before the 
  stunned men could again grab her. 
  It appeared that Pat was leaving her 
  pretty friend to face the music alone. 
  But this was not Pat’s idea at all. She 
  knew, instinctively, that they had no chance 
  against 
  the 
  skinny 
  men. 
  There 
  was 
  something 
  about 
  the 
  hard, 
  gloomy 
  expressions on the men’s faces that told Pat 
  these fellows got what they went after. 
  Pat was simply trying to keep them 
  out of the plane long enough to give her time 
  to leave a message for Doc Savage! 
  The two outside were hammering on 
  the door. Pat found her purse, kept down low 
  enough so that the men could not see what 
  she was doing. Perhaps Doc would never 
  find her appeal for help. But it was worth the 
  try. Doc had uncovered lesser clues in the 
  past. 
  On a small piece of paper from her 
  purse, she scribbled frantically: 
   
  Doc—Three 
  skinny 
  men 
  have 
  captured us. Obviously they know something 
  about J. Henry Mason, who was to meet us 
  here at airfield five miles south of Buffalo. 
  Help. 
   
  Pat Savage folded the note once and 
  tucked it down behind a seat in the plane 
  cabin. She doubted that these men would 
  take the plane. Doubtless they had observed 
  the trouble Pat had experienced in landing 
  the ship, and knew that something was 
  wrong with it. 
  But if Doc found the plane later, he 
  would naturally search it minutely for trace of 
  the missing girls. He would most likely find 
  the message. 
  Pat next whirled back to where a fire 
  extinguisher was hooked to one wall of the 
  cabin. This was just at the moment one of the 
  skinny men smashed the cabin window. Pat 
  started pumping fire-extinguishing liquid into 
  the arrival’s face. 
  She hoped that the men would figure 
  she had been after the extinguisher. 
   
   
  THE first man—the tallest one—had 
  managed to reach through the broken glass 
  and unhook the door. He was inside now, 
  spluttering and weaving around as the liquid 
  hit him in the face. 
  He grated, “You danged fool! Drop 
  that thing!” 
  Pat backed away and kept pumping 
  the hand extinguisher. 
  It was the medium-sized thin man 
  who made use of his taller partner’s form. He 
  ducked behind his partner, waited until they 
  were close to Pat, then spun clear and 
  grabbed Pat’s wrist. 
  His 
  steellike 
  grip 
  twisted 
  the 
  extinguisher free of Pat’s grasp. Pressure on 
  the girl’s arm caused her to wince with pain. 
  For all their thinness, these fellows were just 
  about the toughest individuals Pat had ever 
  run up against. 
  She was quickly subdued, dragged 
  out of the cabin and thrown into the car. 
  Next, the two girls were bound hand and foot 
  and placed on the floor. Two of the men 
  stood looking gloomily down at them from the 
  open car door. The third had momentarily 
  disappeared. 
  Molly Mason, frantic about her father, 
  cried, “What is the meaning of this? Where is 
  my father? Where’s Tink O’Neil?” 
  The little skinny fellow looked sad. 
  “My, my!” he commented. “How you go on!” 
  “If this is a kidnaping,” Molly Mason 
  screamed, “and my father is also missing, 
  then how do you expect to collect—” 
  “It ain’t no kidnaping, lady,” said the 
  little thin man in his flat voice. “Not that kind, 
  anyway.” 
  “Then what—” Molly started. 
  “Shuddup!” said the little man. 
  Pat had been quiet, listening. Now 
  she rolled close to the other bound girl, 
  whispered close to her ear, “I’ve left a 
  message for Doc in the plane.” 
  Molly Mason subsided then. She had 
  heard a lot of the bronze man named Doc 
  Savage. Perhaps Doc would soon reach 
  them. 
  The third man abruptly returned. He 
  climbed in behind the wheel of the big sedan. 
  The other two got in the back. Gags were 
  placed in the girls’ mouths. They were left on 
  the floor of the car, and the two sat on the 
  
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  17 
  rear seat in order to see that Pat and Molly 
  remained where they were. 
  The car started up, bumped over the 
  field and reached a back road through the 
  woods. Apparently the little skinny man was 
  the boss, for the other two addressed him 
  respectfully from time to time. 
  The driver said suddenly, “You know, 
  Wart, that one dame thought she was smart.” 
  Apparently Wart was the name of the 
  skinny little boss. 
  “Smart, 
  eh?” 
  he 
  queried 
  dully. 
  “How?” 
  The driver passed something back 
  over the seat. Pat Savage, by twisting a little, 
  was able to see the piece of paper. Dismay 
  swept over her taut, slender body. 
  The driver finished: “She left this 
  note for Doc Savage.” 
  The leader named Wart glanced at 
  the note. For the first time, something that 
  resembled a grin touched his gloomy 
  features. He said: 
  “I sorta figured Doc Savage would be 
  interested in this thing. So now we’ll take 
  care of him!” 
   
   
  Chapter V 
  DEATH IN STEEL 
   
  THE skinny little thug named Wart 
  was correct in a part of his statement. Doc 
  Savage was interested. At noon that same 
  day he set down his speed plane in a 
  deserted field not far from where Tink O’Neil 
  had cracked up in his midget car. 
  The field was about half a mile from 
  the high wire fence that surrounded the long, 
  smoke-blackened buildings of Open-hearth 
  Shop No. 5. 
  The bronze man stepped from the 
  plane, then reached back and pulled out 
  several large equipment cases. 
  Doc Savage, standing alone, did not 
  look unusually big. But his appearance was 
  striking. 
  His skin was a gold hue, as though 
  he might have been exposed for long periods 
  of time to tropical suns. His hair, which lay 
  like a close-fitting skullcap against his head, 
  was of the same rich color, only a shade 
  darker. 
  Doc Savage’s eyes were the most 
  remarkable of all. They were a rich flake 
  gold, and in their depths was a continual 
  restless stirring. They were compelling, 
  almost hypnotic eyes. 
  Any other person would have found it 
  necessary to stand on something in order to 
  reach into the open cabin door for the cases. 
  But Doc hauled them out without even rising 
  to his toes. His giant size was deceptive, and 
  only noticeable when he was standing beside 
  other men. This was because of the perfect 
  symmetry of his scientifically developed 
  body. 
  Each of the cases weighed well over 
  a hundred pounds. Yet the bronze man lifted 
  all three easily, swung them beneath his 
  arms and started out toward the woods 
  surrounding the deserted field. 
  Doc Savage moved silently through 
  the woods until he came to a point that gave 
  him a view of the great steel mill. He saw 
  dozens of steelworkers sitting around the big 
  yards, lunch pails beside them. It was the 
  noon lunch hour. 
  Most of the men were divided into 
  groups, and apparently they were discussing 
  something important. Doc Savage had an 
  idea what that conversation was about. For a 
  phone call from this very plant had informed 
  him of the mystery of the spotted, crazed 
  worker. 
  The call had come through to Doc 
  Savage sometime after the disappearance of 
  J. Henry Mason. The informer had not given 
  his name, but he had also mentioned the fact 
  that 
  the 
  millionaire 
  steel 
  king 
  had 
  mysteriously disappeared, and under strange 
  circumstances. 
  No mention had been made of the 
  new steel formula, T.3. And yet the Man of 
  Bronze knew something about it. Only 
  recently had J. Henry Mason consulted Doc 
  Savage. He had sought advice from the 
  bronze man in regard to a part of the formula. 
  Doc Savage was known as a 
  scientific genius. He had often been called in 
  as consultant by leading engineers and 
  chemists. Therefore it was not unusual that 
  he had been in contact with such a wealthy 
  man as Mason in the past. 
  
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  18 
  Doc Savage considered the steel 
  king enough of a friend to investigate his 
  disappearance. Of course he had been 
  somewhat worried about Pat. Pat was always 
  getting into adventurous escapades. But he 
  had assigned Monk and Ham to look after his 
  cousin. 
  The bronze man, naturally, did not 
  know that the two girls had been seized by 
  the thin men. At the moment, he was 
  interested in learning something of the 
  mystery of the madmen with red spots, and 
  of the disappearance of J. Henry Mason. 
  The bronze man now did a peculiar 
  thing. He started taking off his clothes. 
  But a few moments later it was 
  apparent why Doc Savage had done this. 
  Working with materials from one of the heavy 
  cases, he was soon dressed as one of the 
  half-stripped steelworkers. 
  Special thin eye caps covered the 
  unusual flake gold of the bronze man’s 
  magnetic eyes. Now they appeared as the 
  bloodshot eyes of a man from the open-
  hearth shops. 
  His body, from the waist up, was 
  dark with what looked like the grimy black of 
  the shops. Shoes and trousers looked 
  somewhat the same. Even Doc’s hair was 
  now dark. Anyone would think that he was a 
  be-smudged worker who had just come out 
  of the big foundry. 
  Doc concealed the equipment cases 
  in the woods, moved forward and was soon 
  strolling casually through the entrance gates 
  to the vast steel plant. He might have been 
  any of a dozen other men just returning from 
  their lunch hour. 
  At one o’clock, when the whistle 
  blew, he was working on the long floor of 
  Open-hearth Shop No. 5. 
  New men had already been put on at 
  the shop in order to replace several who had 
  been stricken with the strange madness. 
  Thus Doc passed practically unnoticed 
  among the workers. All were strapping big 
  men, and Doc was merely considered one of 
  them. 
  The bronze man listened sharply to 
  conversation among the perspiring men, as 
  they worked. It seemed that several more 
  men in the open-hearth had cracked up. 
  They had been rushed to hospitals. One man 
  had died. It was thought unlikely that the 
  others would live. 
  Doc Savage, his body bathed in 
  sweat now, his nostrils full of the choking 
  heat and dust of the huge shop, worked 
  beside a burly fellow who had charge of 
  tapping one of the mammoth furnaces. 
  An overhead crane moved a ladle up 
  to the furnace opening. The “ladle” was twice 
  as high as Doc Savage and ten feet across. 
  It probably weighed ten tons. 
  Doc’s job was to loosen the plug 
  which held back the molten, white-hot steel in 
  the towering furnace. The plug was at the 
  end of a long rod, which Doc gripped in his 
  sinewed hands. 
  As the steel flowed out into the ladle, 
  sparks and heat came with it. They cascaded 
  out over Doc’s head, sputtered out onto the 
  floor around him. A tiny piece seared through 
  the flesh of his shoulder. 
  Doc worked silently through the 
  terrific heat and the choking atmosphere of 
  the shop. He heard everything that was said 
  around him. 
  There 
  was 
  unrest 
  among 
  the 
  workers. There was talk of walking off the 
  job. Many had seen the significant red spots 
  on the bodies of the crazed men, and they 
  feared smallpox. 
  But a number of these steelworkers 
  were married, with families to support. They 
  could not afford a layoff. They were the ones 
  who talked the others into sticking to their 
  jobs. 
  At two that afternoon, a powerfully 
  built steelworker moved close to Doc Savage 
  and whispered, “Want to see you.” He 
  motioned to a spot away from where the 
  others were working. 
  Doc followed the man. It was hard to 
  tell much about the coloring of the man’s skin 
  or his hair. He was black with grime. 
  The man led the way out of the shop, 
  cut across toward a foundry that was almost 
  as vast as the first shop. 
  Just outside the entrance to the 
  second foundry, Doc paused and said, “You 
  might explain what this is all about?” 
  The 
  big, 
  perspiring 
  steelworker 
  looked steadily at the bronze man. 
  “You’re Doc Savage,” he stated. 
  
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  19 
  Doc remained silent. No surprise 
  showed on his features. He had suspected 
  someone might recognize him, regardless of 
  his attire. Too, he had the feeling that 
  someone knew he had been on the way 
  here. 
  “Well,” continued the man, “I can 
  show you something about T.3.” 
  Doc’s features did not change. “T.3?” 
  The man nodded. “T.3 is the new 
  steel,” he explained. “This damned trouble 
  started right after the first batch was run off. I 
  think maybe I can help you.” 
  Apparently the man thought Doc 
  Savage was only here to find out the mystery 
  of T.3, and why workers were going mad. No 
  mention had been made of the strange 
  disappearance of J. Henry Mason. As yet, 
  men in the shops had not been told of the 
  millionaire’s sudden disappearance. 
  “What is it you have to reveal?” 
  queried Doc quietly. 
  “Come along.” 
  They moved into the foundry ahead. 
  Over their heads, giant cranes moved back 
  and forth, rumbling along on their solid 
  tracks. Men shouted and cursed the heat. 
  Massive 
  rolling 
  machines 
  gobbled 
  up 
  sections of white-hot steel, passed it through 
  a series of rollers that squeezed down like 
  massive hands, and sent the sheets of steel, 
  now thinner, out the other end of the long 
  machines. 
  It was toward one of these that the 
  man with Doc Savage headed. 
  Beyond one machine, a huge sheet 
  of steel stood upended, supported by a hook 
  from a motionless overhead crane. The sheet 
  was about ten inches thick and ten feet 
  square. 
  “Armor 
  plate,” 
  explained 
  Doc’s 
  informer. “They say no shell will ever be able 
  to pierce it.” 
  Doc nodded. He knew something 
  about the manufacture of the heavy plate for 
  battleships. He judged that this single section 
  weighed about ten or fifteen tons. 
  They stood behind the massive piece 
  of steel, and the man with Doc went on: 
  “First, I want to tell you about something I 
  found out just two hours ago. It’s got nothing 
  to do with T.3, and yet it also has. It’s a 
  single fact that might explain all this damned 
  trouble. Also—” 
  “You might explain,” suggested Doc. 
  “First,” continued the worker, “let me 
  show you something—” He broke off, 
  stooped down to indicate a spot near the 
  base of the thick armor plate. 
  Doc bent to see what the man was 
  indicating. 
  Somewhere near them a man yelled 
  wildly, “Look out!” 
  But already the huge pieces of armor 
  plate was toppling over above them. 
   
   
  NOISE in the big foundry had 
  covered the man’s yell. The high, vaulted 
  roof above them picked up sounds and sent 
  them crashing back as heavy machinery 
  operated. This accounted for the man with 
  Doc Savage not hearing the cry. 
  But the bronze man had senses 
  trained by years of scientific exercises. He 
  could even detect motion before it was 
  observed by others. 
  And so, in that last split second, he 
  had caught the slow, practically invisible 
  motion of the mammoth steel sheet as it first 
  started to topple. 
  Doc leaped up. Already the piece of 
  armor plate had moved far enough so that its 
  great weight was sending it downward with 
  swift, silent speed. 
  The bronze man cleared the giant 
  piece of steel a fraction of a second before it 
  struck the floor. There had been no time to 
  grab the other man. Doc had missed death 
  by a scant heartbeat of time. 
  Crash of the tons of sheet steel 
  shook the whole foundry. The floor quivered 
  and trembled beneath the bronze man’s feet. 
  And a man lay beneath that piece of armor 
  plate, crushed so flat that not even an inch of 
  clearance was between the huge steel plate 
  and the floor. 
  Doc’s face was grim and strained. 
  He had just seen a man flattened to death, a 
  man who had been going to tell him 
  something. 
  Doc’s eyes traveled to the big hook 
  that hung down from the overhead crane, the 
  hook that had held the armor plate upright. 
  He saw that tension on the steel cable that 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  20 
  held the hook had been slackened. The hook 
  had been lowered a good three feet! 
  The bronze man whipped around, 
  glanced toward the control cab of the 
  movable crane. And he saw the workman 
  just climbing out of the cab, escaping along a 
  catwalk that paralleled the runway tracks of 
  the big crane. 
  Someone on the floor of the foundry 
  pointed and yelled. “Look! It’s another mad 
  guy with red spots!” 
  A cry of horror and dismay went up 
  from two dozen throats. Men started running 
  out of the foundry. All feared the one who 
  leered down at them from the crane runway 
  above. 
  For a moment, no one saw the 
  actions of the giant bronze man. Doc, with 
  the ease of long training, leaped and caught 
  the hook which still dangled at the end of the 
  cable. With smooth, swift motion, he pulled 
  himself upward hand over hand. 
  He reached the crane’s crossbeam, 
  swung up to his feet, then ran across the 
  beam to where it met the supporting runway 
  track. 
  Fifty feet ahead of him, the crazed 
  worker turned and started giggling inanely. 
  Doc Savage saw the gruesome red spots on 
  the man’s half-naked body. He caught the 
  peculiar squint of one eye. 
  The fellow leaped back in the 
  direction of Doc! 
  From below, on the shop floor, a 
  man screamed, “Look out, you fool! That nut 
  will kill you!” 
  But Doc Savage leaped forward to 
  meet the attack of the crazed man. His 
  powerful hands caught the flailing arm; he 
  pulled the wild-eyed man from his feet, lifted 
  him into his arms and started carrying him 
  along the narrow catwalk. 
  The madman twisted and clawed 
  and fought. It seemed obvious that both men 
  would be plunged from the narrow beam to 
  their deaths. 
  The man’s sweaty body squirmed in 
  the arms of Doc Savage. The crazed fellow 
  had superhuman strength, and the muscles 
  of the bronze man’s arms bulged like knotted 
  cords as he fought to keep the maniac from 
  throwing them both to destruction on the floor 
  far below. 
  Then, abruptly, the man went limp in 
  Doc’s grasp. His twisted face turned toward 
  Doc’s 
  own, 
  and 
  he 
  muttered 
  half 
  incoherently, “They fooled you. They fooled 
  you. They . . . the skinny ones caught the 
  girls! They . . . they fooled that Monk and 
  Ham!” 
  The man went more limp in Doc’s 
  arms. Effect of the madness seemed to have 
  left him weak and spent. 
  Doc stared. Announcement of the 
  capture of Pat Savage and Molly Mason 
  came as a distinct shock. He had figured that 
  his aids, Monk and Ham, had met the girls. 
  Also, 
  sudden 
  collapse 
  of 
  the 
  captive’s superhuman strength took the 
  bronze man off guard. 
  For in the next instant, the big fellow 
  let out an insane yell and broke free. He 
  made a mighty swing with a closed fist at 
  Doc’s head. 
  Doc was knocked backward, to trip 
  and slip from the narrow walk. But his 
  powerful hands whipped out, caught an edge 
  of the catwalk and held. Tendons in his 
  sinewed hands bulged as he slowly drew 
  himself back to safety again. 
  But the crazed man’s swing had 
  thrown 
  him 
  off 
  balance. 
  He 
  toppled 
  backward, completely cleared the narrow 
  steel walk and plunged fifty feet to the floor 
  below. 
  Wet with perspiration, Doc Savage 
  stared downward. The man had landed on 
  his neck. The twisted position of the man’s 
  head said that his neck was broken. 
  Workmen yelled and slowly moved in on the 
  broken form. 
  Doc Savage felt only pity for this 
  poor devil who had been stark mad. Perhaps 
  it was just as well that the fellow was past 
  suffering. 
  And yet, in that moment of temporary 
  exhaustion, the man had muttered something 
  about the girls being captured, about a trick 
  that had been worked on Monk and Ham. 
  And the bronze man suddenly knew 
  that he had to go to their aid. The safety of 
  Pat Savage meant more to him than any 
  solution of the mystery of T.3, or of men who, 
  without apparent reason, went mad. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  21 
  During the excitement below, Doc 
  climbed down from the crane runway and 
  slipped from the plant building. 
   
