The Terrible Beekeeper
An All-New Adventure
By
Arn McConnell & Todd Rutt
Part One
(Editor's note: The following is the first installment of the heretofore unpublished Doc Wildman novel, The Terrible Beekeeper. It is presented uncut, and in its original form.)
I. A Nightclub Guest
Charlie the doorman was cold. Not that that was unusual, it being winter in New York. Winter here was usually severe, but this one was like nothing else. The snow fell gently upon the sidewalks, drifting here and there against the side of a building or the tire of a car. Wind whipped the snow up against the streetlights, giving them a soften light that could barely be seen through the evening gloom.
He blew between his hands, his breath emerging as the clean white fog so familiar in cold weather. Huddling his body against the glass door of the Cobalt Club, Charlie stamped his feet on the sidewalk, trying to get the circulation going. An occasional guest let him open the door, and he relished the warmth of the club as compared to the cold outside. It was getting late, though, and the patrons were few and far between at this time of night. He looked anxiously down the street.
Through the gloomy evening lights he could just make out a form walking up the street. It passed under a streetlight, and Charlie could see that it was a man. A tall man, dressed in a loosely-fitting purple overcoat, black hat and trousers. He moved with quick, slightly mincing steps, leaving dark patches in the fresh snow.
Now his face could be seen. It was thin, with a large slightly pointed nose that almost completely his the pencil mustache beneath. His eyes were small and cruel. A high forehead was made even higher by his hair, which, Charlie thought, was receding.
The man stepped up to the door. Charlie stepped back with military precision, swinging back the heavy glass door.
"Evenin' Mr. Greer."
"Good evening, Charlie."
"Awful cold tonight," said Charlie, gesturing at the drifting snow along the sidewalk.
Greer raised an eyebrow. He seemed surprised. "You're right. It certainly is." He stepped into the lighted corridor.
Charlie held the door open just a few seconds after Greer went in, basking in the warmth. With a sigh he let it slowly close. He peered into the night, stamping his feet to keep them warm.
James Clarke Wildman, Jr., breathed deeply. The cold winter air had made his makeup hard, irritating his face. Doc composed his makeup with an oil base to stop it from freezing; otherwise it would have cracked. He brushed the snow from his false mustache. The cold also made the contact lenses in his eyes hurt. He rubbed them, carefully.
Doc drew the overcoat off his massive frame. He was dressed in loose clothing, lest his physique drew people's attention. The girl in the coatroom took the overcoat. She handed him a ticket. "Your number, Mr. Greer." He took the number and slipped it into his jacket pocket. Smoothing his dyed black hair with his hand, he entered the ballroom of the Cobalt Club.
Passing the mass of people who sat at the open tables, he seated himself at an unoccupied corner table. The Cobalt patron's were the New York upper class, the rich, the powerful, and the titled. The entire atmosphere was like a party.
The band started to play a new number. Bea Carroll, the vocalist, began to sing a popular song of the day, which interested Doc not in the least.
(The notes of the song floated across the room and landed on the ears of another Cobalt member. He sipped his drink slowly, peering across the room at the corner table that, until a few seconds ago, was unoccupied.)
The waiter came. Doc ordered a Scotch. Normally, he wouldn't touch liquor, but Greer was a drinking man. Doc knew the importance of details on a job like this. He drummed his fingers on the table and watched the crowd of joyous, reveling people.
His drink arrived in short order. He drank it slowly, the alcohol burning his throat. Under the noise of the band, a slight trilling sound could be heard.
Doc Wildman's illustrious career began with his investigation of his father's death more than two years ago. Since then his adventures had taken him to all parts of the globe. He had built up a reputation as a protector of the good.
Now it was late 1933. Earlier in the year the police, as well as the general public, became aware of a new adventurer and crime-fighter. At least some had thought he was on the side of the law. His peculiar methods had put him in the public eye, especially that of the New York police.
This man had an almost brutal quality. He lashed out, striking all that he deemed to be wrong. All his victims fell before his gun, the gun of a self-declared judge, jury, and executioner. Was this man actually on the side of the law, or was he something else? A terrible figure of demented mentality? Yes, mused Doc, the case of the Sp*d*er was certainly unusual.
Doc himself decided to undertake an investigation. His Amazing Five would have been more than willing to help, but Doc declined from asking them. Ronny was building a bridge in Siam for his badly-needed $1,000 a day. Munk was active in his lab, working for a synthetics company. Long John was planning the electrical wiring for a new skyscraper. Jackie was investigating some new diggings in India. Sam was representing a supposed embezzler in a big court case. The Five would have been helpful, of course, but an investigation such as this could be best handled by Doc alone.
