Chapter VIII

47

STRANGE FISH

Exactly what they had feared had happened, she explained. The Sheriff had traced the gloves to Toms through the maker in Tulsa, so she and Toms had gone into hiding. Waiting, she said, for Doc Savage to arrive.

She and Johnny Toms had not known what else they could do, except hide. They were scared. She frankly admitted it.

The cowboys on the S−slash−S were helping them. That is, they were offering what assistance they could offer without getting into trouble. She had told them not to do anything that would get them caught, and they had promised not to. But she was worried about them getting into a mess. She was deeply grateful for their assistance, though, and she was sure they would help all they could.

That was her story.

She didn't have the least idea—or said she hadn't—what it was all about.

Doc Savage had listened in silence, showing attentive interest, frequently nodding to show that he understood points. His interest had kept the girl talking rapidly.

Now Doc said, “I don't want to alarm you further, but here is what happened to us as soon as we got your telephone call.”

He told her about the attempt to decoy him to going to Brazil—minutely describing the small sheep of a man as he told the story—and how it had failed.

He mentioned the picture which had been one of the things that had tipped him that the sheep's story was false. The portrait which the sheep had said had been made five years ago, but which was on paper that had a novelty matte surface which had gone on the market no more than six months ago.

Doc mentioned the name of the man in the portrait. Chapman. Chapman Schulte. He described the man, his sullen look and thick neck and his upstanding thatch of dark hair, his domineering eyes.

Doc's story concluded with the narrow escape of Monk and Ham in New York, the flight to Oklahoma, and the trap into which they had fallen on arrival, and which had resulted in them being framed for a murder.

He said, “They worked the same trick on both of us. Killed somebody and framed it on to us. They're cold killers and they're smart.”

Suddenly there was the feeling that everything had been said. And they were nowhere. It was the sensation of having looked into a purse thoroughly and finding it empty, robbed. The result was a heavy silence.

Paris Stevens got up uneasily and moved the bubbling coffee pot on to the back of the stove.

She said, “You'll have dinner with us, of course. It just dawned on Johnny and me a while ago that we hadn't eaten a thing since last night. We were so excited.”

This sounded, somehow, eminently practical. As if it was the first thing that had been said that made sense.

Or so it struck Monk. By now, he was captivated by Paris. He had listened to her talk, and he was enthralled.

She was quite the loveliest thing he recalled having seen.