   
  Chapter VI 
  MAN IN THE MASK 
   
  MONK and Ham had landed at the 
  private airfield near the shore of Lake Erie. 
  There were no other planes out on the field. 
  Likewise, there was no trace of the two girls. 
  Monk was manipulating dials on a 
  radio direction-finder in their plane. He glared 
  at his well-dressed partner. 
  “Doggonit!” 
  the 
  hairy 
  chemist 
  exploded. “This dingus says there’s no plane 
  flying anywhere near here. Thought you said 
  this was the field the girls were over?” 
  Ham glared. “It was!” he rapped. “But 
  that’s not saying they haven’t cracked up 
  some place.” 
  Neither aid knew, naturally, that 
  Molly and Pat Savage had landed at a field 
  five miles south of this point. 
  The lawyer climbed out of the plane, 
  commenting, “We might look around. Maybe 
  we’ll find someone who saw them.” 
  Monk, giving up trying to pick up 
  anything on the direction-finder, followed 
  Ham out to the landing field. 
  It was then that he saw the footprints 
  on the ground. 
  There were two sets of prints. Neat 
  impressions of girls’ shoes. There had been 
  a heavy dew the previous night, and the 
  impressions were still distinct in the half-
  damp earth. 
  The chemist’s little eyes brightened. 
  For here was proof that Molly and Pat had 
  been at this field. Monk, with his waddling, 
  short-legged 
  gait, 
  started 
  following 
  the 
  footprints. 
  The tracks led toward a hangar to 
  one side of the field. Twenty feet from the big 
  metal building, Monk stared more intently at 
  the earth. Another pair of footprints had 
  joined those of the girls; or rather, they 
  appeared coming in at an angle and 
  apparently had followed along. 
  The hairy chemist’s brain leaped to 
  one conclusion: Someone—a man—had 
  followed the two girls. Perhaps he had forced 
  them to send the message about their plane 
  being out of control. Monk was willing to bet 
  that it was all a trick. 
  The footprints faded out in loose 
  gravel that bordered the hangar. Monk 
  circled the building once, noting that the large 
  doors in the front were locked. But a smaller 
  door around to the side of the building was 
  unlocked. He went inside. 
  Within the hangar he saw an old 
  crate that had gone out of flying style ten 
  years ago. But there was space for two or 
  three more planes, and the spaces were 
  empty. It was quite possible that the girl’s 
  plane had been here. 
  Monk strolled around the old plane, 
  looking it over carefully. If Pat and Molly 
  Mason had been in trouble, leave it to Pat 
  Savage to place some sort of clue. 
  The chemist peered beneath the 
  wings, looked for any marks that might be on 
  the “prop.” He got up on a wing and stuck his 
  homely face inside the cockpit of the open-
  type plane. 
  Folds of a silk parachute came out of 
  the cockpit, made a sack over the homely 
  chemist’s head and he was knocked back to 
  the cement floor. 
  Someone kicked Monk in the face. 
   
   
  MONK couldn’t see. He tried to get 
  untangled from inside the many folds of 
  parachute. But the more he struggled, the 
  more tangled he became. 
  Every time he gained his feet, the 
  man kicked him down again. The fellow 
  wasn’t particular where he kicked. Face, 
  stomach, ribs, however, seemed to be the 
  most favored spots. 
  Enraged, Monk got his hairy hands 
  gripped in the tough silk, yanked, and the 
  stuff split like the cheapest cheesecloth. For 
  the first time, the chemist got a look at the 
  long young man with the sandy hair. 
  He took hold of the young man, 
  whacked him against the floor, picked him up 
  and bounced him several times off a wing of 
  the old plane. Wind exploded from the tall 
  man’s lungs. His face got purple. When the 
  man fell back exhausted against the fuselage 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  22 
  of the plane, Monk gave a snort of disgust 
  and commented, “Shucks!” 
  For the apelike fellow liked nothing 
  better than a good fight. But he decided to 
  give the young man one more bounce on the 
  floor. He leaped forward. 
  The tow-headed young man gasped, 
  “Wait! There’s been a mistake.” 
  Monk growled, “Only mistake is that 
  you’re gonna need an ambulance!” 
  “Look!” the other got in swiftly. 
  “There’s only one person like you in the 
  world. You must be the one they call Monk. 
  Well, I’m Tink O’Neil. I’m the one who called 
  Doc Savage.” 
  That was enough to bring the 
  chemist up short. He squinted at the lean, 
  somewhat grease-smeared features of young 
  Tink O’Neil. 
  Monk asked suspiciously, “When did 
  you call Doc Savage?” 
  “Early this morning.” 
  “What about?” 
  “I informed Doc Savage about the 
  predicament of Molly Mason and his cousin 
  Pat.” 
  The chemist grinned. “Maybe you 
  shoulda told me you were Tink O’Neil in the 
  first place.” Apparently Monk was satisfied 
  that the sandy-haired young man was the 
  one who had called Doc Savage early today. 
  Ham had come quietly into the 
  hangar while Monk was questioning Tink 
  O’Neil. He was without the pets. Apparently 
  they had evaded him, and were off in the 
  woods continuing their fight. 
  To Tink O’Neil, Monk explained, “In 
  an unguarded moment, this ambulance-
  chaser”—and the chemist indicated smartly 
  attired Ham—”got into the organization of 
  Doc Savage. He’s a shyster lawyer that 
  represents husbands who kick their wives 
  downstairs.” 
  Tink O’Neil smiled, although he was 
  massaging a bruised jaw. But the smile 
  turned to a look of worry as clever Ham 
  started questioning the young man about the 
  strange disappearance of the two girls. 
  The 
  young 
  steel-plant 
  trouble-
  shooter briefly explained about the accident 
  to his midget racing car at the track. He told 
  about 
  the 
  mysterious 
  and 
  sudden 
  disappearance of J. Henry Mason. 
  Clever 
  Ham 
  took 
  over 
  the 
  questioning. 
  “What’s 
  this 
  business 
  about 
  something known as T.3?” he prodded. 
  “That,” informed Tink O’Neil, “is the 
  classification of a new steel which has 
  recently been perfected at the plant. It’s 
  going to cause a whole lot of changes in the 
  steel business. It’s the greatest stuff ever 
  invented. But something terrible’s happened 
  to T.3. And take those workers going mad, 
  with the red spots on them—” 
  The young trouble-shooter made a 
  helpless gesture. “I can’t understand it.” 
  “What about the girls? An’ what were 
  you doing here?” Monk put in. 
  Tink O’Neil, it 
  appeared, could 
  explain his presence at this private field. He 
  said, “This is where they left from. I just got 
  here when I saw you two land. I thought 
  maybe you had something to do with this 
  mystery, and hid here in this old plane to see 
  what you did.” 
  Tink started out of the hangar. 
  “Come on,” he suggested. “There’s another 
  landing field south of here, nearer where 
  Molly lives. I have a hunch they might have 
  landed there.” 
  Outside, on the field again, they met 
  the giant of a fellow who was running toward 
  the hangar. 
   
   
  THE man was a steelworker, still in 
  his begrimed work clothes and with only an 
  old, half-open sweater covering his massive 
  chest. He hailed Tink O’Neil. 
  “Been looking all over for you, Tink,” 
  the husky fellow explained. “I saw Walter 
  Mason, and that fat lummox told me you 
  came here looking for the girls. I was here 
  earlier, but must have missed you.” 
  Tink explained his delay in reaching 
  the airfield. “A crazed worker attacked me as 
  I was leaving Mason’s estate,” he said. “He 
  got away.” 
  Tink explained to Doc’s two aids who 
  the man was. He was a foreman from one of 
  the steel shops. They were all walking toward 
  the plane which Monk had landed here. 
  The young trouble-shooter looked 
  quickly at the man. “How’s things at No. 5?” 
  he asked. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  23 
  The big, strapping steelworker shook 
  his head. “Bad,” he said. “Some more men 
  went screwy. And they had them red spots 
  on them. One almost killed Doc Savage—” 
  Monk jumped. Ham grabbed the 
  speaker’s arm. 
  “Doc Savage was there at the 
  shops?” the lawyer asked quickly. 
  Their informant nodded. “Yeah. But 
  he disappeared right after tangling with one 
  of them mad guys.” 
  “Maybe Doc’s in trouble!” hairy Monk 
  exploded. “Maybe—” 
  They were interrupted by a sound 
  which came from the plane, beside which 
  they now stood. Monk gave a shout. 
  “That’s the radio!” he yelled. “Betcha 
  maybe it’s the girls!” 
  He leaped inside the plane while the 
  others waited outside. And Monk learned that 
  it wasn’t the short-wave speaker, but the 
  direction-finder which had sputtered. He 
  worked a control that picked up location of 
  the sound. 
  The sound became louder in the 
  instrument with which he was fooling. 
  Monk also tried the short-wave radio 
  again, in the hope that he might pick up a 
  message from the two girls, or perhaps from 
  Doc Savage. But he got nothing. 
  He listened a moment longer to 
  sound in the finder, hurried back to the others 
  and said excitedly, “Picked up a plane. It’s 
  headed this way!” 
  Ham asked, “You try to reach Doc?” 
  Monk started to say, “Yep. But I 
  couldn’t get a danged—” 
  And then he paused, staring. Tink 
  O’Neil and Ham followed the hairy chemist’s 
  gaze. 
  Monk was watching the powerful, 
  sweat-smeared steelworker who had arrived 
  from the open-hearth shop known at No. 5. 
  The fellow had been saying, “Listen, Tink, I 
  wanted to tell you about them girls. You see, 
  they were grabbed by—” 
  Monk exploded, “Gollywockus!” He 
  was still watching the big man. 
   
   
  RED spots were appearing on the 
  husky fellow’s face. Though it was hot, and 
  everyone 
  was 
  somewhat 
  warm, 
  the 
  steelworker 
  himself 
  was 
  dripping 
  with 
  perspiration. He appeared to be struggling 
  with some terrible force that had taken 
  control of him. 
  As everyone stared, the man’s 
  features twisted up in a half grin that left one 
  eye closed in a squint. He started giggling 
  softly, inanely. 
  More of the hideous red spots came 
  out on his exposed chest and broad features. 
  He let out a mad yell and lunged at the 
  apelike chemist. But Monk took hold of the 
  crazed steelworker and tried to throw him to 
  the ground. Monk could usually hurl half a 
  dozen men flat, if need be. 
  But the man spilled Monk first, 
  picked him up and showed signs of dashing 
  the chemist’s brains out in the next moment. 
  Ham shouted, and something appeared from 
  his black cane. 
  The object was a sword of thin, 
  tough steel. The tip of the sword blade was 
  treated with an anaesthetic chemical that at a 
  slight prick, left its victims temporarily 
  unconscious. 
  Ham tried to get a jab at the powerful 
  man struggling with Monk. Madness had 
  given the fellow superhuman strength, and 
  surprise showed on Monk’s homely features 
  when he could not knock the worker out. 
  Tink O’Neil was also trying to help, 
  jumping around looking for a chance to lay 
  his hands on the fighting madman. 
  But suddenly the man broke free, 
  shaking Monk off as though he might be a 
  toy fox terrier. With a shrill giggle, the 
  towering steelworker went galloping down 
  the length of the field. 
  Monk was first after him, Ham and 
  Tink O’Neil following. They had gone 
  perhaps a hundred yards when the sharp-
  eyed lawyer suddenly called, “Look! There’s 
  the plane!” 
  Monk remembered the plane sound 
  he had picked up in the instrument inside the 
  cockpit of their own ship. He paused. To both 
  Monk and Ham, the fate of the two girls was 
  more important than catching the crazed 
  man. 
  They watched the speck in the sky 
  grow larger, rapidly approach the field and 
  swoop down for a landing. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  24 
  But it was dapper Ham who suddenly 
  exclaimed, “Hey. It’s that black plane again!” 
  He referred to the mysterious black 
  plane that had laid down the choking smoke 
  screen near Lake Erie. 
  Monk took one frantic look at the 
  running madman, one glimpse of the 
  approaching, low-flying plane, then squealed, 
  “Goshamighty! Look out!” 
  He indicated the black snout sticking 
  over the cockpit of the speeding plane. The 
  roar of the motor was loud in their ears now. 
  Mixed with it was the firecracker 
  sound that bullets made coming from the 
  black-snouted machine gun—the gun that 
  was manned by a flier in goggles and black 
  mask. 
   
   
  Chapter VII 
  DOC DISCOVERED 
   
  WHEN Doc Savage hurried, unseen, 
  from the open-hearth shop where a madman 
  had just died, he returned to the hiding place 
  in the woods where he had left his equipment 
  cases. He quickly changed back into his 
  regular clothes. 
  He was just picking up the three 
  heavy cases to return them to the plane 
  when he paused, looking at one of them 
  closely. 
  His trained eye had noted that one 
  case had been moved a bare fraction of an 
  inch. And so Doc quickly went through all the 
  equipment cases. 
  He found no single thing disturbed. 
  Doc lifted the bags, returned to the 
  plane. But a few moments later, he returned 
  with one of the cases again. That is, a case 
  that looked like one of the others. Oddly, 
  though, it was empty. He left the case at the 
  hiding place in the woods. 
  Later, Doc Savage spent two hours 
  scouring the vicinity in his fast speed plane. 
  He located both small flying fields. The first 
  was the one near Lake Erie where Monk and 
  Ham had met Tink O’Neil and a steelworker 
  who suddenly went crazy. 
  All Doc Savage saw as he flew over 
  the field was the old metal hangar, tracks that 
  had been made by a plane which had 
  landed—though there was no plane—and a 
  loaded hayrack off at the edge of the small 
  private field. The wagon piled with hay 
  obviously belonged to a farmer who owned a 
  large field adjoining that of the airport. 
  Doc Savage brought his plane down 
  low enough to make certain that no one was 
  around on the field. 
  Next, he located the other landing 
  field five miles south, the one situated near 
  the palatial home of Molly Mason. From the 
  air, in the distance, you could see Buffalo. 
  Also, off to the right, the almost mile-long 
  string of shops that belonged to the big steel 
  plant of J. Henry Mason. From stacks of the 
  mills, smoke came—at this distance—like 
  tiny threads of black string. 
  The second landing field was also 
  deserted. Doc, of course, did not know that 
  Molly Mason and Pat had landed here, that 
  they had been grabbed at this second field 
  by the three thin and gloomy-looking men. 
  Neither could he have known that 
  their plane should still be here, since the 
  girls’ captors had departed in a car. 
  Doc flew around the countryside 
  looking for some signs of his two aids and 
  the girls, or of those who might have grabbed 
  them. 
  He was again high over the first field 
  near the lake when he saw the three tiny 
  specks bobbing around on the field far below 
  him. The bronze man put his ship into a dive 
  and came down for a fast landing. He noted, 
  even as he did this, that the three specks—
  he now saw that they were human forms—
  scurried madly for the hayrack which he had 
  observed near the field earlier. The figures 
  disappeared beneath the hayrack. 
  But as Doc’s plane wheels touched 
  the ground, the three men came out from 
  beneath the load of hay and raced back 
  toward the bronze man’s plane. 
   
   
  THEY were hairy Monk, Ham and 
  tow-headed Tink O’Neil. As Doc climbed 
  from his ship, it was Monk who gave a big 
  sigh and exclaimed: 
  “Wow! Doc, we thought you was that 
  masked guy returning again in that black 
  plane!” 
  “The masked man?” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  25 
  Ham told about the mysterious black 
  plane, with the machine-gunner pilot who had 
  almost riddled them to shreds. 
  “Lucky we reached that hayrack in 
  time,” explained the well-dressed lawyer. 
  “We got underneath it and it was packed full 
  enough with hay to stop penetration of those 
  bullets.” 
  Doc was introduced to young Tink 
  O’Neil, the friend of J. Henry Mason. 
  Questioned about the disappearance of the 
  steel king and the girls, Tink repeated the 
  same things he had told the bronze man’s 
  two aids. He could offer no explanation of the 
  mystery. 
  They told Doc Savage about the mill 
  foreman who had come seeking Tink, and 
  who had suddenly broken out in the weird 
  red spots and gone crazy. 
  Monk added: “And that feller musta 
  escaped when the black plane tried to gun us 
  down. We couldn’t find him afterward.” 
  It seemed that Monk and Ham had 
  tried to find trace of the crazed mill foreman 
  after the black plane pilot had left them for 
  dead. Not finding him, they had returned to 
  store their own plane in the hangar nearby, 
  where it was now. 
  Doc listened quietly, then suggested, 
  “We might try finding that maniac again.” 
  First, Doc got a couple of objects 
  from one of his equipment cases in his own 
  plane. One was a portable light-scanning 
  device employing an infrared-ray principle of 
  the bronze man’s own invention. At night, the 
  device would pick up foot tracks that were 
  invisible to the naked eye. 
  It was already growing dusk. In the 
  nearby woods through which Ham said the 
  madman had disappeared, it was dark. With 
  the light-scanner, Doc Savage soon picked 
  up the trail of the mad mill hand. 
  The trail led directly to the small 
  landing field where Pat Savage and Molly 
  Mason had been seized by the three thin 
  men. 
   
   
  AT the small airfield, the trail of the 
  man with the red spots ended. This was 
  because there was a small brook that passed 
  along one edge of the field. It was at this 
  point that the man’s trail stopped. Apparently 
  he had taken to the water, thus obliterating 
  his trail. 
  “A plane was wheeled along through 
  here.” 
  It was Doc who spoke. The bronze 
  man had moved on ahead, beyond the 
  brook, at which point the woods ended. He 
  had discovered double tire marks in the long 
  grass growing between woods and landing 
  field. Doc studied the tracks a moment before 
  making his announcement. 
  They followed the new tracks, to 
  learn that they ended before an old, sagging 
  barn set a quarter of a mile away from the 
  field. The barn was located on deserted farm 
  land, and obviously had been in disuse for 
  years. 
  The girls’ plane had been hidden 
  inside the barn. 
  It was Tink O’Neil who gasped, “This 
  is the new plane Molly was to try out with Pat 
  today!” 
  Doc Savage was already inspecting 
  the modern-looking ship. He located the 
  disabled rudder-wire in a moment. He 
  showed it to Tink O’Neil. 
  The young trouble-shooter knew 
  steel. He examined the wire closely as Doc 
  asked: “Does this contain the new T.3?” 
  Tink O’Neil nodded quickly. “Yes. In 
  fact, I watched some of this very stuff being 
  made. It’s identical to one of the new T.3 
  formula products. It’s supposed to be the 
  toughest thing known.” 
  “And yet it broke,” was the bronze 
  man’s comment. 
  Tink O’Neil had no explanation for 
  that. He too was puzzled. 
  From a special equipment vest that 
  the bronze giant always wore beneath his 
  coat, Doc took out a pair of sharp pliers and 
  cut off a short length of the cable and stored 
  it away in his pocket. 
  Then they all searched the plane for 
  any note or clue that might have been left by 
  Pat or Molly Mason. They found nothing that 
  might tell what had happened to the two girls. 
  Naturally there was plenty of evidence that 
  the girls had been in the plane, but little 
  further. 
  Doc suggested that they might go 
  back to the plane field itself. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  26 
  There, with the light-scanning device, 
  Doc had soon located footprints made by the 
  two girls and the three thin men. The bronze 
  man ordered everyone to stand back. He 
  himself bent down and went over the ground 
  inch by inch. 
  Finally he stated: “Pat and the other 
  girl were seized by three men of varying 
  sizes. One would be fairly small, another 
  medium, the third taller than all but not 
  heavily built.” 
  The bronze man had figured this out 
  from impressions made by the men’s shoes, 
  and from the sizes of those shoes. The one 
  set of prints showed very large, very long 
  shoes. This would indicate that the wearer 
  was tall. But Doc knew that the man was not 
  heavy or stout because impressions of the 
  large shoes were little deeper in the earth 
  than the others. 
  Next, the bronze man scrutinized the 
  automobile tire tracks. Style and size of the 
  tire treads told Doc that the machine had 
  been a large one. The bronze man, in his 
  many scientific experiments had studied 
  thousands of types of impressions made by 
  all sorts of things. He also measured the 
  wheelbase of the car, then again carefully 
  went over impressions made by the front 
  wheels. 
  To Monk and Ham, he explained, 
  “Deeper impressions made by the forward 
  wheels show that it was a front-wheel drive 
  type. There are only two or three makes of 
  that kind of car on the market. But only one 
  of this wheelbase.” 
  Doc named a high-priced make of 
  automobile. He repeated his comment that 
  he thought the girls’ captors were three men 
  of varying sizes. He suggested: 
  “That ought to give you enough to 
  pick up their trail. It might be a good idea if 
  Tink O’Neil went with you, since he knows 
  Molly Mason.” 
  First, all returned to the original 
  landing field, where Monk and Ham rolled 
  their plane from the hangar. 
  Doc took off a moment later, ordering 
  them to keep looking for the girls and the big, 
  front-wheel-drive car until they had some sort 
  of lead. Doc stated that he would get in touch 
  with them later. 
  The bronze man returned to the steel 
  mill, landed just outside the small town that 
  had been built beyond the railroad tracks 
  leading into the long plant. 
  He was in time to observe the small 
  riot taking place in the streets of the mill 
  town. 
   