The Sp*d*r's activities seemed to hinge around the rich, the upper classes. A person of low means would have a difficult time infiltrating the sophisticated upper class. It seemed, to Doc at least, that the Sp*d*r must have come from the rich society of New York.
Further supporting that was the Sp*d*r's gimmickry. Although his exploits and escapes were daring and bold, they were aided by an arsenal of devices. Doc well knew the cost of supporting specialized weaponry.
From his own investigations, Doc had learned that the Sp*d*r was frequently seen in the company of a beautiful young woman and a distinctly Eastern servant.
To be perfectly honest, there weren't many leads in the Sp*d*r case. His attacks were so swift and his escapes so complete that evidence was hard to gather. But Doc felt his reasoning powers could overcome this obstacle.
Doc reasoned that the Sp*d*r must be wealthy. Otherwise how could he support his arsenal, his servant and his life of adventuring? It takes a lot of money to support such an existence. Such a wealthy man might frequent the New York social scene. Doc had infiltrated other clubs disguised as Greer, hoping to find someone who fit the Sp*d*r's description or some other evidence. Greer himself was a partygoer, a frequent sight in the New York social scene. The real Greer was in Washington, incognito, so it was easy for Doc to don his likeness without Greer's knowledge.
Doc sat up, halting his trilling abruptly. He placed his drink on the table. Resting his head on his hands, he studied the crowd intensely. The Cobalt seemed to be another dead end.
He glanced toward the door. A woman entered, with a strong willful presence and manner. Her hair was a dark, smoke brown, much like her eyes. Her nose and mouth were perfect. She wore a golden dress that clung tightly to her body, revealing her sleek figure.
Her eyes darted about the room. They met his. Doc glanced away, feeling uncomfortable. She walked towards him, ignoring the invitation to sit at other tables.
"Alex!" she cried in a deep, yet feminine voice. "It's been so long! Have you been away?"
(The man across the room placed his fingers together, steepling them. He folded them together, touching his lips with his knuckles. He stared intently at the meeting between the man and woman.)
Doc's mind raced. He quickly assumed a confident expression, smiling wryly. Doc was an excellent actor when he had to be. He was prepared for any situation.
"Oh, I've been around. The job takes me all over. I've been hitting the night spots lately. How about you?"
She sat next to him in the corner, lifting the tablecloth away to get her legs in. "Here and there. You know me. How long have you been here? Have you just arrived?"
Doc pointed to his half-filled glass resting on the table.
"I see. But what's this?" She took the glass and looked at it closer. Setting it down, she turned to Doc with a puzzled look on her face. "Scotch? What happened to the vodka martini, Alex? You never touch Scotch."
Doc turned from her, staring into his glass. He lifted it and drank with a deliberate motion. " I thought that I needed a change. Scotch looked better tonight." He faced her again. "But how about you? Are you drinking? I'll get the waiter."
"I'll have my usual."
Doc lifted his arm, summoning the waiter, who quickly made his way through the crowd. "Yes, sir? Did you want something else?"
Doc gestured at the woman. "This lady would like her usual."
The waiter smiled pleasantly, then raised his eyebrows. His face assumed a questioning expression. "Sir?"
"I said, this lady would like her usual."
"Her usual?"
Doc assumed a look of consternation and impatience. "Yes, her usual. She would like a ...a ..."
The woman interrupted. "Champagne cocktail, Alex. Don't you remember?"
"Of course. A champagne cocktail, waiter."
"Yes sir." He scurried off in the direction of the bar.
(The man leaned back in his chair. He brushed off his lapel with a casual motion of his thin white hands, watching the two intently.)
II. A Terpsichordean Interlude.
Doc and the woman made polite conversation, as polite as he could manage. He knew very little , if anything, about the New York social scene. However, his other nightclub activities gave him enough information so that he could carry on a conversation.
The waiter arrived with the drink. He placed it on a linen napkin before her. "Your cocktail, Miss...."
"Miss Lane," she said.
"Miss Lane," said Doc, under his breath.
"What did you say, Alex?"
Doc Quickly recovered. "Nothing." She was remarkably aware of things. He sipped his drink, which was slowly diluting as the ice melted. "Are you enjoying your drink, Miss Lane?"
Margot Lane laughed, almost sputtering her drink out. She looked at Doc with a queer expression on her face. "Quite, Mr. Greer!" She laughed out loud. "For heaven's sake, Alex! Call me...."
