Doc shook his head quietly. "According to the police check-up, it was materials only which were missing.

There were no completed machine tools in the load."

Monk grunted. "Just iron and metals and stuff like that?"

"Stuff that they use to make machine tools," Doc agreed.

Monk gave the siren b.u.t.ton several angry punches, then took his finger off the thing, but kept his eyes on the road ahead and, whenever a car threatened their progress, gave the siren another punch. The road was wide-three lanes that were almost empty at this hour of the morning, it was getting near dawn.

The heavy monoxide and chlorinated smells of the city had been left behind, and there was the faint odor of truck-farming country in the form of overripe muskmelons. The road ran flat for a long distance.

Doc turned off, and the highway was narrow, but still flat. Here and there it became pitted. It branched, and Doc took the lesser-used branch, which lifted and sank over hills that were low. In the little valleys, fog hung. From the tops of the hills their headlight beams lashed over the top of the fog as over fat gray rivers.

Came finally the time when Doc switched off the headlights, and drove slowly, so that the motor made no unnecessary noise.

"It is not much farther," he said.

Soon he stopped the machine, backed a little, turned off on a lane. This went a few yards and ended.

There was high brush around them, and there were hills of sand.

"Quiet," he warned, low-voiced.

They walked two hundred yards and sighted the fishing camp.

THE camp was built on wooden stilts on a little inlet. A ramshackle building, once it had been painted white-either that, or the white patches they could see were mildew-but now it was in disrepair.

Eighteen by thirty-five or forty feet would catch its dimensions, with a porch on the south side, and a longer one on the east. A spidery catwalk led out to the structure.

The road which they had been following obviously ended at the place.Monk whispered, "Was that Hillride Road we were on?"

"Yes."

"Then this must be the place." Monk frowned. "So Chet Farmer is supposed to be in there, holding Renny and Johnny prisoner."

"It looks empty," the pink young man whispered.

"So it does," Monk agreed.

They crawled through the sand, a few feet at a time, keeping below the dunes, which were now almost bare of growth.

"Close enough," Doc breathed.

They lay there. It was getting light. The moon was bright, and its glow was enhanced by the crimson forerunners of dawn in the east.

"Ugh!" Monk grunted suddenly.

A man had come to the edge of the porch. It was too dark to distinguish his features. But he carried a rifle. There was no doubt about the rifle. He rested it on the porch railing and lounged there, looking out to sea.

Finally he yawned-they could tell that because he patted his hand over his mouth-and went back into the obscurity of shadows. They heard a crunching sound, evidently made by a chair as he sat upon it.

"A lookout," Monk whispered.

Doc breathed, "Get back a hundred yards or so."

They withdrew, crawling carefully. A sea bird made raucous crying noises on the beach, but there was no other sound. Even the waves were still.

Doc halted the withdrawal. He said, "Here is the plan: We will hold off our raid for two reasons: First, we do not know how many men are in that shanty. Second, we want to be sure that Renny, Johnny and Chet Farmer are there when we close in."

"So we wait," Monk said, disappointed.

"We wait," Doc agreed. "In case Renny, Johnny and Chet Farmer are not in there, we may be able to follow some of the gang to the spot where they are being held."

Monk sighed, said, "I guess that's the smart way to do it," reluctantly. "But I sure crave to get my hands on some of them birds," he added.

Doc said, "Monk, you go to the right. Pace off a hundred and fifty yards, and hide as near that point as you can."

The bronze man turned to the pink young man. "You take the left. Pace a hundred and fifty yards, and you also hide."

Monk asked, "The idea is that we'll be in a better position to spot any of them who leave?""Yes. And to follow them," Doc agreed.

They separated.

THE pink young man crawled carefully. He kept on all fours. Once he looked back and frowned at the marks he was leaving in the sand. He found a dead bush and tried to use it as a broom to sweep the marks out of existence, but he was not successful. Scowling, he went on.

He reached finally a point approximately one hundred and fifty yards from where he had left Doc Savage and Monk. By that time, he had formulated a definite plan, it became evident from his behavior. For he took off his coat, and made that into a broom.

After throwing himself on the sand several times to make it appear that he had been there for some time, he took a long jump and landed in some tufted gra.s.s. He stood there, carefully eyeing the sand, and with his coat switching out his tracks.

He took another jump to another patch of gra.s.s. From there, he got on some exposed hard ground.

He suddenly decided it was no use; he could not hide his trail. He grimaced to himself, because another and simpler method had occurred to him.

He walked down boldly and waded into the sea. A headland, small, low, but sufficient, hid the fishing shack from this point. He waded in the water, keeping doubled over for greater concealment, and far enough out that the incoming tide would eliminate his footprints.

Two hundred yards downsh.o.r.e, he entered an inlet. Once he stepped into a hole and got soaked over his head. He swore without much sound.

Eventually he got back into the sand dunes without leaving tracks.