   
  UNOBSERVED, Doc Savage later 
  walked through the main street of the mill 
  town. Before leaving the plane, Doc had 
  switched back to the blackened old clothes of 
  a steelworker. His hair was black, and his 
  features and hands lacked their usual 
  metallic coloring. 
  There was just the single main street 
  of the town. It was perhaps a mile long, and 
  divided the plant property from the rows of 
  similar, smoke-darkened houses of the mill-
  workers’ families. 
  Though the fight was taking place 
  halfway down the length of the street, the 
  vast mills were still in operation. Orders for 
  products made of the famous new T.3 
  formula had been pouring into the plant. The 
  bosses, therefore, were running three shifts 
  of men each twenty-four hours. 
  But now some of those men had 
  walked off the job because of the terror of the 
  red spots and the sudden madness that 
  struck their fellow workers. 
  Blast furnaces sent their fiery red 
  glow into the night sky. Smoke and drifting 
  soot were everywhere. It accounted for the 
  dismal-looking, drab homes of the mill hands. 
  Doc reached the general store where 
  the men were arguing and fighting. One 
  husky mill hand had climbed up on the steps 
  of the store, vainly trying to make a speech. 
  A few stopped fighting in order to listen to the 
  man. Others booed, or went on fighting with 
  those they were trying to stop from going to 
  work at the various shops. 
  Bricks flew. Some of the powerful 
  foundry workers held clubs and sticks. A 
  small coupé rolled down the street, parked, 
  and 
  two 
  uniformed 
  men 
  leaped 
  out. 
  Apparently this was the “police force” of the 
  small town. 
  The car was quickly upset; the 
  policemen were stripped of their clubs and 
  guns, and the crowd merely jeered at them. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  27 
  Doc Savage was concealed in a 
  doorway of a closed shoe-repair shop across 
  from 
  the 
  struggling 
  crowd. 
  He 
  was 
  unobserved as he watched the husky fellow 
  who was trying to speak. The man looked 
  sincere in what he was attempting to do; 
  likewise, he appeared like an intelligent sort 
  of person. He was striving to bring order out 
  of chaos. 
  On an impulse, Doc spoke. His voice 
  carried over the heads of the fighting mob. 
  Strangely, it was impossible for anyone to 
  locate the exact source of that commanding, 
  clear-carrying voice. 
  The 
  bronze 
  giant 
  had 
  used 
  ventriloquism, at which he was adept. His 
  words brought the struggling men to abrupt 
  silence. They stood in awe of the deep-toned 
  words. 
  “Let 
  your 
  leader 
  speak,” 
  Doc 
  suggested. “It is more wise to reason this 
  trouble out than to fight. Give him at least a 
  chance.” 
  The speaker on the store steps had 
  no idea from where the voice had come. But 
  it did give him the break he needed, and he 
  immediately seized his cue. 
  He said seriously, “Men, 
  we’re 
  cutting our own throats if we continue to walk 
  off the job. It’s the only living we have. Do 
  you all want to starve?” 
  Someone shouted. “Of course not! 
  But neither do we want to die like mad dogs! 
  Like those others did when the sickness got 
  them!” 
  A second man yelled approval. 
  “Yeah! Maybe that red-spot sickness will hit 
  all of us—our families—and then where’ll we 
  be? We’ll all die!” 
  Yells went up from the listening 
  crowd. 
  “Sure!” said one man. “Lookit Hank 
  Miller, and Steve Clancy, an’ poor Jim 
  Daniels! They all got the grinning madness, 
  an’ now they’re dead! The hell with the plant. 
  I say let’s leave town before this madness 
  gets worse!” 
  More shouts of agreement went up. 
  But the speaker on the general store 
  steps held up his hand. His face was strained 
  and grim. 
  “Listen!” he called out. “There’s 
  something you don’t know about. There’s a 
  man who has arrived in town that can stop 
  this madness menace. He can help us. He—” 
  Someone 
  guffawed. “Yah! What 
  good did our doctors do? They can’t even 
  figure what this sickness is!” 
  The men all started talking and 
  arguing again. The speaker on the steps saw 
  that he was going to lose control of them a 
  second time. Frantic, he yelled: 
  “Look here. This man I’m telling you 
  about was seen in No. 5 today. He can help 
  us. He is Doc Savage!” 
   
   
  A HUSH abruptly swept over the 
  men. 
  The men started talking quickly. 
  Abruptly, someone asked loudly, “All right. 
  Where is this Doc Savage? Let’s see him!” 
  Doc Savage himself was still pressed 
  back in the doorway of the darkened shoe-
  repair shop. He reacted instantly to the 
  questioner’s words. His agile mind saw a 
  picture, a gruesome picture of disorder and 
  grief. 
  Men walking out of the mills. The 
  plant itself closing down because of the 
  trouble. Women and children going hungry. 
  These mill hands had only one source of 
  income. Steel! 
  And yet there was the other menace 
  of 
  the 
  red-spot 
  sickness, 
  the 
  terrible 
  madness that had already hit various 
  workers. Naturally, these men were thinking 
  of their families, of this terror that might find 
  its way into their very homes. Obviously, no 
  one was safe; it was impossible to tell just 
  where the menace would strike again. 
  Doc Savage decided that he should 
  reveal himself. His hands worked quickly with 
  a soft substance that he took from one 
  pocket. The stuff was puttylike material that 
  would remove the grime and soot-black from 
  his metallic features. He prepared to step 
  from the doorway and address the men 
  himself. 
  But just then the darkened door 
  against which he was pressed back, opened 
  with a jerk and hands that were like steel 
  talons sank into the bronze man’s shoulders. 
  Other powerful hands gripped various parts 
  of the bronze man’s body. Something that 
  smelled like a chloroform-soaked rag was 
  
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  28 
  slapped over his mouth and nose. He was 
  dragged inside the store by at least a dozen 
  silently moving big figures. 
  The door was closed quietly. Doc 
  was quickly hauled into a smaller, rear room. 
  The windows of the second room were 
  covered with old rags nailed to the frames. 
  There was a small light burning overhead. 
  The little thin man with the gloomy-
  looking face was standing to one side, 
  watching as the bronze giant was dragged 
  into 
  the 
  room. 
  He 
  spoke 
  in 
  a 
  flat, 
  expressionless voice. 
  “Nice going,” he said. “Now a couple 
  of you guys get out there, start a fight 
  somewhere else and get that crowd away 
  from here.” 
   
   
  Chapter VIII 
  QUESTIONS 
   
  DOC SAVAGE lay silently on the 
  bare floor of the small room. What little 
  furniture had been in the place, the men had 
  swept to one side. 
  The wedge-shouldered man who had 
  been holding the chloroform-soaked rag over 
  the bronze man’s face, abruptly stood up and 
  dropped the cloth in a can, tightly closing it 
  up. He said with a grin: “He’s out cold, Wart. 
  Soon as the boys get that mob away from out 
  front, we can move this bronze guy.” 
  Wart 
  nodded, 
  his 
  gloomy 
  face 
  expressionless. He was the same man who 
  had taken charge of the capture of Pat and 
  Molly Mason. His two skinny assistants, 
  however, were not with him now. 
  All the thugs standing over Doc 
  Savage were burly, big men with hard jaws 
  and grim eyes. It could be seen that several 
  were dressed in the work clothes of mill 
  hands, though they looked like the type who 
  had hardly ever done an honest day’s work in 
  their lives. 
  They started complimenting one 
  another on what a cinch it had been to 
  capture this fellow Doc Savage. 
  But little Wart spoke up. “It won’t be 
  so funny if the bronze guy wakes up. Keep 
  your eyes on him, dopes!” 
  The men quieted down and stood 
  grouped around the bronze man’s sprawled 
  form, wary lest Doc Savage show the least 
  sign of coming out of the chloroform sleep. 
  One big fellow squinted down at Doc, 
  studied the powerful form a long moment. 
  “Criminy!” he exploded. “I think the guy’s 
  dead. He ain’t even breathin’!” 
  Others took a closer look. It certainly 
  appeared that the speaker’s words were true. 
  Doc Savage showed no indication of life 
  whatsoever. 
  Little Wart allowed a brief smirk to 
  cross his gloomy features. “Swell,” he said. 
  “This is going to save us a lot of headaches. 
  That guy sure can be hell on wheels when 
  he’s on his feet.” 
  They were interrupted by return of 
  the two men who had been sent out to start a 
  fight elsewhere in order to draw the mill 
  crowd away from this locality. One of the 
  arrivals announced: 
  “The van’s outside, boss.” He jerked 
  his chin at Doc’s motionless form. “All set?” 
  Thin little Wart nodded. “Pile him in 
  the van,” he ordered. 
  Doc was picked up by half a dozen 
  of the thugs and carried out a rear door of the 
  small room. The rear doors of the large van 
  had been opened, a tailgate lowered, and 
  then the truck had been backed right up to 
  the door. The bronze man was carried inside 
  and placed on the floor. Had anyone been 
  watching, it would have been impossible to 
  see exactly what was going on. 
  Apparently the vehicle was a large 
  van for hauling horses. But stalls had been 
  knocked out and now the inside was just one 
  large space with some straw left on the floor. 
  On either side of the van were windows with 
  iron bars across. The apertures were for 
  ventilation 
  when 
  horses 
  were 
  being 
  transported. 
  Just before the rear doors were 
  closed up again, little wiry Wart gave crisp 
  orders. 
  “Half you guys go in the sedan,” he 
  suggested. “I’ll be right with you. Six ought to 
  be enough to watch this bronze fellow. We’ll 
  meet at the usual place.” 
  So saying, Wart climbed out of the 
  truck and the rear doors were bolted from 
  outside. Someone outside climbed up into 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  29 
  the driver’s compartment—the driver’s cab 
  was a closed-off unit separated from the 
  large van part by a steel partition—and then 
  the truck started up and went rumbling off. 
  Soon it left the single main street of 
  the mill town and made a lot of loud noise 
  bouncing over rough dirt road. 
  But Doc Savage came up off the 
  floor of the truck without any noise. 
   
   
  DOC grabbed two pairs of legs of 
  men leaning against one inside wall of the 
  van. Blurred speed followed. 
  The two surprised men were hurled 
  to the floor. The bronze man’s crashing fists 
  located two jaws. The two thugs collapsed 
  before they even had time to yell. 
  But the scuffling sound had been 
  heard by the four others who were also in the 
  compartment with the Man of Bronze. Just a 
  little faint night light came in through the 
  grilled openings, and they leaped back 
  toward Doc Savage, one man growling, “Say, 
  what the hell’s wrong with you birds?” 
  The man had not yet seen Doc 
  Savage on his feet. 
  Doc hit the fellow once. He turned 
  his attention to the other three while the man 
  he had just hit was teetering back and forth 
  on his heels before falling. 
  The remaining three had a slight 
  advantage over their pals. They at least knew 
  something was terribly wrong. They barged 
  in with their fists up and their heads ducked 
  down for protection. They all slammed into 
  the giant bronze fellow. 
  That was their mistake. They should 
  have tried to wear Doc Savage down. 
  From early childhood, the bronze 
  man, along with his rigid mental training, had 
  been taught the art of self-defense. This 
  included rough-and-tumble fighting as well as 
  the more skilled sciences of boxing and 
  wrestling. Even as a young boy, Doc—who 
  even then had a remarkable physique—had 
  been pitted against two or three lads each 
  equal to him in size. An hour every day had 
  been spent in training Doc Savage how to 
  protect himself. And this had been only a part 
  of a scientific education that covered both 
  development of his body and his brain. 
  Doc now demonstrated a little of 
  what he knew. 
  The 
  struggling, 
  swaying 
  group 
  became something that sounded like three 
  mountain goats involved with a swift-moving 
  panther. There was butting and howling and 
  cursing. 
  Doc said no word, merely moving 
  with blinding speed. After a moment or two, 
  bodies started flying away from him in 
  tangents. Each tangent was a man, and he 
  kept going in a straight line until he banged a 
  wall of the van. Then each fell down and 
  dreamed a comet had struck the earth. 
  Doc gazed at the six unconscious 
  men piled around him. He recalled the voice 
  of one thug who had spoken, and so be 
  moved to the steel partition that separated 
  him from the driver’s compartment and 
  started pounding on the wall. 
  The racket of the truck bouncing over 
  the rough road had kept the driver in 
  ignorance of what was taking place behind 
  him. Doc had to knock for a while until he got 
  the man’s attention. 
  Then, imitating closely the voice of 
  the one thug, Doc called, “Stop this jalopy a 
  minute. That bronze guy is gonna wake up, 
  and we gotta find us some rope!” 
  The van started slowing, its driver 
  unaware of the fate of his partners. He would 
  be just as surprised as his pals had been 
  when he opened the rear doors. 
  For Doc Savage had not been dazed 
  by the chloroform used back at the closed 
  shoe-repair shop. In that first instant of being 
  seized by many strong hands, Doc Savage 
  had held his breath. Practice had enabled 
  Doc to hold his breath longer than any South 
  Sea pearl diver. And it had only been a 
  couple of moments while the thugs dragged 
  Doc into the rear room. 
  Then, after the chloroformed rag had 
  been removed, Doc had managed to fill his 
  lungs once with fresh air. Next he had 
  assumed the deathlike attitude. 
  So remarkable was muscular control 
  of the bronze giant’s trained body, that he 
  could appear to be lifeless for short stretches 
  of time. This included perfect control of chest 
  muscles, which made it seem that Doc had 
  stopped breathing. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  30 
  Doc had a purpose in mind when he 
  let the dozen assorted thugs think he was 
  unconscious—or dead from the drug. He had 
  hoped to meet the leader of the gang. But 
  now he was convinced that the skinny little 
  man named Wart was only a stooge working 
  for someone higher up. He hoped to find this 
  fact out from the captives he had here in the 
  big van. 
  The truck had rolled to a stop. 
  Doc heard the driver climb down and 
  walk around toward the rear. Disguising his 
  voice again, Doc said gruffly, “Hurry it up!” 
  The heavy tailgate of the truck 
  dropped down. The doors swung open. 
  The man standing there was almost 
  the size of Doc Savage. Muscles stuck out 
  on his bared chest and shoulders like blocks 
  of cement. He was grinning foolishly. He had 
  the hideous red spots of the madmen. 
  He leaped into the van after Doc 
  Savage. 
   
   
  NATURALLY the bronze man had 
  expected a battle when the van driver 
  opened the rear doors and discovered that 
  his burly partners had all been knocked out. 
  Doc had been ready for a fight. 
  But even Doc had not guessed that a 
  madman would be the person to appear. 
  The fellow was built like a bull. He 
  got hold of the bronze man’s shoulders, 
  locked his fingers like claws of steel and went 
  into a backward fall. He figured, apparently, 
  on carrying Doc Savage outside to the 
  ground, where there would be plenty room to 
  scrap. 
  He 
  made 
  a 
  mistake. 
  He 
  underestimated 
  the 
  bronze 
  man’s 
  capabilities. The red-spotted man himself, 
  instead of Doc, found himself flat on his back 
  out in the dust of the bumpy road. 
  Doc Savage landed on top of the 
  man. The action which followed was furious 
  and breath-taking. The man, for all his 
  powerful build, was whipped around and 
  shaken like a rag doll in a bulldog’s clutch. 
  When Doc finally let go of him, the 
  big, bare-chested man staggered around and 
  goggled. It took him seconds to figure 
  whether he was on his head or his feet. 
  In the meantime, Doc’s fist crashed 
  out. The light was poor and the red-spotted 
  man did not see the fist until too late. It 
  knocked him flat on his back again. 
  Doc Savage had no trouble seeing in 
  the gloom. Because for long periods of time, 
  the bronze man had undergone exercises to 
  strengthen his eyes. He could see as well in 
  darkness as in light. 
  He swooped down to pick up the big 
  fellow again.  
  The man might have been crazy, but 
  he still retained reason enough to know that 
  escape 
  was 
  suddenly 
  and 
  urgently 
  imperative. So he leaped to his feet and 
  ran—ran into the woods surrounding the 
  lonesome spot where the large van was 
  stopped in the narrow roadway. 
  The surrounding woods was a pit of 
  blackness. Even Doc would have some 
  difficulty in trailing the red-spotted man. 
  And so he whipped to a small metal 
  box installed on the cab runningboard of the 
  truck. The box contained red signal flares 
  that all trucks carry. Doc got one of the 
  sticklike flares, yanked the cap from its end 
  and red glare suddenly spilled out in the 
  darkness. The red brilliance made a lot of 
  light in the night. Doc saw the huge man’s 
  form just disappearing in the woods. He took 
  after the man. 
  But fifteen minutes later, he returned 
  to the van without his quarry. The man had 
  vanished as though into thin air. It was quite 
  possible that the man had been met by a car 
  on another roadway that the bronze man 
  located beyond the stretch of woods. Or 
  there might be some secret hiding place near 
  here that would take hours to locate, a place 
  that could be easily concealed in the half-wild 
  growth. It was more urgent that he get back 
  to the parked van. For Doc wanted to 
  question the six thugs he had captured. 
  When he returned, and climbed back 
  inside the big van, two of the thugs were 
  already starting to move around a little. One 
  was groaning. 
  “Truck must have rolled over into a 
  ditch!” said the dazed fellow. 
  The second thug who was awake 
  scratched his head. “Maybe we got stalled on 
  a railroad crossing,” he suggested. 
   
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  31 
   
  The bull-like fellow grabbed the bronze man’s 
  shoulders and went into a backward fall! 
   
   
  Then they saw Doc, and both men 
  groaned again. They started to lie down. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  picked 
  the 
  more 
  intelligent-looking of the two and stood him 
  up. The other he knocked out again with a 
  short jab to the jaw. The four remaining thugs 
  were still out. 
  To the only man awake, the bronze 
  giant said, “And now we’ll hear about this 
  man Wart and where he went.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  32 
  The man who was on his feet glared 
  and rubbed at his swollen jaw. “Hell with 
  you!” he snapped. 
  Apparently he was not going to 
  answer any questions, regardless of what 
  happened to him. There was an expression 
  in the depths of his eyes which said he was 
  afraid to reveal any information. 
  From a pocket of the equipment vest 
  which Doc Savage always wore beneath his 
  coat, the bronze man removed a shining, 
  small 
  “hypo” 
  needle. 
  The 
  instrument 
  contained a liquid injection of Doc’s own 
  invention. 
  This was a form of truth serum that 
  Doc often used on belligerent individuals who 
  frequently refused to talk. The truth serum 
  was a drug affecting a certain part of the 
  brain, so that the subject injected with it was 
  forced to answer all questions truthfully. 
  Doc administered the serum. 
   
   
  AFTER a few moments, the bronze 
  man asked: “Name?” 
  “Slugger McCoy.” 
  “Profession?” continued Doc. 
  The man grinned. “I get fifty bucks a 
  day for these,” he said, displaying his big 
  fists. “The boss sent all the way to New York 
  for us guys.” 
  “The boss?” 
  “Yeah, Wart. He’s a right guy, that 
  skinny little runt.” 
  Doc’s next question was carefully 
  stated. “And who is Wart working for? Who is 
  the big shot himself?” 
  The man shrugged. “How the hell do 
  I know? We just take orders from Wart. As 
  long as I get paid, I don’t care if the guy after 
  that formula is Mickey Mouse!” 
  Doc’s eyes were thoughtful. For a 
  moment he said nothing. Then, “Where is J. 
  Henry Mason? What happened to him?” 
  The fellow’s grin spread. “Brother, 
  your guess is as good as mine. That steel 
  millionaire might be a crook, too, for all I 
  know. All I know is, Wart is going to get that 
  formula, an’ we’re gonna scare hell out of a 
  few guys, too!” 
  Twice the man had referred to the 
  formula of T.3. But there was something in 
  connection with the formula that this man had 
  not mentioned. Doc said: “This madness is 
  connected with T.3. Explain that.” 
  Real puzzlement showed in the 
  fellow’s eyes as he replied frankly, “Listen, 
  I’m keeping away from those mad guys. That 
  wasn’t in our agreement, and I don’t know 
  what to think. But we did cash in on it!” 
  “How do you mean?” 
  The man laughed. “Some of the 
  boys—our biggest ones—are being fixed up 
  to look like those crackpot steelworkers.” 
  A suspicion that had been in the 
  bronze man’s mind became a fact. He said, 
  “The driver of this truck was faked to look like 
  one of them also, wasn’t he?” 
  “Yeah.” 
  Further questioning illustrated to Doc 
  Savage that his captive knew nothing about 
  J. Henry Mason’s whereabouts. He even 
  tried to learn about the girls, Pat and Molly 
  Mason, but obviously they had been seized 
  by some other group working for the 
  mysterious person who was behind this 
  thing. 
  One last statement came from the 
  fellow who had received the truth serum. He 
  said, “You know, I think Wart already has that 
  formula. I can tell by the way he acted 
  tonight.” 
  Doc said quietly, “Is that so?” And 
  then, moving with deceptive speed, he 
  grabbed the man, used a peculiar finger 
  pressure on certain nerves in the fellow’s 
  neck. He became immediately unconscious. 
  He would remain that way for some time. 
  Doc Savage gave similar treatment 
  to the other five men. Then, locking up rear 
  doors of the horse van, he drove his captives 
  into police headquarters in Buffalo, there 
  turning them over to the police with the 
  request that they be held. 
  It was morning when Doc Savage 
  returned to the mill town. At eight o’clock, he 
  went directly to the manager in charge of the 
  vast steel plant during J. Henry Mason’s 
  strange disappearance. Doc’s mission was in 
  regard to accidents that were taking place 
  wherever the new steel formula, T.3, was 
  being produced or used. 
  Doc’s 
  captive 
  in 
  the 
  van 
  had 
  obviously stated the truth when he said that 
  skinny little Wart perhaps already had that 
  formula. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  33 
  It 
  was 
  quite 
  possible 
  that 
  a 
  substitution had been made, and that new 
  steel was being made from a formula that 
  was not the real invention of J. Henry Mason. 
  But later, after an examination of the 
  steel plant’s impenetrable safe located in its 
  general offices, Doc Savage learned that the 
  true formula of T.3 had not been seized. 
   