She stopped. There was something wrong here. Alex Greer was an old acquaintance. She had known him for a long time. A little fishing was in order here.
"Lois. Call me Lois." She had hardly missed a beat. Smiling, she tried to regain her humorous mood.
"All right. Are you enjoying your drink, Lois?"
He believed her. It worked, thought Margot. He was fooled by her. Doc had sensed the slight change in her attitude. He could tell that she was nervous. He still had no idea, however, that she had lied to him.
"Of course," she replied. The band broke out into a dance number. People from other tables began to converge in the center of the ballroom. "Alex, let's dance. You're always ready to dance!"
Doc's countenance turned gloomy. After all that he had been through in his life, all his exotic and varied adventures, Doc had never learned how to dance. Normally he didn't need to, as the fair sex was rarely involved in his adventures. If they were, Doc was usually much too busy to do any dancing.
"I'd rather not."
"Alex!" gasped Margot, with feigned shock, "what's the matter with you?"
Doc sighed. He had to play the part fully. "Nothing. All right."
He got up and stepped out from the table. Grasping her outstretched hand in his massive one, he led her out onto the dance floor. Finding an open space between other couples, he put his right hand on her hip and extended his left, as he'd seen others do it. Slowly, he began to dance.
It was a cruel first lesson. It took all he could muster to keep from stepping on her. His superb quickness and coordination aided him a lot, but without the slightest notion of how to dance, Doc was virtually helpless on the dance floor.
They danced across the room to a table near the band. A lean blonde man sat there, listening to the music. He smiled as the two approached.
(The man across the room watched the affair more closely. He leaned forward on his elbows, straining to make out the words above the music.)
Harry Vincent smiled a wicked kind of smile as the dancers approached. He was almost laughing. Margot's predicament was certainly amusing. He couldn't see the face of her partner, but he could imagine his embarrassment. Margot's head peeked out from around her partner. She grimaced at Vincent, and he laughed. She look at him pleadingly. However, he mistook her gestures as a silent cry for him to cut in.
"Well," he thought, "I guess old Harry'll rescue a damsel in distress."
He got up from his table, straightened his tie. He approached Doc and tapped him on the shoulder. He was surprised to see him when he turned around.
"Alex! You're not stepping very lightly today."
"I don't feel too good," Doc said, rubbing his head as if he felt fatigued. "I think I'd better sit down. I'll see you back at the table, Lois."
Harry cut in, grasping her hand and hip. His eyes widened and his mouth opened. he turned and looked at the departing Doc, then turned back to Margot. "Lois?"
Margot sighed. She looked up into his eyes. " I don't know what's gone wrong, Harry. I thought there would be no problems."
"Why? What's come up? And what's with this 'Lois?'"
"Harry, that's not Alex Greer."
"What?"
"It's not! He looks like him and talks like him, but it's not him! I've known Alex for years."
"What makes you think it's not him?"
"It started when he ordered a Scotch."
"Scotch? But Alex drinks only..."
"Vodka martinis. That's all I've ever seen him drink. But even more, Harry. He didn't seem to know my name. I told him it was Lois."
"And he believed you?"
"Yes. He's been calling me Lois all night! Oh, Harry, I'm sorry. I wanted to do well."
Harry's voice became soft. "Don't worry, kid. It's not your fault. You haven't been with us very long. We'll find out about our "Mr. Greer' soon enough."
"What are we going to do?"
"Just follow my lead. Harry's face turned grim. He let out a long, low whistle. "I'd hate to be in his shoes when the boss finds out."
The band ended its number. After a brief spattering of applause the dancers returned to their tables amid a rush of conversation and laughter. Harry and Margot passed through the crowd towards the table where Doc sat.
(The man across the room eyed them carefully. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.)
Harry spoke softly to Margot. "Laugh."
"What?"
"Just do like I say. We're having a good time."
The two broke into small, intimate laughter. Margot sat down beside Doc, Harry across the table from him. She turned and smiled at Doc. "Feeling better now, Alex?"
Doc looked at her. "Oh, yes. A lot better, Lois."
Harry leaned forward on his elbows. "I'm dry. Haven't had a drink all night. You want something, Lois?" She nodded. "How about you, Alex? You're a little low there."
Doc shook his head. "No thanks, I've had enough for tonight."
Margot laughed. "One drink? That's all? Where's the old Alex? He could put it away all night."
"Come on, Alex," said Harry, "We don't want to drink alone."
There was a long pause. "All right, " said Doc, "Another Scotch."
"Fine!" cried Vincent. He raised his hand. "Waiter!"
