Doc Savage: The Secret of Satan's Spine (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage Book 15) Read Online Free Page B

came over the wire questioningly. “You’re not taking him on this trip?”
    “Not this time,” said Monk. “I’m going on vacation, and that includes a vacation from Habeas.”
    “Yes, Mr. Mayfair,” the secretary said. “I will see that all his needs are attended to.”
    “Thanks,” said Monk, hanging up.
    The hairy chemist ambled into an adjoining room, which was over-decorated, but lacked much in the way of furniture. The floor was of Italian marble, and in the center of this marble expanse was a large mud wallow in which lolled the most unseemly-looking pig imaginable.
    Habeas Corpus had been named to rankle Ham Brooks, whose distaste for pork in any form was one of his notable pet peeves. Habeas was a runt specimen of the porcine family, and looked as if he borrowed his legs from a skinny dog, his long snout from an anteater, and his ears from a baby pachyderm. He should have grown up to become a full-size hog by this point in life, but the freak shoat never progressed beyond juvenile size.
    That suited Monk just fine, which made Habeas handy to tote around on his various adventures. This time, however, the apish chemist decided to leave the porker behind. Sometimes, Monk employed the pig to overcome any female dislike for his homely face, but since Davey Lee seemed especially attracted to Monk exactly as he was, Habeas was unnecessary.
    Also, Monk had his doubts that he could smuggle Habeas on board the train, which would be packed with servicemen traversing the country. Train tickets for civilians were in short supply, but Monk had pull. He had already solved that problem. Adding Habeas to the equation would have complicated matters and possibly jeopardized the trip.
    So Monk sauntered over and patted the shoat on his bristly skull and said, “Be a good pig while I’m gone, hear?”
    The runt poker grunted, and his beetling eyes grew slightly sad. Habeas was extremely intelligent, and could not help but notice his master packing the night before.
    Habeas knew he wasn’t going along, otherwise he would have been given a bath. He grunted disconsolately, and his dark eyes grew sad as he lowered himself back into his mud, settling in for a long sulk.
    “I won’t be but a few days,” reassured Monk.
    Something suspiciously like a dog-like whine escaped the pig’s elongated snout. But he closed his eyes and pretended to go to sleep.
    “Don’t be that way,” muttered Monk. “I’ll bring you back some fresh apples.”
    Habeas elicited a disgruntled noise, but otherwise did not stir.
    Gathering up his luggage in both hands, Monk shoved his way out the door, down the elevator and hailed a taxicab at the street corner.
    “Pennsylvania Station,” he told the driver as the cabbie filled his trunk with Monk’s luggage.
    Struggling with the baggage, the driver quipped, “Where are you goin’, buddy? The moon?”
    “Don’t be wise,” shot back Monk. “I’m just takin’ a little train trip, is all.”
    “Well, you sure packed for the wild blue yonder.”
    They climbed into the cab, the driver got his machine in gear and whined off into traffic. The hack had seen better days, but with the war the driver was having to make do with an older model. The engine knocked, and the exhaust disgorged enough smoke to rival the stacks of a steamship.
    The ride was not far, and since it was a Saturday morning, there was not enough traffic to be bothered about.
    Monk was dropped off in front of Pennsylvania Station and begrudgingly handed the cabbie his fare and a half-dollar tip. Monk didn’t mind paying the fare, but hated to part with that coin. He had been a lavish tipper in more flush days, and was not about to change. Old habits died hard with Monk Mayfair.
    Lugging his baggage under his long arms, he toted them inside into the commodious granite cathedral that was Pennsylvania Station, ignoring all Red Caps. He was anxious to find his track, and meet his date.
    The main concourse never failed to take his