   
  Chapter IX 
  DOC’S DISCOVERY 
   
  RENNY had arrived in the mill town. 
  He was with Doc Savage in the general 
  offices of the steel plant when the vault was 
  opened, and verification made that the 
  formula was safe. 
  In a booming voice, Renny said, 
  “Holy cow! This formula would be worth 
  millions to anybody. It uses a method that no 
  one, to date, has ever thought of for the 
  production of a tougher and stronger steel—
  and yet one so light in weight in comparison 
  to known steels.” 
  Doc Savage nodded. For Renny was 
  the 
  engineer 
  in 
  the 
  bronze 
  man’s 
  organization. He probably knew more about 
  steel than any single person in the vast 
  organization of wealthy J. Henry Mason. 
  Also, 
  Colonel 
  John 
  Renwick—
  Renny’s full title—was someone to cause 
  attention. 
  Renny 
  was 
  built 
  along 
  the 
  structural lines of one of the many bridges he 
  had designed. A towering giant of a man, he 
  stood almost as tall as the bronze man 
  himself. 
  Renny and Doc had been standing in 
  the large vault room talking to two officials of 
  the large steel plant. One was a heavy-set, 
  stern-looking man with steely-gray hair. He 
  was manager of the vast plant, and in 
  complete control during the mysterious 
  disappearance of J. Henry Mason, the 
  millionaire 
  president. 
  His 
  name 
  was 
  Leidenberg, Doc had learned. He had one 
  outstanding trait—arrogance—and he was 
  demonstrating it now. 
   “You see,” Leidenberg rapped, “the 
  formula of T.3 is quite safe. This nonsense of 
  someone trying to steal it is all damned 
  foolishness.” He waved his hand at a small, 
  alert-looking little man standing in the vault 
  with them. “I say we should close up the mills 
  until Mr. Mason returns. This madness 
  menace is something beyond our control. It’s 
  liable to hit everybody!” 
  The heavy-set plant manager got the 
  last word out with a half shout. He gave a 
  peculiar twist of his neck and shoulder, 
  obviously a nervous habit when he was 
  upset. 
  But the small man he had addressed 
  was far from being upset. He looked like a 
  strutty little gamecock in a hard-brimmed 
  straw hat. In shirt sleeves and vest, he 
  looked like the kind of go-getter who could be 
  just about every place at once. And that was 
  exactly his job. 
  Doc and Renny had learned that the 
  alert-looking little man was Willie Watt, 
  superintendent of the plant, and just about as 
  hardboiled and tough as they come. He had 
  to be, in such a business as steel. 
  Willie Watt snapped, “Close the 
  plant, hell! We got a hundred orders to get 
  out. We got a thousand hands depending 
  upon those orders for food and clothing for 
  their kids!” Willie Watt took one of the 
  numerous pencils out of his vest pocket and 
  shook it beneath the big plant manager’s 
  nose. “And listen, Leidenberg, you can’t 
  close the shops without J. Henry Mason’s 
  say-so!” 
  The big manager’s heavy features 
  grew red. He looked as if he might explode. 
  But little Willie Watt kept waving the pencil 
  and continued: “Another thing! We’re just 
  winding up that big order for the new steel 
  pier near Atlantic City. Job’s practically 
  completed. 
  And 
  we 
  have 
  three 
  more 
  contracts for plates for another fleet of oil 
  tankers on the Great Lakes. What the hell is 
  the matter with you, Leidenberg?” 
  Renny shot Doc Savage a glance, 
  for before leaving New York the bronze man 
  had told the gloomy-faced engineer of his 
  organization something about T.3 and the 
  great changes it was going to make in certain 
  phases of steel construction work. 
  It was because Renny had been tied 
  up as consultant on a new tunnel job beneath 
  the East River, in New York, that he had not 
  been able to leave with Doc Savage. Thus 
  his late arrival this morning. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  34 
  Doc spoke up. “Gentlemen, perhaps 
  we won’t have to close the plant.” The bronze 
  man indicated the thick sheaf of valuable 
  papers on which the manufacturing formula 
  of T.3 was contained. “Mr. Renwick, here, 
  would like to study these papers. Later, it 
  might be a good idea if he worked 
  temporarily in one of your laboratories. 
  Perhaps he will find what is wrong with this 
  mystery of T.3 and the defects that are 
  cropping up in it.” 
  “Fine!” Willie Watt rapped. “I’ll bet 
  you Renwick’s the man can do it!” 
  Both Doc Savage and Renny, the 
  engineer, were well known to the two plant 
  officials. 
  Both 
  had 
  heard 
  of 
  Doc’s 
  acquaintance, too, with J. Henry Mason in 
  the past. And Renny’s name as an expert 
  had frequently appeared in reports and 
  papers sent out by a society of well-known 
  American engineers. Doc had already been 
  informed that he and his aid were to be given 
  any sort of authority in the vast plant. 
  Doc now moved toward the large 
  doorway of the safety vault. He finished, 
  “Renny might start right now.” 
  Leidenberg, 
  the 
  plant 
  manager, 
  smiled. He tried to pass off the comments of 
  snappy little Willie Watt, saying, “Well, I was 
  just thinking of the men and this terrible 
  madness thing. Perhaps we can straighten 
  everything out quickly.” He sighed. “I hope 
  so!” 
  Renny said, “I’ll be back here after a 
  bit.” He looked at Willie Watt. “I’ll start in the 
  experimental lab first, if you don’t mind.” 
  Doc, Renny and the hardboiled little 
  superintendent went out through the large 
  offices directly outside the vault, passed 
  along a corridor and came to the long, glass-
  inclosed laboratories. Here there was none of 
  the smoke and grime that was in the big 
  rolling mills and open-hearth shops. Behind 
  the glass partitions, bright-looking young men 
  in rubber aprons worked over test tubes and 
  laboratory benches. They were the corps of 
  engineers who were always experimenting in 
  steel. 
  Outside a doorway to the laboratory, 
  the bronze man paused and handed a small 
  capsule to big Renny. He added, “Just a 
  precautionary measure.” 
  He did not explain his comment, 
  though little Willie Watt looked at him sharply. 
  The quick-moving little “super” straightened 
  his battered old straw hat on his head, looked 
  at Renny and said, “Come on, then.” 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE went out of the 
  building. He proceeded along the single main 
  street of the mill town. He passed the shoe-
  repair shop where the attack on himself had 
  taken place last night. Windows of the small 
  shop were now boarded up, and the bronze 
  man moved toward a man standing near the 
  curb. 
  “Has this place closed?” he queried. 
  The man gave a slight start as he 
  turned and got a look at Doc Savage. A big 
  man himself, he was surprised at the bronze 
  giant’s size. 
  “Yeah,” the man stated. “It’s up for 
  sale. The guy who ran the place moved to 
  another mill town two days ago.” 
  Doc murmured, “Thank you,” and 
  moved on. He understood now why the thugs 
  had been able to make use of the shoe-
  repair shop during the night. With the owner 
  away, no one would have known that people 
  were in the place. 
  Doc Savage returned to the small 
  woods outside the smoky mill town. He 
  proceeded directly to the equipment case 
  which he had left concealed in brush. 
  For a long moment, the bronze giant 
  stood staring at the large case before 
  bending over to open it. His flake-gold eyes 
  were thoughtful. 
  Then he flicked open the latch and 
  opened the case so that it was spread out on 
  the ground. It was the empty case which Doc 
  had left here in the woods earlier. For an 
  equipment case that was obviously empty, 
  Doc showed great interest in its interior. A 
  second later, reason for this was revealed. 
  Doc’s fingers pried beneath a corner 
  of the inside lining. There was a slight click, 
  and next the entire bottom of the big case 
  had flipped outward. A second, identical 
  bottom of the case came into view. The 
  partition which the bronze man had released 
  was false! 
  And concealed beneath the false 
  bottom and the real one, was a black, small 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  35 
  box about as thick as a sandwich and almost 
  as square. 
  A round, tiny glass lens protruded 
  from one side of the object, and when Doc 
  picked up the flat object it could be seen that 
  the lens fitted neatly into a tiny hole made 
  through the larger equipment case. 
  The small object, apparently, was a 
  camera; and the heavy equipment case had 
  been so placed by Doc Savage that the 
  camera lens pointed upward at anyone who 
  might have been inquisitive enough to bend 
  down over Doc’s property hidden in the 
  woods. 
  The bronze man returned next to his 
  plane, where it was still in the field not far 
  away. Inside the cabin of the plane, Doc 
  located the portable, small box that contained 
  film developer and printing chemicals. He 
  reached up and pulled down shades that 
  could be used to shut out light from the cabin 
  windows. 
  Fifteen minutes later he was staring 
  at an image revealed in the tiny developed 
  exposure taken from the compact camera. 
   
   
  Chapter X 
  TRAILED 
   
  SUDDENLY the short-wave radio 
  loud-speaker crackled in the pilot’s cockpit, 
  forward. 
  Doc 
  hurried 
  that 
  way 
  and 
  manipulated various dials. 
  Monk’s voice reached him shortly. 
  “Doc? Are you all right?” 
  Doc Savage stated that he was in 
  the vicinity of the steel plant. 
  “We been tryin’ to reach you, Doc. 
  We think we’ve located Pat Savage and 
  Molly Mason. Tink O’Neil says—” 
  “Where are they?” Doc asked. 
  Monk mentioned a coast town on the 
  shore of Lake Erie. “We’ve trailed them to an 
  oil-tanker shipping point here,” the chemist 
  went on excitedly. “We’re gonna board one of 
  them danged tankers and blast hell outta—” 
  A calmer voice abruptly cut in on 
  Monk’s—Ham’s voice. “What we really need 
  at the moment is your help. We’ve located a 
  new-type oil tanker that is apparently ready 
  to sail before long. But the thing is almost 
  impenetrable. With hatches fastened down, it 
  is practically impossible to board her. Tink, 
  though, thinks the girls are aboard. You 
  might be able to help.” 
  The bronze man asked, “How soon 
  do you figure this tanker will sail? And 
  perhaps you know its destination?” 
  Ham, however, only had an answer 
  to the first question. 
  “I’d say about dark,” he replied. “And, 
  look, Doc, Tink O’Neil says perhaps you 
  ought to see Walter Mason, Molly’s cousin, 
  there at the Mason estate near the steel 
  mills. Walter, Tink tells me, knows something 
  about these tankers. Seems Mason owns 
  some of them, and has been furnishing steel 
  deck plates for others. Walter might know 
  where this one is headed. Her name is the 
  Mary L.” 
  Stating that he would be there before 
  dusk, Doc switched Ham off. 
  The bronze man had heard, from 
  one of the officials at the plant, about fat and 
  shiftless Walter Mason. 
  As the official had told Doc Savage, 
  “The fellow’s no dumbbell, but he’s lazy. Like 
  the rest of us here at the mills, he’s part of 
  the family. We’re all related, and we all have 
  an interest in this business. We had a 
  meeting the other night about the question of 
  J. Henry Mason’s disappearance, but Walter 
  was too tired to even attend it.” 
  And yet the bronze man thought it 
  might be advisable to see Walter Mason, 
  following Tink O’Neil’s advice. Since Walter 
  lived at the Mason estate, it was quite likely 
  he knew more about J. Henry Mason’s 
  private affairs than any of the relative-officials 
  at the steel plant. He might have some idea 
  about the steel king’s odd disappearance. 
  But before leaving the plane, Doc 
  changed his attire somewhat. He was 
  wearing an ordinary suit, but he added a hat 
  to his dress. Strangely, this simple act greatly 
  changed the bronze giant’s appearance. 
  For Doc Savage never wore a hat. 
  Wearing one, with his unusual bronze-hued 
  hair concealed, he looked strikingly different. 
  And at the moment, Doc had a reason for not 
  being too conspicuous. 
  The reason was the tiny snapshot 
  which he still held in his fingers. It was a print 
  of the exposure taken by the small high-
  
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  36 
  priced camera which the bronze man had 
  concealed in the empty equipment case. 
  Doc Savage knew that he had been 
  trailed. 
  He 
  knew 
  that 
  someone 
  had 
  discovered his identity long before he had 
  revealed his presence to just a few officials at 
  the steel mills. 
  That person, as shown from the 
  picture caught of him as he bent over the 
  bronze man’s empty equipment case in the 
  woods, was the man in the black mask. 
  That much, the snapshot told. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE was trailed as he left 
  his plane. Doc did not use his fast ship, for 
  the simple reason that he wished to make his 
  arrival at the Mason estate as unspectacular 
  as possible. He did not wish to draw undue 
  attention to himself. As always, Doc disliked 
  publicity. 
  The way Doc was trailed was quite 
  unique. 
  It was necessary for the bronze man 
  to follow a side road that led past scattered 
  farmhouses. 
  After 
  a 
  while 
  the 
  road 
  intersected a paved road which led close to 
  the highway passing the large Mason estate. 
  There were more farms, and it was a farmer 
  driving into Buffalo who gave Doc Savage a 
  lift and stated the way to the Mason place. 
  The rural mail carrier in the old flivver 
  was the fellow following Doc at a respectable 
  distance. The top of the battered old car was 
  up and the driver’s slouch hat was down. But 
  a whole lot of the man was crowded behind 
  the steering wheel. 
  From time to time, the rural mail 
  carrier paused before one of the metal boxes 
  fastened atop posts outside the various 
  farms which were passed. He apparently 
  placed mail in the boxes. 
  What he really stuffed inside the 
  boxes was editions of old newspapers, a 
  supply of which he carried on the seat beside 
  him. 
  At the entrance of the rambling 
  Mason place, Doc Savage left the farmer’s 
  car and proceeded on foot up the winding 
  gravel drive to the house. He passed a 
  gardener working near the veranda, inquired 
  about Walter Mason. 
  The man led the way around toward 
  the rear of the big house and pointed down 
  along a carefully tended terrace of green 
  lawn. He shrugged, commented: 
  “Mister, if J. Henry Mason doesn’t 
  return soon, that fat walrus Walter will sleep 
  himself to death!” 
  Doc moved forward along the lawn. 
  Walter Mason, the nephew of the 
  missing millionaire, was sprawled out in a 
  hammock protected by two beach umbrellas. 
  The umbrellas had been so placed that the 
  shifting sun would not glare in the fat man’s 
  eyes. Beside him, on a glass-topped table, 
  was a highball glass imbedded in ice cubes 
  placed in a large bowl. 
  His stomach and his round, puffed 
  face were the first things the bronze man saw 
  as he approached the hammock. Then 
  Walter Mason’s eyes opened and looked like 
  bright buttons stuck in a round pumpkin. 
  “Oh, hello,” he said lazily. 
  Walter did not bother to sit up. 
  Doc said, “Perhaps you can answer 
  a question for me?” 
  Walter yawned, seemed to think the 
  statement over, then replied, “Perhaps.” 
  He kept watching Doc from where he 
  lay sprawled in the comfortable swing. Doc 
  was aware that the man’s eyes were alert 
  enough for one so fat. For all the bulk of him, 
  the formation of Walter’s features said that 
  he could have a pretty good brain. Doc 
  recalled that many fat people are the most 
  sharp-witted. 
  Suddenly, Walter Mason gave a 
  start; that is, a whole lot of him started 
  vibrating as a result of his abrupt movement. 
  He sat up—and the hammock threatened to 
  collapse. 
  “Say!” he exclaimed. “You’re Doc 
  Savage! I’ve seen pictures of you!” 
  Doc nodded, his face not changing 
  expression. “Now perhaps you can answer 
  the question.” 
   
   
  “QUESTION?” fat Walter asked, 
  puzzled. “What question?” 
  “Destination of one of your uncle’s oil 
  tankers by the name of the Mary L.” Doc 
  mentioned the dock where Monk had stated 
  the tanker was tied up. “She’s due to sail for 
  
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  37 
  some point on the Lakes before tonight. 
  Perhaps you know where?” 
  Walter’s small eyes were thoughtful. 
  He said, “That stuffed shirt, Leidenberg, 
  called me from the main office and told me 
  about you, Doc Savage. You’re trying to 
  locate J. Henry Mason, aren’t you?” 
  Doc nodded. “And the girls,” Doc 
  added. “Your cousin, Molly Mason, and Pat 
  Savage.” 
  Walter shrugged his fat shoulders. 
  “Tell you something,” he said suddenly. “That 
  crazy Molly is always up to something. Bet 
  you she and Pat aren’t in any trouble.” 
  Doc made no comment on that, but 
  asked instead, “And your uncle, J. Henry 
  Mason?” 
  Walter grinned this time. “Look,” he 
  went on, “old Henry is nobody’s chump. I 
  understand some crooks are after that 
  formula for T.3, aren’t they? Well, I happen to 
  know that J. Henry has a formula down there 
  in the vault at the main office for a new, 
  improved steel. But it’s not T.3!” 
  “You 
  might 
  explain 
  further,” 
  suggested Doc. 
  “Sure, I will. The real formula for T.3 
  is in Uncle Henry’s possession. He trusts it 
  with no one. And I’m thinking he’s just done a 
  little disappearing act until these crooks clear 
  out. He’s taking no chances.” 
  “And the oil tanker?” Doc repeated. 
  “It wouldn’t surprise me none if he 
  was on that boat. It’s scheduled to sail for 
  Chicago tonight.” 
  Doc commented, “You don’t seem 
  very worried about this trouble.” 
  Walter spread his fat hands. He was 
  wearing a magnificent diamond ring on the 
  fourth finger of his left hand. “The police have 
  been notified. Federal men will not take any 
  action until someone has proof that J. Henry 
  has been kidnaped or something.” 
  Walter got his feet up on the 
  hammock again and gave a sigh. “If you ask 
  me,” he said, “those damned relatives, those 
  executives at the plant, are all a bunch of 
  crooks. Maybe they’re trying to get T.3!” 
  After 
  a 
  moment, 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  departed. Apparently, fat Walter Mason was 
  going to be of little help. 
  The bronze man did not return 
  directly to the main highway which passed 
  the Mason estate, though he apparently 
  headed that way as he left the house. 
  But beyond a curve in the gravel 
  drive leading up to the mansion, he cut 
  across more green lawns and reached 
  enshrouding trees that dotted a part of the 
  property. He kept beneath the trees as he cut 
  back toward the rear of the estate again. 
  Doc finally reached a roadway that 
  was obviously a delivery entrance to the 
  estate. A high stone wall formed the border 
  of the southern edge of the estate. The 
  roadway was beside the wall, and both 
  wound beneath tall trees. 
  Doc, after studying marks in the road 
  a moment, climbed to the top of the wall and 
  moved quietly along its length. Occasionally 
  he had to bend down and carefully push 
  branches out of his way. But all the same, his 
  movements were silent. 
  Doc was emerging from one stretch 
  of branch-shrouded wall when he saw the old 
  flivver parked just below him. At this point, 
  the wall was perhaps a dozen feet above the 
  winding roadway. 
  The 
  powerfully 
  built 
  man 
  was 
  standing next to a fender of the battered old 
  car, as though waiting for something. He 
  wore a slouch hat and the collar of his suit 
  coat was turned up about his neck. 
  Doc crouched silently on the wall top. 
  The man below took off the slouch hat to 
  wipe at the perspiration on his brow. There 
  was little air here beneath the trees, and it 
  was hot. 
  And as the man removed his hat, a 
  part of his features were revealed. He was 
  the one who had been dropping papers in the 
  mail boxes along the rural roads. 
  Also, his features were covered with 
  the hideous red spots. 
  Doc Savage came up silently from 
  his crouch atop the high wall. Then his 
  powerful legs shot out in a plunging arc 
  through the air. 
  His form hit that of the man’s 
  standing 
  beside 
  the 
  car, 
  carried 
  the 
  powerfully built man to the ground. As the 
  fellow cracked the earth, Doc Savage 
  remarked, 
  “It 
  was 
  quite 
  obvious 
  that 
  someone was following me to this estate!” 
   
