It did. It knocked the young man down and made Monk stumble. It deafened them.

Monk grabbed his companion's arm, roared, "Come on!"

They ran to the exit. Where the door had been, a hole and a few broken planks remained. They stumbled outside. There was enough moonlight for running, and they ran.

There was some shooting behind them-four shots in such rolling succession that they could only come from a revolver-but none of the bullets was close enough to be heard. And, judging from the outburst of profanity that followed, one of their late captors had mistakenly taken pot shots at one of his companions.

Chapter XI. PINK FOR PUTRID.

MONK came out on a highway, gave his trousers a hitch and took up a determined position in the middle of the road. Standing there, he flapped his arms in the path of an approaching motorist.

"It may be one of them!" yelled the pink young man uneasily.

Monk said, "If it is, I'm in the right mood to accommodate 'em."

It was an old touring car which had shed its top as an old man sheds his hair. The man driving wore a felt hat that had obviously been used as fly swatter, drinking cup and perspiration mop for a long time. The man smoked a clay pipe that was completely black and amazingly strong.

"Take us to the nearest telephone," Monk ordered. "It's important."

The man eyed them while he absent-mindedly took off his hat and swatted a mosquito. He said, "You be from the carnival, I reckon."

"Carnival?"

"One in town this week, I heard." He put his hat back on. "You two look like you might be freaks from a side show."

"Freaks!" Monk growled. "Listen, you old-" He caught himself, remembering his pink color. He was suddenly amazed that the other had not shown more surprise.

"Take us to a telephone," Monk said.

The man started his car, and the amount of noise it made was amazing. Monk got a whiff of the black pipe and had to cough.

They rattled and banged along for a mile or two, and turned into a State-police station.

"Telephone here," their chauffeur said slyly.

"How many did you pa.s.s getting here?" Monk asked.

"Only three."

A State patrolman had come out of the station. His jaw fell. He whirled, stuck his head in the door, bellowed, "Carl, come out here!" Then, when another patrolman had appeared, he demanded, "Do you see what I see?"

Monk got out of the old car. He was in a bad humor.

"You two wisenheimers save the funny stuff," he said belligerently. "And if you've got a riot squad, get it together. We got a job for you."

The authority in Monk's voice impressed the cop. "What is this?" he wanted to know.

Monk turned and winked slightly at the pink young man. Then he told the officer, "You remember some men who burned a pink girl to death in the lobby of a hotel in New York? Well, they're holed up in the hills over there. We just got away from them.""What were they doing with you?"

"We don't know, but we think they're turnin' people pink for the fun of it, then killin' 'em," Monk said.

Later, when the patrolmen were tearing around getting a raiding squad together, Monk told his companion, "That got action out of 'em without wastin' an hour explainin'."

"But they will have to know the truth eventually."

Monk shrugged. "They'll have to get it from somebody besides us. We don't know it."

THERE was no one on the farm.

They did find the truck that had been highjacked, and one of the smaller trucks which had been used in the raid. Around the larger truck, there was a litter of smashed packing cases. Some of the ruined cases still contained machine tools, but others were empty.

A policeman said, "You say they stole a truckload of machine tools?"

Monk nodded.

"Why?" the officer wanted to know.

"You've got me."

The police went over the place thoroughly. They made one discovery-soapy towels had been used to wipe almost everything where there was a possibility of fingerprints having been left. Monk recalled that the same thing had been done at the Harland home. The telephone line was intact, and the policeman in charge talked over it for a time.

He told Monk, "Fellow named Cy Travetti owns this farm, which doesn't surprise me."

"Why don't it surprise you?"

"Cy is a bad egg. Cut his teeth on the bootleg business, and he's been in and out of jail plenty. Lately he's been a New York boy."

"You better put out a reader for him."

"Oh, sure." The officer frowned slightly. "In the meantime, we want some information out of you two. As a matter of fact, you're under arrest as material witnesses-and so we can give you treatment for that wholesale pinkeye you've got."

"It's not wholesale pinkeye we've got."

"Well, whatever it is, then."

"Now wait a minute," Monk said. "I'm working with Doc Savage. My name is Monk Mayfair."

The officer looked startled. "That makes it greatly different-if true." He reached for the telephone. "I'll call Mr. Savage's office and check on that."