He went to Doc Savage's car. He grasped the handle boldly and tried it, but could not get in. Some of the confidence went off his strangely pink face. He fought furiously with that door handle, and with the others, but without results.

He used his wet coat for a pad, and tried to smash the windows. That failed. The windows, it dawned on him, were bulletproof gla.s.s, and the car body of alloy steel.

He crawled under the machine and made a vain attack on the floorboards.

He scrambled out. He ran down the road, away from the spot. His elbows were close to his side, his stride long, his manner one of urgent purpose. The half light and the fog of early morning swallowed him.

NOT more than twenty seconds after the pink young man vanished down the road, Monk and Doc Savage stepped out from behind a nearby brush-covered sand dune.

Monk's face, homely always, was additionally contorted by an expression of utter astonishment.

"That guy is double-crossing us!" Monk blocked out his fists. "And after I rescued him from his sister!"

Doc said, "The chances are you did not actually rescue him. You only thought you did.""Huh?"

"It was a trick?"

"Huh?"

Doc did not try to explain. He said, "I will follow him on foot. You trail along behind in the car. But do not get too close."

Monk said, "Wait a minute! This has got me dizzy!"

"How?"

"Who are those guys back there in that shack built on stilts?"

"Actors!"

"Act-the d.i.c.kens! What's actors doin' there?"

"I hired them," Doc said.

"Why?"

"As soon as the Jersey police said you had rescued a pink man who said he was Lada Harland's brother, and who did not know much more about what was going on than a rank outsider, I decided to set this trap."

"What tipped you off?"

"If that man was really Lada Harland's brother," Doc said, "he would know a great deal more than he told us."

"That guy isn't Peter Harland?"

"Probably not."

Chapter XII. THE GRAB-FEST.

IT was not half a dozen blocks from the home of Lada and Peter Harland. That fact dawned on Monk suddenly, while he had been sitting there in the car beside Doc Savage-the bronze man was driving-and reflecting upon the simplicity with which they had been trailing the pink young man. The young man had found a farmhouse and stolen a car. Possibly he had not intended to steal the car, but it had been in the yard, left carelessly with the key in the lock, and his knocking on the door had not aroused anyone, so he had taken the machine. Which had been about an hour ago. And now, when Monk realized where the trail had led them, he bolted upright.

"That Harland house!" he exclaimed. "It's in this neighborhood! It's only a few blocks over toward the other side of town!"

Toward the better side of town would have been a better descriptive. This district was a shabby one-not with the houses crowded together, though, for the places were far apart with such huge lots that they were almost farms-and the buildings were large, ancient. Of a period forty years gone.

The place to which the pink young man went was larger, more isolated than the others.In the rear stood a barn that was huge, in fairly good repair. In addition to its hugeness, it had elaborate scroll-sawed decorations along the eaves, and little porticos over the doors that were so ornate as to almost be j.a.panese. All very Gay-Ninety.

"He barged right in," Monk whispered. "That must be the hang-out."

Doc parked out of sight. He got out, lifted binoculars from a pocket, and used them. It was daylight now, the air with the crisp brightness of early dawn.

An old-fashioned R. F. D. mailbox caught his eye. The name was on it: C. BODINE RUTTER.

The bronze man handed the binoculars to Monk, pointed out the mailbox for the homely chemist's scrutiny.

"Say, that middle name is Bodine!" Monk exclaimed. "That explains why the police weren't able to spot any suspicious Bodines. This guy's middle name is Bodine-not his regular one."

Doc said, "We had better work fast. We may not have much time."

"What is the set-up?"

"That pink young man," Doc explained, "has been deceived into thinking we have located Chet Farmer's hang-out. We misled him, but he does not know that. The haste with which he came here shows what he plans to do, don't you think?"

"You mean-get together some of his men and rush back there and grab us and Chet Farmer and Renny and Johnny and Chet Farmer's men?"

"Exactly."

Monk asked, "What do we do-barge in?"

"We might as well."

Monk eyed the house. For once, he was dubious about starting a fight. That was something rare for him.

He must have been impressed by the size of the house.

"We could use some help," he muttered.

Doc said, "Renny, Johnny and Ham have all dropped out of sight, held as prisoners probably. Long Tom-we do not know what happened to him. We tried to plant him very early in this affair, but we haven't heard from him. It is possible that he is being careful about ingratiating himself into the membership of the gang, and that is taking time. In short, we have no help to call on."

Monk made a jaw. "Then let's grab hold of the bear's tail."

SOMEONE else got hold of the bear's tail, as Monk put it, before they did. The abruptness with which it occurred was a little bewildering.

There was no warning, except a whistle. A rippling whistle of the police type. The men which the signal brought out of the shrubbery were not policemen, however.One of the raiders was Chet Farmer, and Monk did not recognize the others except that they would come under a general heading of tough lads.

They came out of the brush with gas masks dangling on their chests, and guns and bottle-shaped gas grenades in their hands. They acted to a plan. Each man had his door or window. Those who had windows were equipped with big wooden clubs for smashing in.