   
  
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  38 
  Chapter XI 
  MAD MEN OR SANE? 
   
  WHEN Doc Savage had been in the 
  farmer’s car he had glanced back from time 
  to time. It was the bronze man’s habit always 
  to check on anyone who might be following 
  him. 
  And thus Doc had observed the fake 
  rural mail carrier, for at each mailbox the man 
  had thoughtlessly paused, to stare ahead at 
  the car in which Doc Savage rode with the 
  farmer. Too, the man had speeded up 
  between stops, in order to keep Doc’s car in 
  sight. This slight error, so quickly observed 
  by the bronze man’s sharp eyes, was reason 
  for the fellow’s predicament now. 
  Doc’s surprise leap had not taken the 
  big man completely unawares. But he hardly 
  had sufficient time to jump out of the way of 
  the bronze figure’s diving form. 
  And so, as he fell, he rolled—
  scrambled beneath the old flivver with Doc 
  Savage sliding after him. The man kicked up 
  enough dust to momentarily blind the bronze 
  giant’s eyes. 
  Then the one with the gruesome, 
  red-spotted features came to his feet on the 
  far side of the machine. Doc Savage was 
  right after him, a scant six feet away. 
  But the gun in the big man’s fist 
  brought the bronze man up short. His 
  metallic features grim, he stood like a 
  motionless statue in bronze. 
  “This,” 
  grinned 
  the 
  red-spotted 
  fellow, “is gonna get me a nice bonus!” 
  He fired point-blank at the bronze 
  man’s chest. 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  swayed 
  backward, 
  turned a half circle and sank slowly to his 
  knees, his bronze-hued hands pawing the 
  dust around him. He gave a choking cough. 
  Gun now dangling from his hand, the 
  big man closed in. He threw back his head 
  and roared. “Damned if that wasn’t the 
  easiest kill I ever made!” he gloated. 
  Throwing back his head was the 
  man’s error. 
  Because Doc swung up from the 
  ground and his great fist crashed out. The 
  gunman was lifted from his feet, sent in an 
  ungraceful arc to land in a heap among brier 
  bushes alongside the narrow roadway. His 
  gun went flying in an opposite direction. 
  Doc stepped to where the gun had 
  fallen, dropped it in his pocket. Next he 
  picked up the big man as though he might 
  have been a big sack filled with straw. He 
  dumped the man in the rear seat of the old 
  flivver. 
  The man’s eyes had opened, but he 
  was too dazed to even move or talk. He 
  merely goggled at this apparent apparition 
  that he had just shot in the chest at close 
  range. 
  The bronze man’s only comment 
  was, “You should have aimed higher!” 
   
   
  IN times of danger, Doc Savage 
  wore beneath his clothing a chain mail 
  garment made to stop bullets. Hairy Monk 
  frequently called it the “iron underwear.” But 
  it had saved the life of Doc Savage more 
  than once. 
  The bronze giant found an inner tube 
  lying on the floor of the car. With a penknife, 
  he quickly cut strips of the inner tube and 
  used them for bindings. Doc’s strong hands 
  were able to pull the rubber thongs tight 
  enough so that they did not stretch even a 
  fraction of an inch. 
  With the big fellow finally helpless on 
  the back seat, Doc himself climbed behind 
  the wheel of the old car and set off down the 
  roadway. 
  The route circled through the woods, 
  finally emerged on the highway again a little 
  distance beyond the main entrance to the 
  Mason estate. Doc followed the highway until 
  he came to the less traveled route that led 
  back to the vicinity of his plane. 
  The big man on the rear seat was 
  groaning. Finally he blurted, “What’s going to 
  happen to me?” 
  “That depends,” said the bronze 
  man. As he drove, he was taking a side 
  glance at a substance which was on one of 
  his hands. 
  The helpless man in the rear whined 
  a plea. “Lookit,” he asked, “If I didn’t shoot 
  you, the boss would have shot me!” 
   
   
   
  
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  39 
   
  Doc’s fist sent the gunman toppling back among the bushes! 
   
  Doc had set the rear-view mirror so 
  that he could keep his eyes on his captive. 
  He glanced now at the mirror and said, “The 
  boss? You mean Wart?” 
  There 
  was 
  just 
  the 
  slightest 
  hesitation before the man in the rear replied. 
  “Yeah . . . Wart,” he then said 
  quickly. 
  
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  40 
  Doc Savage knew that the man was 
  lying. But he made no comment. Later, he 
  would administer truth serum to his captive 
  and learn the real identity of the one who had 
  employed this fellow painted up to look like 
  one of the madmen with the hideous red 
  spots. 
  For paint it was, as Doc Savage saw 
  from the substance on his hand. 
  Doc 
  continued: 
  “You’re 
  not 
  a 
  steelworker. A number of you are merely 
  using this red-spot business to throw a scare 
  into the workers.” 
  The man behind Doc gave a short 
  laugh which sounded as though every part of 
  him still ached. “Sure,” he said. “It’s just a 
  gag.” 
  Doc Savage said nothing further on 
  the trip back to his plane. There, he quickly 
  placed his captive in the cabin of his ship, 
  tied him more securely and placed a sponge 
  gag in his mouth—so that the man could 
  make no outcry. There was no time now for 
  further questioning of the fellow. It was 
  imperative that Doc get to the oil tanker at 
  Lake Erie, the one which both Monk and fat 
  Walter Mason had mentioned. 
  But first, locking the door of the plane 
  behind him, Doc Savage hurried off to make 
  a call to big Renny, the engineer. 
  There was something urgent which 
  Renny could take care of. 
  Doc called from a farmhouse not far 
  away, finally located Renny in one of the 
  laboratories of the steel plant. 
   
   
  THE bronze man named several 
  addresses in New York City. He requested 
  that several phone calls be put through. The 
  tone of his remarkable voice told Renny that 
  a lot depended upon what was learned in 
  those calls. 
  Doc mentioned that he was going to 
  the aid of Monk, Ham and the two girls. 
  There was need for haste. He spoke briefly 
  about the phony red-spotted man in his 
  plane. 
  Just before hanging up, Renny said 
  worriedly, “Doc, what’s happening here is no 
  fake. Five more mill hands cracked up this 
  morning. Crazy mad, they were! One dived 
  into a rolling machine and was mashed to 
  bits. The others were taken to hospitals, and 
  they’ve all died!” 
  Doc suggested, “You might take a 
  look at them.” 
  “It’s too late!” explained Renny. 
  “They’ve already placed those poor devils in 
  sealed caskets and removed them for 
  immediate burial. The whole town fears some 
  kind of madness epidemic. There’s no gag 
  about this.” 
  “I’ll be back soon as possible,” 
  finished Doc, hanging up. 
  But on the way back to the plane, in 
  order to hurry to the aid of those who meant 
  so much to him, Doc’s flake-gold eyes were 
  grimly thoughtful. 
  Crooks had planted phony madmen 
  around the steel shops. Doc himself had 
  tangled with a couple of the fakes. And yet 
  mill hands themselves were going mad. The 
  madness 
  was 
  something 
  that 
  hit 
  unexpectedly and without discrimination. It 
  was a thing that could bring stark terror to a 
  community of hard-working people who 
  depended upon steel for a living. 
  Two questions burned in the bronze 
  man’s thoughts: 
  Why were workmen going mad? 
  What 
  person 
  or 
  thing 
  was 
  responsible? 
   
   
  Chapter XII 
  DEAD MEN NEVER SQUEAL! 
   
  THE captive in the plane of Doc 
  Savage might know a part of those answers. 
  Doc found that the man was still safely bound 
  hand and foot upon his return. Later, after he 
  had gone to the assistance of Monk and 
  Ham, Doc would question the fellow further. 
  The trip to the port on Lake Erie, 
  which hairy Monk had mentioned, took only a 
  quarter of an hour. 
  From the air, Doc Savage soon 
  picked up the long, dark outlines of the oil 
  tankers. They were sturdy, block-shaped 
  vessels which rested low in the water. 
  There were a number of the tankers 
  tied up at a wharf along the lake front. 
  Beyond the wharf loomed huge oil-storage 
  tanks. There was also a railroad siding. 
  
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  41 
  A 
  city 
  fire 
  ordinance 
  probably 
  prohibited building of the oil docks close to 
  the town, for the village itself was about a 
  mile from the spot. 
  Doc brought his plane down to a 
  point close over the water, throttled his motor 
  and swung almost soundlessly over the 
  tankers. He saw no one. There was no 
  indication that any of the vessels was ready 
  to sail. 
  Also, there was something about 
  lack of activity along the wharf that made the 
  bronze man cautious. 
  He knew that Monk’s radio message 
  might have been intercepted. Crooks could 
  be using a short-wave radio themselves. 
  Perhaps a trap had been set for Doc to enter. 
  Because of the deathlike quietude 
  down beneath him, Doc Savage realized 
  there might be trouble waiting for him below. 
  He flew past the spot, banked, 
  circled and came back for another look. It 
  was then he saw the ship far off on the 
  horizon, ship apparently headed his way. It 
  was barely visible against outline of water 
  and sky. 
  A moment later, Doc’s sharp gaze 
  flicked to the ship again and discovered that 
  what he had seen was not a ship, but a plane 
  moving down on him with surprising speed. 
  In a matter of moments, it was close enough 
  for Doc to see that it was a completely black 
  plane of speedy design. And apparently the 
  pilot, whoever he was, was intent on crashing 
  the bronze man’s monoplane! 
  Doc Savage’s next movements were 
  smooth and rapid-fast. There was no change 
  in the calm expression of his metallic 
  features, though death was rushing down at 
  him with dizzy speed. 
  The bronze man sent his plane in a 
  speedy sharp climb, managed to get above 
  the other ship. He got one good look at the 
  pilot in the open cockpit of the single-winged 
  plane. 
  It was a man in a black mask. Heavy 
  goggles concealed his eyes. His right, black-
  gloved hand rested on the solid handle of the 
  machine gun that he was trying to swivel on 
  the bronze man’s own plane. 
  Doc saw these things as the two 
  ships passed like zooming plummets. And 
  the bronze man knew that the other’s 
  intention had not been to ram him. That 
  would have spelled disaster for both. For 
  even as Doc pitched upward, the other pilot 
  flung his ship downward beneath Doc’s fast 
  ship. 
  The bronze man’s thoughts raced as 
  the two ships were momentarily clear of one 
  another. Doc had no machine gun. Whatever 
  weapons he carried would be useless 
  against the fast black plane. But he himself, 
  obviously, was going to be shot down. 
  Thus Doc Savage reached a sudden 
  decision. Setting the controls for a moment, 
  he whipped back to the cabin and from one 
  of the equipment cases, pulled out a 
  peculiar-looking object. He was back in the 
  pilot’s seat in a moment, fastening the device 
  on. 
   
   
  THE thing was like a glass bowl 
  inverted 
  over 
  Doc’s 
  metallic 
  features. 
  Transparent, it fitted close against the bronze 
  man’s shoulders. 
  In conjunction with the peculiar 
  mask, 
  was 
  a 
  harnesslike 
  pack 
  which 
  strapped to the shoulders. The pack was a 
  breath-purifier that supplied oxygen to the 
  bronze man’s lungs. 
  Doc got the contrivance on just as 
  the speedy black plane ripped toward him 
  again. The speed of the other ship said that it 
  was just about the fastest thing made. There 
  would be little chance of outdistancing it in a 
  race. And so Doc dived. 
  Close behind came the black ship, a 
  stream of tracer-bullets belching from the 
  muzzle of its menacing machine gun. The 
  eyes of the pilot behind the black mask were 
  dark with hate. 
  Doc flipped his plane around a scant 
  dozen feet above the water and temporarily 
  confused the trailing pilot. The fellow’s ship 
  went streaking past. But the bullets from the 
  machine gun did not. 
  They ripped along the fuselage of 
  Doc’s ship. The bulk of the bronze man’s 
  plane was of a metal construction made to 
  deflect ordinary bullets. But the ammunition 
  the masked pilot was using apparently was a 
  type of armor-piercing shell. Holes appeared 
  like black raindrops on various parts of the 
  bronze man’s ship. 
  
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  42 
  Next, as some distance beyond the 
  masked pilot was circling in preparation for a 
  new attack, Doc Savage hit the water and 
  skillfully managed to keep his amphibian 
  from turning turtle. It settled down and 
  bounced about on the short, choppy waves 
  like a mammoth cork. 
  Doc flung back toward the cabin. He 
  had already cut the motor of the amphibian, 
  lest a machine-gun shell penetrate the gas 
  feed line. 
  Moving across the small cabin, Doc 
  swooped 
  up 
  another 
  object 
  from 
  an 
  equipment case and then bent down to slash 
  loose his big captive’s bindings. 
  For Doc Savage never killed a crook 
  needlessly. Though this man was an enemy, 
  Doc would make every attempt to save him 
  from the death which was swooping down 
  upon them again from the sky. Already, the 
  motor roar of the returning plane was loud in 
  the cabin. 
  Doc shoved his hand toward the 
  freed man. What he handed the fellow was a 
  diving device made of a mouthpiece, nose 
  clip and chemical purifier. Then Doc swung 
  open the cabin door and indicated the water. 
  He was giving his captive a chance to 
  escape death. 
  But, without warning, the big fellow 
  hauled off and swung a massive fist at the 
  bronze man’s glass bowl-inclosed head. The 
  knuckles of the big man’s hand bounced off 
  Doc’s protective hood, and the freed man 
  stared at his bruised hand a second in 
  puzzlement. He could hardly have known 
  that the helmet was a form of shatterproof 
  glass. 
  In the next moment, machine-gun 
  bullets whined a death dirge as they ripped 
  through the length of the plane. Doc Savage 
  leaped out the open cabin door. The gas tank 
  of the amphibian took fire and at the same 
  moment leaped into flame. 
  The freed thug still delayed. He gave 
  a shout. “I know that guy. He won’t bother 
  me!” 
  Doc Savage didn’t wait to find out. 
  He was already in a plunge through the 
  water. Down. Down—  
  The helmet of glass was also a 
  diving apparatus. Using it, the bronze man 
  could 
  stay 
  beneath 
  the 
  surface 
  for 
  reasonable periods of time. He sank deep 
  now. 
  And above him, as he stared upward 
  through 
  the 
  transparent 
  glass 
  of 
  the 
  protective bowl, he saw the blurred redness 
  that must be his ship afire on the water. 
  Doc maneuvered quickly to get away 
  from the spot above him. He felt the crashing 
  impact as machine-gun slugs tore into the 
  water somewhere up there. But they were 
  immediately deflected and did him no harm. 
  Later, perhaps a half hour later, Doc 
  Savage came to the surface somewhere 
  close to shore. Silence was all that met the 
  bronze man’s ears as he took off the 
  protective glass hood and climbed out on an 
  old dock. Night was settling over the lake 
  front. 
  But out on the water a bit of charred 
  wreckage still floated, a part of Doc Savage’s 
  burned 
  and 
  machine-gunned 
  plane. 
  Sprawled across that wreckage in death, was 
  the big form of the man whom Doc had tried 
  to drag away from the masked pilot’s attack. 
  The man who had apparently known the sky 
  raider’s identity, and who therefore figured 
  himself safe. 
  Doc’s captive might have been able 
  to identify the masked pilot. The bronze man 
  had hoped to use truth serum on his captive 
  to find out. 
  Perhaps 
  the 
  masked 
  pilot 
  had 
  guessed something of the same. But Doc’s 
  captive had been too confident to see this, or 
  to let the bronze man save his life. 
  Thus he lay sprawled in death, his 
  body torn with the gunner’s slugs and his 
  features a charred, gruesome mask. 
  The black plane had disappeared. 
   
   
  Chapter XIII 
  HELLO, SUCKER! 
   
  THE messages which Monk had left 
  for the Man of Bronze had disappeared, too, 
  and yet, later that night, Doc Savage found 
  the first of them. 
  The first message was written hastily 
  on what was left of the broken windshield of 
  a big car parked near the long wharf. The 
  
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  43 
  wharf was one adjoining the old dock where 
  the bronze giant had climbed from the water. 
  What first attracted Doc’s attention to 
  the large car was its style and make. The 
  bronze man made a brief examination of 
  tires, wheelbase and other details. The car 
  was the one Doc had suggested Monk, Ham 
  and Tink O’Neil try and locate in order to trail 
  the girls. 
  Added to this, the machine looked as 
  though it had been the storm center of a 
  furious fight. 
  Cushions were upended. Blood was 
  on the doors. Besides the broken windshield, 
  other windows in the car looked as though 
  they had been exposed to various sorts of 
  bricks and anything that could be thrown. 
  The entire machine seemed to have been in 
  a cyclone. 
  There was only one person who 
  could create such havoc. Monk! 
  Thus it was that Doc Savage looked 
  for some clue that the battling chemist might 
  have left behind. It was in the course of his 
  examination of the car that Doc looked 
  closely at the remaining piece of broken 
  windshield. 
  There was nothing visible to the 
  ordinary eye. Yet Doc removed a small box 
  from his equipment vest. The rubber-lined 
  pockets of the vest were waterproof, and the 
  powder which was in the small box was still 
  dry. 
  Doc Savage sprayed a little of the 
  powder over the section of remaining window 
  glass. Writing on the windshield became 
  immediately visible. The message said: 
   
  Doc—You were right. This was the 
  car you said to look for. Those skinny guys 
  and some others got away, but we think 
  they’ve got the girls. Look for the new tanker. 
   
  The message was signed, “Monk.” 
  Often, when the bronze man’s aids 
  found it imperative to leave messages for 
  one another—messages that they did not 
  want to be seen—they wrote the words with 
  a colorless chalk of the bronze man’s 
  invention. Writing made with the chalk could 
  not even be discerned with a magnifying 
  glass. But when it was sprinkled with the 
  chemical powder that Doc had just used, the 
  writing was quite clear. Rays from the small 
  spring-generator flashlight that Doc used 
  made the words distinguishable. 
  Doc Savage left the car and moved 
  quietly along the lengthy wharf. It was quite 
  dark now, and there was, besides the 
  dampness caused by the nearby water, a 
  hint of rain in the air. A number of long, 
  gloomy-looking oil tankers were tied up 
  beside the dock. 
  Large round pipes ran along the 
  wharf, and it could be seen that they had 
  connections for hooking to massive rubber-
  hose lines from the tankers. Yet it was 
  obvious that many of the boats were in 
  disuse. The side plates of the vessels were 
  rusted and old. 
  Monk had mentioned a new tanker. 
  And so Doc Savage kept moving out the long 
  length of the wharf in his search for the 
  vessel. 
  Silence hung like a shroud over the 
  water-front spot. 
  Far out on the end of the big wharf, 
  Doc inspected the last of the string of moored 
  tankers. Even this last one in line was an old 
  vessel, and apparently not in use. 
  It was on a deck plate of this last 
  tanker that Doc found the second message 
  from Monk. This time, the chemist had not 
  taken time to use the special chalk. 
  Obviously he had wanted to be certain that 
  the bronze man found his words. 
  Written in large, scrawly letters in 
  white, visible chalk, they read: 
   
  Doc—Molly Mason escaped and has 
  reached us. She knows whereabouts of Pat 
  and that steel king, Mason. She says they 
  are being held on— 
   
  Whatever Molly Mason had said was 
  left unfinished. Apparently Monk, for some 
  reason, had been given no time to complete 
  the hurried message. 
   