Monk opened his mouth, but was speechless. He felt knotted inside-remembering Doc Savage was dead. He had tried to keep it out of his mind, and the excitement had helped him somewhat. But now therealization was back again.

The officer talked for a while. His back was turned, and Monk could not hear what he said. Then he wheeled.

"They want you in New York right away," he said. "You and this fellow with you."

Monk was astounded. "Doc-is he-"

"He asked us to use a squad car to bring you over," the policeman advised. "You can take one of those outside."

"Then Doc's alive?"

"He sounded very much alive," the policeman declared.

DOC SAVAGE met Monk and his companion in front of the headquarters building. The bronze man stepped out on the sidewalk as soon as the squad car whined up. He stared at Monk.

Then Doc stepped forward, examined Monk's teeth, his eyes.

"It is not dye," he said.

"I'll say it's not!" Monk growled. The homely chemist bobbed his head at his companion. "This is Peter Harland-the pink lady's brother."

It was very late at night, but there were a few-there are always pedestrians on New York downtown streets-people on the sidewalks. With uncanny speed, a crowd had started to collect and stare.

"Where's the circus?" someone asked.

Monk scowled, said, "G'wan, you rubberneck! This don't concern you."

Doc took his arm, guided him around and into the lobby of the building. The pink young man who was Monk's companion followed. Instead of going upstairs, they descended to the bas.e.m.e.nt garage.

"We ain't going up to the lab?" Monk demanded.

"No time," Doc Savage said.

Monk showed distress. "But this pink color," he muttered. "I ain't done much hollering about it, but I don't like it. The truth is, I'm worried stiff."

Doc said, "It is probably safe to delay research on the subject. And Renny and Johnny are in trouble."

Monk stared at the color of his hands. The loose handcuff still dangled on his wrist; he had forgotten to remove it.

"If they're in worse shape than I am," he said, "they're bad off."

The bronze man had a car waiting, a machine that was equipped with two red supplementary headlights and a siren. Doc told Monk, "Keep your finger on the b.u.t.ton," and Monk did so, causing the siren to send out an unending wail that lifted and fell with nerve-edging frenzy.Monk said, "Doc, how do you know Renny and Johnny are in difficulties?"

"Message from them."

"The last I heard of them," Monk said, "they went off with Chet Farmer to investigate a man Chet had found watching our place. The man Chet had seen was one of this Bodine's gang, and Chet had overheard the man saying something over a telephone that had led us to believe you were dead."

"Chet Farmer is a crook and that was probably a trap," Doc Savage said.

Monk digested that. His astonishment had caused him to take his finger off the siren b.u.t.ton; he put it back, and the siren yowled. "Crook, huh? Is he working with this Bodine?"

Doc said, "Chet is probably working for himself."

"Where are they?"

"Renny and Johnny are prisoners," Doc said.

"Where?"

"Read this," Doc said.

He showed them a note. It read: Chet Farmer grabbed us. Holding us in Fish Club at Hillride Road and South Sh.o.r.e Long Island.

There was no signature, but Monk said, "That's Renny's handwriting."

Monk's companion, the pink young man, asked, "But Mr. Savage-how did you get that message?"

Doc seemed not to hear the inquiry, but instead he tooled the car silently ahead for a while, then addressed Monk. "You say this is Peter Harland, who is Lada's brother?"

"Yep," Monk declared.

"And my sister," said the pink young man, "is actually this rogue you're referring to as Bodine."

THEY crossed the upper level of Queensborough Bridge, and it was like going through a jungle of steel girders. Doc was using the siren and the red lights and paying attention to side streets, but ignoring traffic signals.

Doc said, "What happened to you?"

The young man repeated the story about being drugged by his sister, being pink when he awakened, and being held a prisoner for a week. He finished, "And really, I do not know what is going on, or why. I am utterly amazed."

"But you think your sister is a crook?"

"What else can I think?"

"Has she ever shown criminal tendencies before?"The young man was uneasy. "I said crook-but I didn't mean it exactly that way. I didn't mean criminal.

She's not a criminal." He rubbed his hands together desperately. "She is not a common person who would be a-well, a thief."

Doc said, "That truck was robbed."

"But-"

"And the truck contained a shipment of machine-tool materials."

The young man said grimly, "That is what I cannot understand either. What would she want with machine-tool materials?"

Monk said, "Maybe it was finished machine tools."