As Doc rode up in an elevator of Bittman’s apartment building, he mentally assembled what he knew of the taxidermist.
The material his memory yielded was all favorable to Oliver Wording Bittman. The man’s name was not unknown. He had a sizable display of rare animal life in the Smithsonian Institution. Walls of several famous clubs and hostelries were adorned with trophies he had mounted.
Best of all, Doc recalled his father had once spoken favorably of Bittman.
The taxidermist himself opened the door.
Oliver Wording Bittman was a man nearly as tall as Doc. But he was thin — so very thin that he looked like a skeleton and a few hard muscles. If a prominent jaw denotes character, Bittman had plenty. His jaw was strikingly large.
Bittman had dark, determined eyes. His hair was dark. His skin had been burned by the wind and sun of many climes. He wore a brown, well-cut business suit. Lounging mules were on his bony, efficient feet.
The only jewelry he wore was a watch chain across his waistcoat front. One end of this secured a timepiece. To the other end was fastened a small implement which at first glance looked like a penknife. Actually, it was a razor-edged taxidermist scalpel for skinning specimens.
Bittman twirled this scalpel about a forefinger.
"You are Doc Savage!" he greeted Doc instantly. "I am indeed honored."
Doc admitted his identity, but wondered how Bittman knew him. Bittman must have guessed the question.
"You may wonder how I knew you," the taxidermist smiled. "Come into the library and I will show you the answer."
They moved through the apartment.
Oliver Wording Bittman certainly considered his own work decorative. And in truth, the fellow was an expert in his line. Many scores of rare animal trophies adorned the walls. A great Alaskan Kodiak bear stood in a corner, astoundingly lifelike. Skin rugs made an overlapping carpet underfoot. The workmanship on all these was fine.
They came to a large picture framed on the wall. In the lower left corner of the picture reposed a portion of a letter.
The picture was of Doc Savage’s father. The resemblance between parent and son was marked.
Doc stepped nearer to read the letter.
It was a missive from his own father to Oliver Wording Bittman. It read:
To you, my dear Oliver, I can never express my thanks sufficiently for the recent occasion upon which you quite certainly saved my life. Were it not for your unerring eye and swift marksmanship, I should not be penning this.
Before me as I write, I have the skin of the lion which would surely have downed me but for your quick shooting, and which you so kindly consented to mount. It just arrived. The workmanship is one of the best samples of the taxidermist art I ever beheld. I shall treasure it.
I shall treasure also my association with you on our recent African expedition together. And may the best of the world be yours.
Sincerely,
CLARK SAVAGE, Sr.
The note moved Doc Savage deeply. The death of his father was still a fresh hurt. This had occurred only recently. The elder Savage had been murdered.
It had done little to assuage the pain when Doc himself took up the trail of the murderer, a trail that led to Central America, and ended in a stroke of cold justice for the killer, as well as perilous adventures for Doc and five friends who had accompanied him.
Doc offered his hand to Bittman.
"Whatever debt of gratitude my father owed you," he said feelingly, "you can consider that I also owe you."
Bittman smiled and took the hand in a firm clasp.
IN a very few minutes the conversation got around to Oliver Wording Bittman’s acquaintance with Jerome Coffern.
"I knew Coffern, yes," said Bittman. "We went on that New Zealand expedition together. You say he is dead? What a shock! His murderers should be made to suffer!"
"Five of them have already done that," Doc replied grimly. "But the master mind who ordered Coffern’s murder is still at large. He must pay the penalty!
"He is a man I know only as Kar. I was hoping you might yield some information. Or if not, perhaps you can inform me where Gabe Yuder, the other member of the expedition, can be found."
Oliver Wording Bittman toyed with the scalpel on his watch chain. His eyes were veiled in deep thought.
"Gabe Yuder!" he muttered. "I wonder — could he be the man? He was an unsavory chap. I have no idea what became of him after our return. He remained in New Zealand — intending to return here later."
"Will you describe Gabe Yuder?"
Around and around Bittman’s finger flew the scalpel. He spoke in clipped sentences, giving an excellent description.
"Gabe Yuder was a young man, under thirty. He was robust, an athletic type. He had a red face. His mouth was big. The lower lip was cleft by a knife scar. His eyes were always bloodshot. They were a pale gray. They reminded you of a snake’s undersides. His hair was sandy, a sort of mongrel color.
"Yuder had a loud, coarse voice. He had an overbearing manner. His knuckles were scarred from knocking people about. He would strike a native at the slightest provocation. And he was a combination of chemist and electrical engineer by trade. He went along with us to prospect for petroleum."
"He Does sound rather villainous," Doc admitted. "Can you tell me anything about this Smoke of Eternity?"
"The Smoke of Eternity? What is that?" queried Bittman, looking puzzled.
Doc debated. There was no reason why he should not tell Bittman of the terrible dissolving compound that had destroyed Jerome Coffern. Besides, Bittman had been friend to Doc’s father.
So Doc explained what the Smoke of Eternity was.
"Good heavens!" Bittman groaned. "Such a thing is incredible! No! I can’t tell you the slightest thing about it."
"Did you note anything suspicious about Gabe Yuder’s actions on the New Zealand expedition?"
Oliver Wording Bittman thought deeply, then nodded.
"Yes, now that I think of it. Here is what happened: Our expedition split in two parts when we reached New Zealand. I remained in New Zealand to gather and mount samples of the island bird life for a New York museum, Yuder and Jerome Coffern chartered a schooner and sailed with Yuder’s plane to an island some distance away."
"A plane?" Doc interposed.
"I neglected to tell you," Bittman said hastily. "Yuder is also a flyer. He took a plane along on the expedition. Some American oil company was financing him."
"What was the name of the island to which Yuder and Jerome Coffern went?" Doc asked.
"Thunder Island."
THUNDER ISLAND!
Doc’s bronze brow wrinkled as he groped in his memory. There were few spots in the world, however outlying, upon which he did not possess at least general information.
"As I recall," Doc continued, "Thunder Island is nothing but the cone of an active volcano projecting from the sea. The sides of the cone are so barren they support no vegetation whatever. And great quantities of steam come continually from the active crater."
"Exactly," corroborated Bittman. "Jerome Coffern told me he flew over the crater once with Yuder. The crater was a number of miles across, but the whole thing seemed filled with steam and fumes. They brought back specimens from the cone, however. Jerome Coffern turned them over to the largest college of geology in New York City."
"We’re getting off the trail," Doc declared. "You said you noted something suspicious about Yuder’s actions. What was it?"
"After he and Jerome Coffern returned from Thunder Island, Yuder was surly and furtive. He acted like he had a secret, now that I think back. But at the time, I thought he was in an ill temper because he had found no oil, although he scouted Thunder Island the whole time Jerome Coffern was there gathering specimens."