   
  BUT Monk had plenty of time, it 
  seemed, to hear more of the girl’s comments 
  now. He was saying with a broad grin, 
  “Lookit, Molly, I’m gonna take care of them 
  guys who grabbed you and Pat. I’m gonna 
  blast their hides all over—” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  44 
  The scene was a spot close to the 
  shore of Lake Erie, at a point several miles 
  above where Doc Savage was examining the 
  old tankers. Information that Molly Mason 
  had given to Doc Savage’s aids had brought 
  them here. In the distance, along the stretch 
  of beach, could be seen the dark outlines of 
  what might be a wharf for the docking of 
  boats. But the overcast sky made any 
  observation uncertain. 
  Monk, Ham and Tink O’Neil had 
  located the girl tied up in a small cabin 
  aboard one of the old oil tankers. This was at 
  the first wharf where Doc Savage had found 
  Monk’s message. 
  First, Monk had come upon the car, 
  and later had surprised the two skinny men 
  returning to it. The chemist had been in the 
  midst of a grand battle when other thugs 
  closed in. But the men had escaped before 
  Ham or Tink O’Neil could come to the 
  chemist’s assistance. 
  But they had found Molly Mason, and 
  the girl had breathlessly told of overhearing a 
  conversation that indicated Pat Savage and 
  Molly’s father were being held aboard the 
  new oil tanker, the Mary L; and that the 
  vessel had been moved to an obscure wharf 
  five miles farther down the lake shore. 
  The small group was close to that 
  point now. Monk had paused to talk with 
  lovely Molly. The expression on the apelike 
  chemist’s homely features said that he could 
  think of nothing nicer to do—unless, perhaps, 
  it was getting into a fight. 
  Ignoring Ham, Monk went on, “Did 
  anyone ever tell you, Molly, that your eyes 
  are like the sky at dusk, or that your sweet 
  mouth is a rainbow of—” 
  Tow-headed Tink O’Neil put in sort of 
  coolly, “We might get going, Molly. Your 
  father is in grave danger—” 
  The girl’s slim fingers flew to her 
  mouth. She gave a startled little gasp. “Yes!” 
  she exclaimed. “I forgot. Let’s hurry!” 
  The part of the beach which they 
  were traversing made a long sweep out to a 
  point. It was out near the tip of this point 
  where the bulky outline of what could be a 
  wharf was located. 
  Molly Mason was saying, “That must 
  be it. From what I overheard those terrible 
  men saying, the Mary L is tied up there. 
  That’s where they’re supposed to be holding 
  father and Pat Savage.” 
  The girl stiffened, pointed. “Why, 
  there! You can see it now. It is an oil tanker 
  there at the wharf!” 
  She was correct in her statement. 
  The new-type oil tanker was a city 
  block long and rested low in the water beside 
  the wharf. Apparently its holds were full of oil. 
  Most of the vessel was a flat expanse of steel 
  deck only a few feet above the water’s edge. 
  But at one end of the tanker was a 
  superstructure made of more steel. Here 
  were located a small cabin, bridge and 
  quarters. 
  The ship was in darkness. No one 
  seemed to be around. 
  But Molly Mason pointed to a name 
  on the side plates, barely clear of the water 
  line. 
  “It’s the Mary L!” she cried. “That’s 
  the boat they’re holding father and Pat on!” 
  Monk stuck out his hard jaw and led 
  the way aboard from the dock. “What the 
  heck!” he growled. “Then I’m gonna find out!” 
  The others followed, lanky Tink 
  O’Neil explaining, “This is one of the vessels 
  for which we furnished steel. It’s a type that 
  can be quickly converted in time of war.” 
  Monk looked at the young steel plant 
  troubleshooter. “War?” 
  Tink O’Neil nodded. He shot Molly 
  Mason 
  a 
  peculiar 
  glance, 
  but 
  Monk 
  disregarded it. Tink went on: 
  “Yes. These deck plates are made of 
  the new T.3 formula steel. They’ll withstand 
  any kind of bombing from the air. One of 
  these tankers can be quickly converted to be 
  used as convoys or even to attack any 
  enemy merchant ship in our waters. They are 
  practically indistinguishable in the water, and 
  guns can quickly be mounted on their flat 
  decks. This is one of the first for which we’ve 
  supplied the heavy armor plate.” 
  Monk stared at the deck beneath his 
  feet. It was steel, and looked as solid as that 
  of any battleship. 
  “Gollywhockus!” 
  he 
  exploded. 
  “Betcha you couldn’t go through this stuff 
  with a torpedo!” 
  They kept prowling around the long, 
  dark tanker. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  45 
  Cabin and crew’s quarters forward 
  were deserted. But there were indications 
  that men had been recently living aboard. 
  On deck again, it was Molly Mason 
  who pointed aft and exclaimed, “Look! Back 
  there! One of the hatches is open!” 
  The tanker, mostly, was built with 
  pipeline connections that led into sealed 
  holds. But there were a few hatch openings. 
  At first, it had appeared that most of the 
  hatches were closed and bolted. 
  But now the tall, slender girl was 
  correct. Far aft, in the gloom, could be seen 
  the dim outline of a steel cover that was flung 
  back. Monk led the others quickly that way. 
  When 
  Monk 
  reached 
  the 
  hold 
  opening, he got down on his hands and 
  knees and squinted below into gloom. Then 
  he got out a flashlight and took a better look. 
  But before he could use the light, the 
  sound came up out of the hold. It was a 
  groan, followed by a half-muffled plea. 
  “Help!” 
  Monk roared. He leaped toward the 
  hatch opening. “Goshamighty!” he exploded. 
  “It must be Pat and Molly’s father!” 
  Molly Mason, her slim hand at her 
  throat, pleaded, “Monk! Hurry! Help them!” 
  The drop into the hold was perhaps a 
  dozen feet. Monk hung by his hands a 
  moment from the edge of the hatch, then 
  dropped. Ham and young Tink O’Neil quickly 
  followed. 
  Monk, on his feet in the gloom, said 
  to Ham, “Let’s have that light again. I’m 
  gonna—” 
  What 
  Monk 
  was 
  going 
  to 
  do 
  remained a question. For the piece of pipe 
  cracked his skull in the next instant. Ham and 
  Tink O’Neil were likewise slugged. 
  And as the three got down on their 
  hands and knees and tried not to go to sleep, 
  the terrified cry came from above. 
  It was Molly’s cry for help. 
   
   
  Chapter XIV 
  TANKER TRAP 
   
  APELIKE MONK was the first to 
  wake up. He was immediately aware of the 
  throbbing of the tanker’s Diesels. The vessel 
  was under way, and how long it had been so 
  Monk could not tell. 
  But he did see that a light had been 
  turned on in the hold where they had been 
  slugged. And revealed by the light were the 
  various grinning thugs who stood nearby, 
  looking at their three helpless captives. 
  Monk muttered something to himself. 
  The size of his small bright eyes in his 
  homely face was such that these fellows had 
  not realized the hairy chemist was awake. 
  And Monk was a tough fellow. Often 
  he had been beaten into unconsciousness, 
  only to soon climb to his feet again and start 
  all over in a fight as though he hadn’t been 
  touched. 
  He swung up on his feet now and 
  took a hefty poke at the nearest crook. The 
  chemist’s blow would have been perfect, 
  except that it landed three inches short of the 
  man’s jaw. And Monk landed in a heap on 
  the deck, with the startled thought that his leg 
  had suddenly been seized in a bear trap. 
  The trap was a length of heavy chain 
  padlocked to a ring in the deck. Monk’s ankle 
  was fastened to the chain. 
  He glared at his captors. There were 
  six of them, four of the six just about as 
  tough-looking as they come. They kept 
  grinning at Monk, which didn’t help Monk’s 
  murderous thoughts. 
  The other two were the medium-
  sized and the tall, beanpole-looking skinny 
  men who had helped seize Pat Savage and 
  Molly Mason, with the aid of tough little Wart. 
  Monk stared around. He yanked at 
  the heavy chain with his foot, but merely 
  succeeded in taking more skin from his 
  already bruised ankle. Several feet from him 
  he saw the limp forms of Ham and Tink 
  O’Neil. Both men were still unconscious, and 
  Ham’s sword-cane was flat on the deck 
  beneath him. There was no sign of the pets. 
  Monk wished he could reach the 
  cane, but the distance was too great. So he 
  sat and glowered, reminding himself that 
  hereafter he was always going to carry with 
  him a saw made to cut through steel chain. 
  His captors apparently forgot about 
  him. Some sort of discussion was taking 
  place among the six. 
  One snapped, “Well, I’m tellin’ you 
  Wart is gonna take things in his own hands. If 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  46 
  you ask me, Wart has been tricked like 
  nobody’s business.” 
  “What are you gettin’ at?” another 
  prodded. 
  “That formula Wart was supposed to 
  get. The big shot fooled him, I’m thinkin’. 
  From something Wart said today, I betcha he 
  didn’t get the real formula at all. What he has 
  is a fake!” 
  The men seemed to think about that 
  for a while. 
  Then one said, “You mean, Wart is 
  gonna walk out on the big shot?” 
  “Yeah! Wouldn’t be surprised if he 
  hasn’t already done it. We’ll probably take 
  things over ourselves.” 
  Monk sat hooked to the length of 
  chain and listened. He was just on the verge 
  of asking a question when someone spoke 
  from the hatch opening above. 
  “Hey, you guys! There’s a plane flyin’ 
  out to meet us. Guess it’s the big boss 
  himself!” 
  Monk squinted up to get a look at the 
  man who spoke, but he could not see very 
  well. The sky was a little brighter—it must be 
  close to dawn, the chemist figured—but it 
  was still dark enough to make things vague. 
  And it was raining. The rain came down 
  through the hatch opening and made puddles 
  near Monk’s feet. 
  Monk went to work trying to pull the 
  heavy ring from the deck. Rage filled his 
  thoughts, and he decided just what he was 
  going to do to this crowd when he got loose. 
  He caught the words from the six 
  men already leaping toward a rope ladder 
  that dangled down into the hold. One said: 
  “The boss, eh? Now we’ll settle this business 
  once and for all!” 
  “Yeah,” another agreed. 
  They all climbed out. 
  Five minutes later the first bomb hit 
  the deck plates of the sturdy oil tanker. 
  Monk felt the impact that was like a 
  giant wave smacking the sides of the ship. 
  The vessel heeled over, leveled off again. 
  Light in the hold went out. The Diesels 
  stopped throbbing. 
  In the darkness near Monk, Ham 
  muttered, “Wh-what happened?” 
  The lawyer, apparently, was now 
  awake. A moment later, young Tink O’Neil 
  stirred and sat up. 
  In the half-gloom, Ham and tow-
  headed Tink O’Neil were now on their feet. 
  Ham exclaimed, “We’ve got to get out of 
  here. There’s no time to lose!” 
  Monk snorted, “That’s a swell idea. 
  Only hitch is I’m chained to the deck!” 
  Ham groaned. He stooped quickly to 
  see if he could help his homely partner. After 
  a second’s feeling around at the chain and 
  deck ring in the darkness, Ham said 
  worriedly, “You couldn’t open this padlock 
  with an ax.” 
  Monk ordered, “You two get outta 
  here. Save your own hides. Or maybe you 
  can grab some of them guys up there and 
  get a key!” 
  Both were reluctant to leave Monk, 
  but finally young Tink O’Neil jumped toward 
  the rope ladder. “That’s an idea,” he said. 
  It was a good idea, but in the next 
  moment the plane swooped down over the oil 
  tanker 
  again 
  and 
  then 
  another 
  bomb 
  exploded on the decks. There was a tearing 
  and rending of steel. The vessel was soon 
  listing badly. A chunk of metal smashed 
  down into the hold, missing the three by 
  inches as it crashed against the deck. 
  Tink O’Neil was forced to leap clear 
  of the hatch opening. 
  Monk commented in disgust, “Them 
  sure must be great deck plates, that new 
  armor steel you told us about, Tink! Sounds 
  like it busted to hell and gone!” 
  The ship listed farther. Up on deck 
  there was yelling and confusion, and mingled 
  with it was a man’s terrified cry. 
  Someone rapped, “The dirty devil! 
  He musta heard about Wart walkin’ out on 
  him, and now he’s gonna eliminate any clue 
  to who he is!” 
  Just then, someone appeared above 
  and hurled something down at the three 
  below. A voice yelled, “We’re giving you a 
  break, guys. We hate to see you drowned 
  like rats. So now you can swim, instead. It’s 
  only twenty miles to shore!” 
  Ham cried, “It must be a key!” and 
  started feeling around in the darkness. Every 
  moment the vessel was listing more badly, 
  and the lawyer had a time staying on his feet. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  47 
  Monk had slid along the smooth deck, his leg 
  stretched taut at the end of the chain. 
   
   
  BY the time Ham located the padlock 
  key, the sound of the plane which had 
  attacked the tanker had faded out. 
  A moment later, Ham had crawled to 
  Monk’s 
  side 
  and 
  unlocked 
  the 
  chain. 
  Movement on the slanted deck was difficult. 
  There was little to hold to. But shortly all 
  three were climbing the rope ladder to the top 
  deck. All stared at the damaged, listing 
  tanker. Already water was pouring in over 
  one side. It would only be a few moments 
  until the vessel sank. 
  It was Tink O’Neil who pointed off 
  through the rain and said, “Look! They’ve 
  escaped in a powerboat!” 
  It was true. For a quarter of a mile 
  away, 
  the 
  small 
  motorboat 
  was 
  fast 
  disappearing in the rain and ground fog that 
  hung over the water. The shore line, if any, 
  was invisible. 
  Monk suddenly ripped off his shoes 
  and coat. He said determinedly, “Hope you 
  two guys aren’t in a hurry for breakfast.” 
  He dived off the side of the oil tanker 
  that was already dipping beneath the waters 
  of Lake Erie. 
  Ham 
  and 
  Tink 
  O’Neil, 
  likewise 
  coatless 
  and 
  shoeless, 
  followed. 
  The 
  lawyer’s sword-cane, which he was never 
  without, was tucked beneath his belt. It made 
  swimming, for him, more difficult. 
  Up forward on the bridge, there was 
  a chattering and squealing. A second later, 
  the two pets leaped into the water too! 
  The three men swam away from the 
  sinking oil tanker just about as fast as they 
  could. Ten minutes later there was a great 
  gushing of water behind them, as the tanker 
  went under. 
  Then there was only the rain and the 
  tendrils of settling fog, and an invisible shore 
  line miles away in a direction they could not 
  even guess. 
  The three swam without speaking. 
  All were excellent swimmers. Yet the 
  grimness of the situation was only too real. 
  For a slight breeze had sprung up and there 
  was indication of a real storm. And a storm 
  on any of the Great Lakes can be worse than 
  any at sea. 
  It was about a half hour later that the 
  plane appeared out of the sky, circling and 
  dipping down over them. It passed close over 
  their heads. Monk let out a whoop. “Doc!” he 
  shouted. 
  Doc Savage brought the amphibian 
  down, landed smoothly and taxied the plane 
  up close. Shortly the giant bronze man 
  stepped out on a wing. 
  He called out to Monk, “Lucky you 
  left this ship near where I found your last 
  message!” 
   
   
  Chapter XV 
  HORROR IN STEEL 
   
  TWO hours later that morning, Doc 
  Savage, with Monk, Ham and young Tink 
  O’Neil were searching the dead man they 
  had found back on the wharf where the string 
  of old tankers were tied up. 
  First, of course, Doc had rescued the 
  three from Lake Erie. Monk and Ham, since 
  they always carried extra supplies with them 
  in their plane, were able to locate shoes and 
  dry clothing. They even found some clothes 
  for lanky Tink O’Neil, though the sandy-
  haired young man sort of stuck out either end 
  of pants and coat, and the shoes were too 
  tight. 
  Doc had told about his own loss of 
  his plane, together with much valuable 
  equipment. They had returned to the original 
  wharf where Monk had left the messages, in 
  the hope that they might find some clue to 
  Molly Mason or the others—Pat Savage and 
  the millionaire steel king. 
  And instead, they found—this dead 
  fellow in a shed on the dock! 
  The man was fairly well dressed, 
  stockily built and with black hair. He had 
  been shot in the back. 
  Doc went through the dead man’s 
  clothing. He found a sheaf of papers, read 
  them over quickly, passed them to the lawyer 
  and Tink O’Neil. Monk, curious, stuck his 
  homely face past Ham’s shoulder and read 
  also. 
  
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  48 
  Doc said, “Apparently they are some 
  sort of reports, and they were written by this 
  dead 
  man. 
  They 
  describe 
  the 
  exact 
  movements—wherever possible—of anyone 
  in authority at J. Henry Mason’s steel plants. 
  This included all his relatives who are in 
  executive positions at the mills.” 
  “Yes,” Tink O’Neil said. “All these 
  people mentioned have an interest in the 
  business. Mr. Mason always has tried to 
  keep control of the vast plant within his own 
  family.” 
  Abruptly, as he looked at another 
  paper, Tink O’Neil gasped. 
  “Look!” the latter exclaimed. “All 
  these 
  reports 
  are 
  some 
  sort 
  of 
  an 
  investigation made for a single person. And 
  that person is Willie Watt, superintendent at 
  our plant!” 
  Doc nodded. His metallic features 
  were calm. “It appears that way,” he said. 
  Tink O’Neil, his gray eyes wide, went 
  on, “That means Willie Watt must be the 
  person behind the mystery. He’s seeking 
  control of T.3. Why, I . . . I’ll bet he’s the one 
  responsible for some change in the original 
  formula that has caused these flaws in the 
  new steel!” 
  The bronze man made no comment. 
  Instead, he looked at his two aids. He said, 
  “Ham, you and Monk had better notify the 
  nearest 
  police 
  authorities 
  about 
  this 
  murdered man. Then get in touch with me at 
  the steel plant. Perhaps Renny has learned 
  something.” 
  Doc explained how he had left 
  Renny at the plant, then added something 
  else of significance. 
  “It appears,” he said, “that a climax to 
  this mystery is coming fast. The real villain is 
  killing off all who might point a finger at 
  himself. He is going to work quickly from now 
  on.” 
  Tink O’Neil exclaimed, “You mean 
  Willie Watt?” 
  Doc Savage shook his head. “Willie 
  Watt is hardly the real brains behind this,” he 
  said. 
  Monk looked puzzled. He indicated 
  the papers which had been turned over to 
  young Tink O’Neil. 
  “Golly!” the chemist protested, “it 
  must be Willie Watt, Doc. All them reports 
  are for him, an’ they show that Willie Watt is 
  danged interested in knowing what everyone 
  of the other relatives is doing!” 
  Hairy 
  Monk 
  was 
  pointing 
  at 
  something else on the papers. “Whoever this 
  dead guy was, he signed himself ‘S. E. C.’“ 
  Doc said, “I think Renny is going to 
  have some information about this S. E. C.” 
  Without further explanation, Doc 
  Savage hurried off. A few moments later, the 
  bronze man’s aids heard the amphibian take 
  off from a field nearby. 
  But Doc Savage did not immediately 
  return to the steel plant south of Lake Erie. 
  He brought the plane down in a pasture 
  outside a small town somewhere west of 
  Buffalo and proceeded to the nearest 
  highway filling station. From here, he put 
  through a call to New York. 
  Doc called a corporation listed as 
  Brown & Brown. He identified himself, and 
  was immediately connected with an official. 
  The executive said, “Mr. Savage, we 
  were able to get that information for you. The 
  data that Mr. Renwick asked for.” 
  For several moments, the man at the 
  other end of the line talked rapidly. 
  Doc’s eyes stirred with interest as he 
  listened. Finally he said, “Thank you. What 
  you have done is a fine piece of work.” He 
  hung up. 
  Then he put through a call to Renny, 
  whom he had left in a laboratory of the big 
  steel plant. There was a little delay until the 
  big engineer of Doc’s organization was 
  located. Then Renny’s voice boomed over 
  the wire. 
  “Doc! There’s hell to pay here. Ten 
  more mill hands went nuts this morning. Five 
  of the shops are shut down, and more men 
  are walking out every minute. Willie Watt, 
  that superintendent, has disappeared. And 
  there’s something else!” 
  “Yes?” Doc Savage said. 
  “I got this thing figured out. I can tell 
  you who’s behind it and what causes this 
  madness trouble. Just a moment ago I got 
  wise to the set-up. . . . 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  interrupted 
  quickly, 
  “Wait until I get there. It might not be 
  advisable to mention names over the phone. 
  The trip should only take about ten or fifteen 
  minutes.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  49 
  Doc hung up, hurried back to where 
  he had left the plane in the pasture. He took 
  off immediately for the small woods outside 
  the mill town. 
  Doc arrived, a little while later, at one 
  of the many entrances to the mile-long steel 
  plant. Much of the smoke that ordinarily 
  formed an overhanging dark haze in the sky 
  was missing. It was plain that several of the 
  shops were closed down. 
  But some were in operation, and the 
  bronze man saw smoke coming from the 
  furnaces of Open-hearth Shop No. 5. He also 
  saw something else. 
  Men running toward the open-hearth 
  shop. Some were yelling and shouting to 
  others who joined in and followed along. 
  The bronze man moved quickly in 
  the same direction. He caught up with one of 
  the husky mill hands and asked a question. 
  “What’s wrong?” 
   
   
  THE big fellow turned and looked at 
  Doc Savage. The man’s face was dripping 
  with perspiration caused by the intense heat 
  of one of the shops still operating. 
  He stared a moment at the bronze 
  man, then exclaimed, “Say, aren’t you Doc 
  Savage?” 
  Doc nodded. 
  The man looked questionably at 
  some of his fellow workers. Then he stared 
  back at Doc. 
  “Well, about that man Renwick. He’s 
  a fellow in your organization, I understand. 
  Well, Renwick’s just gone mad. They’ve 
  chased him into No. 5.” 
  For a scant instant, Doc remained 
  motionless. Perhaps he was thinking of what 
  Renny had told him over the phone only a 
  few minutes ago. That he knew what was 
  causing the madness! 
  The bronze man, without a word, 
  leaped ahead of the others running toward 
  the huge open-hearth shop. He arrived inside 
  the high, steamy, smoke-filled building just as 
  a horrible yell went out from many men’s 
  throats. 
  Through the haze caused by the 
  terrific heat, Doc Savage saw a massive, ten-
  ton ladle which rested on the floor midway 
  down the length of the vast room. Men stood 
  far back from that ladle of molten steel 
  watching in horror as a crane operator spilled 
  it over. They jerked still farther back as red-
  hot steel that was like crawling snakes 
  spread over the floor. Fire and sparks raised 
  in every direction. The heat from the stuff 
  was skin-searing. 
  Then the crane operator worked a 
  lever that raised the emptied ladle upright 
  again. The crane lifted the huge bucket, 
  carried it well down the length of the shop 
  and set it down again. It was once more 
  turned on its side. 
  Workmen rushed toward the empty 
  ladle with long steel rods, in their hands. 
  They started poking inside the ladle with the 
  poles. 
  Doc, by now, had circled the spot 
  where the molten steel had been spilled. He 
  arrived at the emptied ladle and questioned a 
  man. 
  “What happened?” asked the bronze 
  man. 
  “A guy with the madness dived into 
  the ladle!” explained one of the mill hands 
  with the long, poking rods. “There ain’t a 
  danged thing left of him!” 
  “Wait a minute!” cried another. “Look 
  at this, will you!” 
  The man had worked something 
  from the empty ladle with the long steel rod. 
  He pushed it across the floor. 
  Doc Savage bent down to stare at 
  the small object. It was a thing that had 
  withstood the white-hot fire of molten steel. It 
  was all that was left of what had once been a 
  man. 
  It was a peculiarly shaped diamond 
  from a ring that Renny, the engineer, had 
  occasionally worn! 
   
   
  Chapter XVI 
  AND NOW YOU DIE! 
   
  THROUGHOUT that afternoon, the 
  giant bronze man moved through various 
  huge buildings of the steel plant in grim 
  silence. He made no comment about 
  Renny’s death. 
  Developments at the plant changed 
  with breath-taking speed. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  50 
  A hundred more men walked off their 
  jobs. A rolling mill where a huge order of 
  government armament material was being 
  rushed to completion shut down. There was 
  something wrong with the formula of T.3. The 
  armament material had proved worthless. 
  Ten more mill hands appeared with 
  the red spots. There was nothing phony with 
  the men’s twisted, grinning expressions. 
  They were not part of the mob that was trying 
  to cash in on the terrible sickness. Because 
  the ten men were stark, raving mad! 
  Before they could be caught, they 
  killed two dozen mill hands who tried to stop 
  their mad dash through the single main street 
  of the town. It was only when the crazed 
  workers were brought down with guns that 
  the terror temporarily ceased. 
  But a new form of trouble cropped 
  up. This happened when arrogant and 
  domineering Leidenberg, the plant manager, 
  closed the remainder of the mills at six that 
  night. 
  Though 
  hundreds 
  of 
  men 
  had 
  already quit their jobs because of the red-
  spotted madness, others still wanted to work. 
  They were willing to take the chance. They 
  needed the money for support of their 
  families.  
  And so men fought in the streets and 
  stormed the closed gates of the huge plant. 
  At dusk, crowds roamed through the town 
  carrying flares and clubs. They sought out 
  any who might be afflicted with the madness. 
  Everyone so crazed would be killed. A 
  desperate, mob-frenzied attempt was being 
  made to stamp out the terrible menace. 
  Word reached the town that another 
  of 
  J. 
  Henry 
  Mason’s 
  steel 
  plants 
  in 
  Pennsylvania had also shut down. The 
  madness had somehow reached there, too. 
  This was a plant at which the formula of T.3 
  had also been introduced, and from which 
  was being made girders for government 
  bridges. 
  When darkness fell Doc Savage was 
  in the general offices of the great plant. A 
  meeting was being held in the board room, 
  and all the officials and relative-executives of 
  J. Henry Mason were there. 
  Even fat Walter Mason, the lazy, 
  indifferent cousin of pretty Molly Mason, was 
  there 
  also. 
  Apparently 
  the 
  fat 
  fellow 
  considered it to his advantage to finally learn 
  what was going on. 
  But it was little, hard-boiled Willie 
  Watt 
  and 
  the 
  big, 
  steely 
  gray-haired 
  manager, Leidenberg, who did most of the 
  arguing. The others only put in a word or two. 
  Cocky little Willie Watt pounded his 
  fist on the table and yelled, “Hell with you! 
  We’ve got to keep the shops going! The 
  company will go broke if we don’t!” 
  Leidenberg, the manager, drew his 
  big form up arrogantly. “Sure!” he bellowed. 
  “And we’ll all die. I say, keep ‘em closed. I’ll 
  lose just as much as the rest of you—more, 
  perhaps. But that’s better than letting the 
  madness get us!” 
  A quiet little man who had been 
  sitting down near one end of the board table, 
  spoke up. “Me, I’m selling out!” he put in. “I’m 
  taking what I can while I can!” 
  “Me, 
  too!” 
  added 
  another 
  stockholder. 
  While the heated word battle was 
  taking place around the table, an office boy 
  came into the room and stepped quietly to 
  Doc’s side. He said softly: “Phone call for 
  you, Mr. Savage. You can take it outside in 
  the anteroom, in the booth.” 
  The bronze giant moved silently out 
  of the room. He stepped into a glass-inclosed 
  booth in the anteroom, lifted the receiver and 
  said, “Yes?” 
  The booming voice said, “Doc? This 
  is Renny.” 
   
   
  STRANGELY, Doc Savage showed 
  no surprise. He merely stated quietly: “I 
  figured something like this, Renny.” 
  “Thought you would,” Renny said. “I 
  noticed 
  this 
  morning, 
  in 
  one 
  of 
  the 
  laboratories, that my own ring was missing 
  from my coat pocket for a while. Later, Doc, 
  some guys grabbed me and gave me a shot 
  of stuff. They expected me to go mad, and 
  when I didn’t they doped a fellow about my 
  size—then spread the word that I had gone 
  crazy.” 
  “Yes,” Doc said. Then Doc went on: 
  “That capsule perhaps saved you. The drug 
  they are using is a rare one, but the 
  counteragent I used was enough to offset it.” 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  51 
  “Then you know what the madness 
  stuff is?” 
  “Yes.” 
  “But—” 
  Doc went on swiftly. “The showdown 
  in this thing is coming fast. It will be tonight, 
  because the real villain is now forced to 
  cover up as quickly as possible.” The bronze 
  man mentioned the last-known whereabouts 
  of Ham, Monk and Tink O’Neil. He also gave 
  the location of the plane. “You might try to 
  find them and return here to the plant as 
  soon as possible.” 
  “But why here?” prodded Renny. 
  “Because I have reason to believe 
  that Pat is somewhere in the vicinity of this 
  steel plant,” finished Doc. 
  He hung up, returned quietly to the 
  board room. Men were just rising from their 
  chairs. The meeting had ended with a vote to 
  close the plant indefinitely. 
  Ponderous Walter Mason met Doc 
  as he came back into the room. He said, “I 
  have my car outside, Savage. If there is 
  anything I can do—” 
  Doc immediately picked up the fat 
  young man’s suggestion. “Yes, there is,” he 
  said. He drew Walter Mason to one side. 
  “You probably know the layout of this 
  entire plant fairly well?” the bronze man 
  questioned. 
  Walter nodded, his fat chins jiggling. 
  “Certainly. I’ve lived around here long 
  enough to know every corner of the place.” 
  “Then you might be able to help,” 
  said Doc. “We might get started.” 
  They went out. 
   
   
  WALTER’S car was something that 
  was built along the lines of himself. It was 
  massive. But it was also about the fastest 
  thing on wheels. 
  Paved ribbons of cement wound 
  through the spreading property of the now 
  silent steel plant. Off beyond the shops, in 
  the distance, there was a muttering sound, 
  however, that came through the gloom. A red 
  glow reflected against the sky. 
  Walter explained as he drove, “More 
  men fighting. Willie Watt was all for calling in 
  the militia tonight, to stop the trouble, but I 
  convinced him it would be advisable to wait 
  until morning. Told him I thought you might 
  clean up this mystery tonight.” 
  Doc remained silent a moment, 
  making no comment. 
  Then he asked, “Where would you 
  suggest there might be a hiding place where 
  Pat Savage or any of the others might be 
  held near here? That is, a place that has 
  been completely overlooked so far?” 
  Walter Mason’s small, bright eyes 
  were 
  thoughtful 
  in 
  his moonlike 
  face. 
  Suddenly he snapped his fat fingers. 
  “The river!” he exclaimed. “What I 
  mean is, on one of the old ore barges tied up 
  down there. Down here at the far end of the 
  plant, there’s a stream that winds in from the 
  lake. It’s been dredged deep enough so that 
  our supply barges can be brought almost into 
  the plant. We get our scrap and pig iron that 
  way. But with the shops closing down, the 
  stuff has accumulated and some of those 
  barges have been tied up a week. It would be 
  a logical place that was overlooked.” 
  Shortly, Walter Mason had swung 
  the big car out through a gate, across the 
  main street of the mill town, and through 
  another street that formed the very end of the 
  town. He followed a byway that led down to a 
  small river. Here, close to shore, a freight 
  siding swung in from the main line leading 
  into the plant proper. 
  They bumped over tracks, passed 
  darkened storage sheds and red-painted 
  buildings used for the safekeeping of 
  inflammable paint materials and chemicals. 
  At last they drew up beside a string 
  of wooden barges tied up at a big water-front 
  unloading platform. 
  Walter climbed out, puffing because 
  of his bulk. He said, “Wait. I’ll go ahead and 
  see if there is a watchman around.” 
  Doc 
  waited. 
  In 
  the 
  night, 
  his 
  remarkable flake-gold eyes stirred with an 
  unusual restlessness. 
  Ten minutes passed. Then Doc 
  moved forward in the direction the fat young 
  man had taken. Walter Mason, on leaving, 
  had gone toward the first of a string of 
  darkened barges. 
  Doc headed that way. And just as he 
  was approaching the unloading dock edge, 
  his foot hit something soft and yielding. The 
  bronze man stooped down quickly. 
  
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  52 
   
   
  IT was the big bulk of a man. Walter! 
  The fat young man groaned, managed to 
  gasp, “Hurry! They went in that supply shed 
  just beside us. There might be time to—” 
  Doc straightened, noted the large 
  corrugated metal building close by. He 
  leaped that way. 
  A sliding door was partially open in 
  the side of the big shed. Slipping through 
  soundlessly, darkness and the odor of 
  chemicals and paints met the bronze giant’s 
  senses. 
  Doc went forward carefully, not using 
  a light, but depending upon his acute senses 
  to show him the way. He reached a cleared 
  space in the center of the big supply shed. 
  There was the vague, bulking outlines of 
  steel drums and carboys of chemicals piled 
  high near him. 
  Sensing 
  some 
  other 
  presence 
  besides these inanimate things, Doc tensed. 
  And 
  the 
  powerful, 
  overhead 
  floodlight, blazed on and splashed blinding, 
  brilliant light over the bronze man’s form. The 
  big light hung low enough so that it cast a 
  twelve-foot circle of brightness around him. 
  Doc Savage was the central point of 
  that revealing circle. 
  But into the circle’s outer edge 
  moved the dozen men with guns. Doc was 
  carefully covered, and a voice rapped: 
  “All right, bronze guy! Start taking off 
  your coat and vest. Place them carefully on 
  the floor. Any tricks, and—” 
  The speaker patted his automatic to 
  end the sentence. 
  All Doc could see was the men’s 
  legs, bodies and menacing guns. Faces were 
  invisible where they were just beyond the 
  circle of light. 
  Slowly, he started stripping off coat 
  and vest.  
  “Careful!” the same harsh voice 
  warned. Obviously, these gunmen knew 
  something about the gadgets which the 
  bronze man carried in his trick equipment-
  vest, and so they were taking no chances on 
  Doc exploding a small gas bomb or 
  something. 
  “Strip to your waist!” the voice 
  ordered further. 
  Doc followed the instructions. There 
  was little else he could apparently do. 
  When his great chest was bared 
  from the waist up, when the encircling ring of 
  men could see that Doc held no tricks up his 
  sleeve, the voice said, “And now, Savage, 
  you meet the boss!” 
  There was a scuffling of feet. Doc 
  saw several of the men move back a little, 
  leaving one side of the circle open. 
  Another, much smaller overhead 
  light came on. It was just bright enough to 
  reveal the figure seated at the table. The 
  distance from the bronze man to the figure 
  behind the table was perhaps two dozen feet. 
  Doc noted that he was still carefully covered 
  by the dozen or so gunmen. 
  His gaze went again to the seated 
  figure beneath the light. The size of the 
  person was hard to figure, for the concealing 
  cape the man wore was entirely of black. As 
  was the loose hood over his head, the hood 
  through which gleamed a pair of intense 
  eyes. 
  It was the man in the black mask. 
   
   
  Chapter XVII 
  FIEND IN BLACK! 
   
  JUST about this moment, at the 
  other end of the mill town, a small group of 
  grim-faced figures were swinging into the 
  main street. They were Monk, Ham, tow-
  headed Tink O’Neil and pretty Molly Mason. 
  The tall girl was saying to Monk, 
  “Heavens! It’s a good thing I escaped from 
  those awful men and found you again. 
  Perhaps we’re in time to stop this riot!” 
  Riot it was. Men were fighting in the 
  street, their faces strained and grim in the 
  torchlight 
  glare. 
  Clubs 
  struck 
  heads. 
  Brickbats flew. A man went through the glass 
  window of a store. 
  It was Molly who pointed and 
  exclaimed, “Look! There’s tough little Willie 
  Watt. He’s the one behind this!” 
  They saw the small, thin, wiry fellow 
  leading a group of perhaps twelve men. Big, 
  powerful fellows with clubs in their fists. But 
  the group was not closing in on the rioting 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  53 
  fighters; instead they were coming directly 
  toward Monk, Ham and the others. 
  Abruptly young Tink O’Neil drew up 
  short and stared. He grabbed Monk’s 
  massive arm and explained, “That’s not Willie 
  Watt the superintendent. It’s a crook named 
  Wart. And those guys with him—” 
  Monk swung to so inform the girl. 
  But 
  tall 
  Molly 
  Mason 
  had 
  disappeared! 
  In the next moment, Monk, Ham and 
  Tink O’Neil were attacked by Wart and his 
  mob. Monk let out a howl and jumped into 
  the wedge of approaching thugs. 
  The big men’s faces were scarred 
  and hard. Ears were flattened. They looked 
  like a bunch of gorillas from the East Side of 
  New York. 
  Monk grabbed the solid arm of the 
  nearest man, and bellowed, “Hey! You ain’t 
  no mill hand!” 
  The big fellow roared, “Brother, you 
  said a mouthful!” 
  He started wrapping a heavy piece of 
  pipe around Monk’s head. 
  Ham whipped his sword from its 
  slender black sheath. Tink O’Neil started 
  proving that he knew how to use his fists. 
  The swaying, tangled mass of fighters 
  worked their way across the road. 
  Skinny little Wart got outside the 
  fighting men and threw the small object. It 
  was a glass capsule about the size of an 
  egg. It quickly broke beneath the men’s feet 
  and a white, vaporish cloud spread upward. 
  Men started falling down in their tracks. 
  It had been a form of knockout gas 
  that Wart used. 
  Next he motioned to several big men 
  hovering back in a nearby doorway. He 
  called, “You still got the truck?” 
  Someone said, “Yeah!” 
  “Then start loading these mugs in!” 
  ordered skinny Wart. 
  Later, the truck left there with its load 
  of helpless victims. It proceeded through the 
  main street of the town, no one paying 
  attention because of the smaller fights that 
  were taking place up and down the 
  thoroughfare. 
  Wart, seated beside the driver in the 
  cab of the truck, said, “Well, this about cleans 
  up the Doc Savage crowd. The big boy 
  himself had already captured Doc. And the 
  other captives are down there now, too. So 
  now we’ll go there.” 
  “It sure worked swell,” said the 
  driver. 
  “Listen,” continued Wart, “what we’re 
  gonna work now is even better. We’re gonna 
  grab the big boy, too!” 
  “Don’t get you,” the driver mumbled. 
  “Look,” said Wart. “Our organization 
  in New York paid the big guy a million bucks 
  for the formula, didn’t they?” 
  “Sure.” 
  “And 
  besides, 
  we 
  grabbed 
  the 
  millionaire, and his daughter Molly and that 
  Pat Savage. We did a whole lot of things to 
  help the big boss get what he wanted. We 
  planted those phony mad guys in the shops, 
  and had others working in the mills jimmy up 
  different runs of new steel.” 
  “Sure, but—” 
  “An’ we were supposed to get that 
  formula for T.3 for all this.” 
  “That’s right,” agreed the truck driver. 
  “Well,” rapped Wart, “we didn’t get 
  T.3. We got a phony. That big boy pulled a 
  fast one on us for his million fish!” 
  The driver whistled. 
   
   
  FACING the masked man—the “big 
  boy” himself—in the storage shed, Doc 
  Savage said quietly, “And so you were not so 
  clever. Your method of creating this madness 
  menace 
  has 
  been 
  discovered, 
  and 
  destroyed.” 
  The man behind the mask chuckled. 
  “Yes,” he said, “I happen to know that you 
  found those tablets mixed with the regular 
  salt tablets in the dispensing machines this 
  afternoon. You ordered every machine 
  emptied and its contents destroyed.” 
  The masked man laughed. “But now 
  you are going to die, and other methods will 
  be used to keep up this madness trouble if 
  necessary!” 
  Doc stood watching the speaker, his 
  brain sharply alert. 
  What the masked villain referred to 
  was the dispensing machines located in the 
  various heat-filled open-hearth shops, rolling 
  mills, wire shops and other buildings of the 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  54 
  plant. The machines dispensed a salt tablet 
  which the workers used. 
  Salt must be continually used by mill 
  hands working under terrific heat, where salt 
  is fast lost from the body by continual, 
  excessive perspiration. Formerly, the men 
  had just obtained the salt by scooping up 
  some from buckets placed in handy spots 
  around the various shops. 
  But now the dispensing machines 
  were a modern improvement. It was in these 
  machines that the other tablets containing 
  the rare drug had been placed. The drug that 
  caused madness and which also contained 
  something that made its victims allergic to 
  heat, causing the hideous rash of red spots. 
  Doc had suspected something of this 
  at the very beginning. Thus Renny had made 
  the tests for him, and it was this report that 
  Renny had explained in one of his phone 
  calls. 
  Renny had not been affected by any 
  drug. The capsule Doc had given the big 
  engineer was a counter agent devised to 
  offset any effects of the drug. 
  Doc, if he lived, planned to use this 
  counter agent on any other workers who had 
  been exposed to the menace. 
  If he lived— 
  Doc said, stalling for a moment’s 
  more time, “You didn’t seek the formula of 
  T.3. You didn’t need the formula. What 
  you’ve wanted is shutting down the plant. 
  You’ve worked things in such a way that 
  stock in the company has plunged to almost 
  nothing. And so you’ve been buying it in at 
  your own price, later to reopen the plants and 
  make a fortune all your own. You were clever 
  enough to buy the stocks through a fake 
  corporation, which was yourself—” 
  The masked man brought his fist 
  down on the table before him. It made a 
  ponderous thud. Even the hands of the 
  masked one were covered with loose black 
  gloves. 
  He said gratingly, “You’re a clever 
  fellow, Doc Savage. It’s too bad you must 
  die. And now—” 
  Doc was standing with his bronze 
  hands hooked into the belt at his bared waist. 
  He was tense, ready to— 
  A door opened somewhere behind 
  the group of encircling gunmen and a hard 
  voice rapped, “What the hell!” 
  It was the voice of tough little Willie 
  Watt. 
  And then a second voice boomed, 
  “Doc!” 
  That was Renny, the big engineer! 
  In a strange voice, Doc called out 
  something that was unintelligible to the men 
  with guns. The sound might merely have 
  been a worried yell. 
  But the words Doc spoke were taken 
  from a long-lost tongue. Mayan! It was a 
  language that Doc and his men used in 
  moments when they did not wish to be 
  understood by others. 
  What Doc had called to Renny was, 
  “Shoot the belt!” 
  And the bronze man whipped the 
  belt from his waist and flung it into the air. 
  Renny fired from somewhere beyond. 
  The explosion that followed was a 
  blinding 
  glare 
  which 
  left 
  everyone 
  momentarily stunned. 
   
   
  RENNY, who had been concealed 
  back in the darkness, had understood what 
  the bronze man meant. 
  For the lining of Doc Savage’s wide 
  belt contained a number of small, explosive 
  pellets. The pellets could be set off by a 
  sharp, hard concussion. 
  And so Renny had used a machine 
  pistol, which all the aids of Doc Savage 
  carried. Doc, himself, seldom carried a gun. 
  But Renny, himself an expert marksman, had 
  caught the belt in midair with a fast, sure aim. 
  Thus the explosion had followed. 
  The force of the explosion broke the 
  two overhead lights. Men were struggling 
  about on the floor, climbing back to their feet. 
  Momentarily, they could not see. Besides, 
  there was the blackness all around them. 
  And so confusion reigned, and 
  making use of it the one in the black mask 
  and cape moved with a fair amount of safety. 
  There was yelling and fighting, as Renny and 
  hardboiled little Willie Watt jumped into the 
  room. 
  Almost immediately, more voices 
  shouted and more men piled into the tangle. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx THE SPOTTED MEN xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  55 
  These were the ones who had arrived with 
  little Wart and the truckload of stunned thugs 
  and Monk, Ham and Tink O’Neil. 
  Over the sound of the confusion, 
  there was a bellow that might have been 
  made by a bull. It came from inside the truck 
  itself. Then there was a crash, rear doors of 
  the truck split wide and Monk came leaping 
  out, followed by Ham and Tink O’Neil. 
  The 
  men 
  had 
  regained 
  consciousness, including the thugs who had 
  been knocked out also. Skinny little Wart 
  screamed: 
  “Hell with the Doc Savage crowd! 
  Get that blasted masked guy!” 
  Gunfire followed. A shot struck a 
  drum of chemical, and a moment later flames 
  were licking over other supplies in the big 
  storage building. Paint stuff and other 
  inflammable material took hold rapidly. A red 
  glare overspread the confused, fighting mob. 
  And within it, Monk went around 
  joyously cracking skulls. Ham and Tink 
  O’Neil were at his side. 
  Ham, 
  swinging 
  his 
  sword-cane, 
  called worriedly, “Where’s Doc? And where’s 
  that 
  masked 
  guy 
  I 
  heard 
  somebody 
  mention?” 
  But Doc Savage had disappeared. 
  As had the real villain he sought! 
   
   
  Chapter XVIII 
  ONE MAN’S FOLLY 
   
  DOC SAVAGE, moving with blurred 
  speed through the night, left the fighting men 
  behind him. Through a small window of the 
  storage shed, licking red flames showed. A 
  man came hurtling through the window. 
  Another followed. There was the sound of 
  Monk’s gleeful yell from somewhere within 
  the building. 
  Doc, however, followed what was 
  just a vague glimpse of a hazy, dark shadow. 
  The figure had appeared to head toward a 
  small tugboat tied up near the ore-filled 
  barges at the river front. 
  And then, suddenly, the bronze man 
  realized that he had been deceived by the 
  black-cloaked figure, and that he had lost it in 
  the night. 
  Carefully, Doc Savage prowled along 
  the dock. He spent ten minutes looking for 
  the masked man. 
  Behind him, the entire storage shed 
  had burst into flames. A slight breeze was 
  blowing the fire toward the water—and also 
  toward the tugboat that was tied up there. 
  The girl’s muffled cry came from the 
  tug! 
  Doc Savage leaped from the dock 
  down to the narrow deck alongside the small 
  cabin of the sturdy-looking tugboat. Already, 
  flames from the burning storage shed were 
  working their way across the dry planking 
  behind him. 
  The bronze man flung past the cabin, 
  jerked open doors of the crew’s quarters 
  strung out along the narrow side deck. He 
  moved through an open doorway and down a 
  short iron ladder to the engine room. 
  Pat Savage, her lovely face pale 
  from hours of being tied up hand and foot, 
  her mouth covered with a gag, lay on a 
  bench in the room. 
  Doc moved swiftly. He got the gag 
  from Pat’s mouth. He stood his tall, bronze-
  gold-haired cousin on her feet and untied her 
  bonds. He helped rub circulation back into 
  her numbed wrists. 
  Pat gasped, “Doc! Walter Mason 
  found Molly in here just a few moments ago. 
  He was hurt, but he managed to carry her 
  out. She was gagged like myself, and she 
  had no chance to tell him about me!” 
  Doc said swiftly, “There’s no time for 
  words just now!” 
  He helped his pretty cousin from the 
  boat. Flames were dangerously close. The 
  storage building itself was a ball of red fire, 
  parts of it already starting to tumble. 
  Past the building ran men, pulling a 
  small, two-wheeled and portable fire truck. 
  Perhaps, after a fashion, they could check 
  spreading of the fire along the dock. 
  Doc, with Pat at his side, raced 
  toward the big truck that had been parked 
  near the building. A man was just leaping in 
  behind the wheel. 
  “Where are the others?” Doc asked. 
  The big fellow was a steelworker that 
  Doc Savage had seen around one of the 
  shops. He was not one of Wart’s crooks. 
  
  xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx DOC SAVAGE xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 
   
  56 
  “They got the tip-off that the masked 
  guy was headed toward the open-hearth 
  shop!” the man said. “The mob’s all gone that 
  way, including your men!” 
  Doc ordered, “Move over!” and got 
  behind the wheel. Pat and the mill worker 
  squeezed into the seat beside him. 
  The bronze man sent the heavy truck 
  hurtling up the single main street. They 
  passed groups of mill hands running in the 
  same direction they were headed. 
  Men were yelling in the streets, “Go 
  to No. 5! That masked man went to that 
  shop!” 
  Doc Savage swung in beside the 
  long, towering open-hearth shop several 
  blocks ahead of the running mill hands. 
  Another car had stopped just ahead of Doc’s. 
  It was the big machine of fat Walter 
  Mason, and the young man was just climbing 
  out. 
   
   
  HE ran up to Doc Savage and said, 
  “I’ve found my sister. I’ve got her in the car. 
  But I had to rush here. They say the masked 
  man is in No. 5!” 
  Walter hurriedly led the way back to 
  his big machine. Both men lifted a tall, 
  slender girl from the seat and went to work 
  untying hands and ankles that had been well 
  bound. The gag was taken from the girl’s 
  mouth. 
  Molly Mason swayed on her feet a 
  moment. It seemed she was going to faint. 
  Her lovely blue eyes, however, focused on 
  the bronze man again, and then swung to her 
  friend Pat Savage. 
  Molly threw herself in Pat Savage’s 
  arms and let a sob escape her curved lips. 
  She was as tall and as slender as Pat 
  herself. 
  Walter was saying worriedly, “Come 
  on, Savage!” 
  He led the way into the towering 
  open-hearth shop. The entire length of one 
  side of the building was lined with the 
  massive blast furnaces. Heat, blinding heat 
  still came off the rising, hot sides of the 
  furnaces. 
  For the plant itself had only been 
  shut down a matter of hours, and molten 
  metal within the giant furnaces was still at 
  white heat. 
  Doc’s men and the others were 
  standing on the floor looking upward toward 
  a long catwalk that faced the string of giant 
  furnaces. The others who were watching 
  were mill hands and some of the plant 
  officials. Also included were a number of 
  Wart’s mobsters. 
  Strangely, the thugs no longer fought 
  Doc’s aids. All were intent on watching the 
  cloaked, black-masked form that moved 
  along the catwalk in front of the charged blast 
  furnaces. A figure that seemed to be flirting 
  with death itself. 
  It was Ham who saw Pat Savage 
  and lovely Molly Mason. He leaped toward 
  the two girls. The lawyer exclaimed: 
  “Molly! Where did you disappear a 
  while ago?” 
  Molly Mason stared at Ham. “I don’t 
  understand—” she started. 
  Doc interrupted with, “Monk, take the 
  far end of that catwalk. Hurry!” 
  The bronze man himself started 
  toward the stairs leading upward nearby. 
  Stairs that ended at the narrow platform and 
  walk before the row of great furnaces. 
  But just then, there was a yell from 
  behind the crowd watching the masked figure 
  in the center of the long runway. Someone 
  called: “That crazy mill mob is almost here. 
  They’ll wreck the—” 
  It was Willie Watt, standing with big 
  Renny, who yelled, “Some of you run outside 
  and close the doors. Lock them, if necessary. 
  We aren’t going to let this masked guy get 
  away now!” 
  Everyone except Doc Savage had 
  turned as hardboiled little Willie Watt yelled 
  out the orders. When they swung back 
  toward the line of furnaces, a yell of horror 
  went up from men’s throats. 
  For it was not the masked figure that 
  Doc Savage was leaping after. It was the fat, 
  huge form of Walter Mason! 
   
   
  FOR one so bulky, Walter Mason 
  had gone up the ladder with surprising 
  speed. He was running along the catwalk 
  ahead of the bronze man. 
  
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  57 
  But even as Doc Savage closed in 
  on Walter Mason, the fat man’s hands 
  reached the first of the control levers to the 
  big blast furnaces. 
  Doc Savage yelled a warning, “Get 
  back! Get back, all of you!” 
  But Walter Mason had already 
  yanked 
  a 
  lever. 
  The 
  lever 
  controlled 
  openings by which the massive furnaces 
  would be tapped. Steel—white-hot, molten 
  steel started flowing down the troughs which 
  ended out in the air high above those below. 
  Ordinarily, the ten-ton ladles carried 
  by the movable cranes would be placed there 
  to catch the stream of white-hot metal. But 
  now there was—nothing. 
  Nothing to stop the molten stuff from 
  dropping onto the heads of those below, or 
  else—if they could manage to leap clear—to 
  splatter on the floor and run off in a hundred 
  directions, to trap the feet of those locked in 
  this open-hearth shop. 
  Walter, giving a horrible laugh, 
  leaped down the runway and toward another 
  series of levers and 
  another furnace. 
  Already, molten metal running down the 
  trough of the first furnace stopped the bronze 
  man’s advance. For flame and blinding 
  sparks leaped up from the trough, forming a 
  wall of hell-fire. 
  Doc paused only a moment. Then 
  his arm flashed in the red glare. An object—a 
  piece of foundry casting that the bronze man 
  had seized as he flung toward the ladder—
  smashed through the air. 
  The heavy piece of metal caught fat 
  Walter Mason in the back, between the 
  shoulders. It sent him forward in a sprawling 
  heap—to fall into the very trough of running, 
  molten metal that he had just released in the 
  next furnace. 
  Walter’s face went down into that 
  gutterlike trough of white-hot steel. His fat 
  hands flung outward and beat at his sides for 
  horror-filled moments. And then movement of 
  his bulky body and his hands stopped. 
   
   
  DOC SAVAGE quickly moved levers 
  that shut off the flow of the molten steel. 
  Those below were cringing back against the 
  far wall of the shop, barely clear of the flesh-
  eating stuff that had slopped to the floor. 
  Carefully, the bronze man worked his 
  way toward where fat Walter had fallen. He 
  picked up the hideous corpse and carried it 
  below, where a coat was quickly thrown over 
  what had been the man’s moon-like features. 
  There 
  was 
  stark, 
  breathless 
  silence—until a yell broke the thickness and 
  Monk let out a whoop from far down the 
  shop. He came running up with the masked 
  form in his arms. He set the figure down, 
  ripped back the hooded mask and exclaimed: 
  “Blazes, Doc. Just look what I 
  caught! It’s a dame, and—” 
  Suddenly, the chemist paused and 
  stared from Molly Mason, still at Pat’s side, to 
  the girl he had just unmasked. 
  Molly Mason, too, stared at her 
  apparent twin! 
  But the one in Monk’s grasp ripped 
  her arm free and said in a harsh, nasal voice, 
  “All right, you ape, take your paws off me!” 
  Doc said, “Perhaps Wart, there, can 
  explain.” 
  As everyone stared at the little crook 
  leader, Doc gave young Tink O’Neil and 
  Willie Watt a nod. They stooped down and 
  started dragging away from the group the 
  covered figure that had been Walter Mason. 
  Little Wart was staring at Doc out of 
  worried eyes. “Look,” he exclaimed quickly, 
  “I’ll talk—only don’t let that mob in from 
  outside!” 
  Sounds of clubs could be heard 
  striking the locked, heavy steel doors of the 
  shop. It was the angered mill crowd, intent on 
  reaching crooks who had fooled them. 
  Doc said, “You don’t have to talk. We 
  know what happened.” 
  Monk was scratching his head. “But, 
  Doc,” he protested, “we found that dead guy 
  by the lake, with the reports for Willie Watt. 
  And I thought Willie Watt was the one—” 
  Doc said, “You thought the dead 
  man’s initials were S.E.C.?” 
  Monk nodded, remembering the 
  statement he had made. 
  Doc explained, “Those initials stood 
  for Securities and Exchange Commission. 
  The dead man was an investigator out of 
  New York, employed through the insistence 
  of Willie Watt into strange manipulations that 
  were taking place in this company’s steel 
  stock.” 
  
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  58 
  Doc indicated the limp figure that had 
  been dragged to one side of the room. 
  “Walter was buying up that stock at bargain 
  prices. He didn’t want the formula of T.3. He 
  wanted the plant.” The bronze man’s calm 
  gaze swung to skinny little Wart again. “And 
  you and your crowd were his fall guys. Your 
  organization in New York paid Walter a 
  million—and got a fake formula.” 
  The bronze man nodded toward the 
  big locked doors, then again spoke to Wart’s 
  men. “Which do you prefer, arrest or—that?” 
  Wart and the others spread their 
  hands hopelessly. Most of them had already 
  had all fight taken out of them by hairy Monk 
  and the others. 
  “All right,” Wart said as spokesman. 
  “We’ll take the rap instead of letting that mob 
  get at us.” 
  Later, Doc Savage spoke to the 
  angered mill hands outside the open-hearth 
  shop. He explained briefly and clearly about 
  the real mystery of the crazed men. He told 
  about Walter Mason. 
  The tone of the bronze man’s vibrant 
  voice calmed the men. They listened. And 
  they all agreed to follow Doc’s instructions. 
  Wart’s mobsters were taken out one 
  at a time, to be turned over to police. Later, 
  the men would be sent to the bronze man’s 
  criminal “college” in upstate New York. It was 
  at Doc’s college that crooks underwent 
  delicate brain operations, that removed all 
  memory of their shady past. In time, they 
  would become useful citizens again. 
   
   
  BUT the girl that Monk had on his 
  hands worried him. He was still holding her 
  when the bronze man returned. 
  “A very good actress employed by 
  Wart, to throw you off the trail,” explained the 
  bronze 
  man. 
  Doc 
  indicated 
  the 
  girl’s 
  somewhat harsh features, more distinct 
  beneath the bright lights of the shop. He 
  indicated her hair. 
  Doc said further, “A little dye and 
  some make-up can do strange things to 
  women!” 
  He looked at Tink O’Neil, who stood 
  with his arm around the real Molly Mason’s 
  shoulders. With the girls together, it could be 
  seen how much more delicate were the 
  features of Molly Mason, as compared with 
  her impostor. 
  Doc said to Tink, “I think you 
  suspected this girl was not Molly Mason?” 
  The tow-headed young man nodded. 
  “Yes. But I played along, saying nothing to 
  Monk or Ham, hoping that I could get some 
  sort of lead to the whereabouts of J. Henry 
  Mason and—” 
  Monk jumped. “Say!” he exploded. 
  “Where is Mason?” 
  Doc indicated his lovely cousin Pat. 
  “Ask her,” he said quietly. 
  Pat looked tired. But she smiled and 
  said, 
  “When 
  J. 
  Henry 
  Mason 
  first 
  disappeared, he was brought to where Molly 
  and I were being held. I got a chance to 
  speak to him a moment alone. I told him if he 
  got any chance at all to escape, to go to 
  Doc’s headquarters in New York and stay 
  under cover until Doc got this mystery 
  straightened out. And he did. He managed to 
  get away from them, though we were held!” 
  Doc put in, “I’ve called New York. J. 
  Henry Mason is safe with Long Tom and 
  Johnny.” 
  The two men mentioned by the 
  bronze man were the others in Doc’s small 
  organization. 
  It was big Renny who put in, “But 
  holy cow, Doc! I went through those formula 
  papers again up in the vault. They are 
  phonies. I missed it at first—” 
  Doc looked at Pat. “Perhaps you can 
  explain that one, too.” 
  Pat flushed slightly, put her slender 
  hand down the front of her rumpled dress 
  and pulled out a sheaf of papers. She 
  handed them to Doc. 
  Pat explained, “J. Henry Mason 
  slipped them to me when he was brought to 
  the first hide-out up near the lake. No one 
  suspected that I would have the formula of 
  T.3.” 
  Everyone but Doc stared. Then 
  someone turned and looked toward the 
  silent, covered body of Walter Mason across 
  the room. Other eyes followed, and it was 
  Ham who asked: 
  “Doc, how did you know—” 
  The bronze man said, “He was first 
  suspected when a picture of him was 
  developed. The picture was made by a 
  
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  59 
  special camera installed in one of our empty 
  equipment cases.” 
  Doc referred to the case he had 
  planted in the woods. 
  “Walter must have trailed me,” Doc 
  went on. “He bent over the case, touched it, 
  and released a trip that took an exposure. I 
  had a perfect picture of the masked man.” 
  “But if he was masked—” Ham 
  started to say. 
  Doc finished, “Walter wore a large 
  diamond ring on the fourth finger of his left 
  hand. As he reached toward the planted 
  equipment case, it was revealed in the 
  snapshot taken. Later, it was on his hand at 
  home.” 
  Doc looked at Molly Mason. “Walter 
  had a black plane?” 
  The tall, pretty girl nodded quickly. 
  “Yes. He kept it about a mile back on the 
  estate, in a small hangar down there.” 
  Doc nodded. “At all times, Walter 
  was able to practically go and come as he 
  pleased. No one thought to check up on him. 
  Thus he made the fast trips out in his plane 
  whenever he saw a chance to eliminate 
  someone who was in his way.” 
  The girl in Monk’s bearlike grasp 
  gave a short, crisp laugh. “The louse!” she 
  flared. “He got me to wear that mask and 
  cape after he escaped from you back there at 
  the storage shed. Told me he would cut me 
  in for plenty if I led the rest of you away from 
  him. But that devil was going to kill all of us!” 
  Doc Savage said quietly, “The only 
  mistake we made was in overlooking that 
  Walter Mason could move fast, when 
  necessary. He almost fooled me, though I 
  knew his identity in the mask and strung 
  along until he played his hand tonight.” 
  Someone remarked, “Nonetheless, 
  Doc, you stopped him!” 
  Doc 
  Savage 
  said 
  nothing. 
  He 
  stepped toward the one person who meant 
  so much to him. Pat Savage. He led Pat out 
  of the place, for in Pat’s eyes was an 
  expression that said she had had enough 
  excitement for a while. 
   
   
  THE girl in Monk’s grasp started 
  clawing and scratching at the homely 
  chemist’s face. Monk let out a howl. 
  “Ham!” he squalled. “Give me a hand 
  here!” 
  The dapper lawyer stood to one side 
  and grinned coolly at his partner. 
  “I thought,” he said icily, “you knew 
  how to handle women, you flat-footed misfit!” 
  Now that both were out of danger 
  again, their endless brawl threatened to get 
  started in earnest. Holding the struggling, 
  clawing girl with one hand, Monk made a 
  swing at his partner with the other. 
   
   
  THE END 
   
   
                            
   
  
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  60 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  "THE EVIL GNOME" 
   
  Here is an exciting, thrilling, smashing novel, with every requirement of 
  action, interest and suspense. Doc Savage and his gang find themselves 
  up against quite a new problem; one that keeps them baffled for some 
  time. How can they fight a menace that they cannot find? How can they 
  conquer over a force that seems to have supernatural powers? You'll 
  learn how if you make sure of getting "The Evil Gnome," complete in the 
  next issue of 
   
   
   
  10 Cents—Everywhere 
   
   
   
   
   
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/R/Robeson, Kenneth/085 The Spotted Men.pdf