The waiter scurried up to the table. "Yes, sir?"
One bourbon, a champagne cocktail and a Scotch for our special guest Mr. Greer."
The waiter looked at Harry, and smiled. "Yes, sir." Turning he went back to the bar.
Harry looked at Margot. They began talking between themselves about a cruise Margot had just returned from. Doc glanced around the ballroom, trying to spot suspicious characters. He found none, of course. The two most suspicious were at the table with him.
Harry glanced around. "Where are our drinks?"
The waiter crept between the tables with a silver tray perched on his arm. "Right here, sir. Your drinks." He placed them around the table, then walked back towards the bar.
Harry raised his glass with a flamboyant gesture. "A toast to your health, Alex. May you soon be feeling no pain."
Margot raised her arm. "Here, here!"
Doc lifted his glass and sipped from it. It tasted different from the first drink he had, slightly sweeter. Only a person with Doc's highly-developed senses could have detected it. He placed it on the table.
"Alex!" cried Margot. "Too sick to drink it all?"
Doc lifted it again and drank, draining it all in one gulp. He knew Greer wouldn't refuse alcohol, so he mustn't, either.
When he sat it down, he noticed the strange looks on the faces of his two companions. He felt drowsy. His eyelids grew heavy. His breath shortened.
Harry leaned forward. His voice betrayed his excitement. "You really do look bad, Alex. Let us take you home."
Doc held the empty glass to his highly-sensitive nose. Yes, he could smell it now, the sickly-sweet scent of knockout drops.* He felt his eyes close, then his head dropping slowly to the table. All went black.
Harry pushed back Doc's eyelid. The pupil was dilated. "He's gone," he said softly. He raised his voice. "Waiter!"
The waiter hastened to the table. "Yes, sir?"
"Get us a cab. I'm afraid Mr. Greer has had too much again."
"Yes, sir. Right away."
Several members of the club now began to stare at the unconscious figure. Many began to gossip.
"That's Alex Greer," said one woman. "Drunk again."
"Why doesn't he stay home?" asked another. "He gives the
Cobalt a bad name.
(The man across the room remained silent. He watched intently as Harry, aided by the waiter, carried Doc into the corridor.)
"Hold him! Don't let him fall!" cried Harry.
"Don't worry, sir. I've got him," replied the waiter.
They carried him past the coatroom. "Miss," said Harry, "get us Mr. Greer's hat and coat."
The girl stared at the prostrate man. "Yes, sir, I'll get it."
She quickly got out the apparel, which she gave to Margot. Harry and the waiter resumed carrying Doc out the door.
(The man across the room slowly rose to his feet. He yawned, stretched and walked across the ballroom and through the corridor. He stopped at the coatroom to get his hat and coat.)
Charlie turned around at the knock on the glass door. He opened it. "Mr. Vincent! What happened to Mr. Greer?" Charlie knew all along, of course. He'd seen it before.
"You know Alex. Too much to drink. Would you open the cab door for us, Charlie?"
Charlie pulled back the handle of the rear door. It clicked. He drew it open. Harry and the waiter slid the limp form of Doc into the back seat.
Harry walked around the cab and entered the other door. With a whispered command to the driver, a big, rough character, the taxi roared off into the night.
The crowd of people slowly disappeared. Some walked off into the night, others left by taxi. Charlie held the door open for those who went back inside. Soon the street was as cold and vacant as it had been before.
Leaning against the stone of the Cobalt, Charlie gazed off into the night. He let his mind wander, until he heard someone approaching the door from inside.
He pulled it open with a weary grace. A tall thin man exited. The man glanced down the street in the direction of the departed taxi. He stood in thought for a few minutes.
Charlie cleared his throat, then spoke. "Better not stand out here too long, sir. It's awful cold tonight."
The man made no sign of hearing him.
Charlie cleared his throat again. "Sir...?"
The man turned. "Hm?"
"I say, you'd better not stay out here too long, sir. It's cold tonight."
The man smiled. His keen gray eyes glinted strangely. "Not everywhere. For some people, it will be a hot night."
"Pardon me, sir?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Good night, Charlie."
"Good night, Mr. Cranston."
* The reason Doc didn't smell the drug before, even with his highly-sensitive nose, can be explained. Doc's "sickness," the coldness of the weather and Doc's dullness of smell all point to one idea; it seems more than likely that Doc Wildman was the victim of nothing more than a cold.
(To Be Continued)
To Part Two of The Terrible Beekeeper
Return to the Wold Newton Chronicles
All rights reserved. The text of this story is copyright 2000 by the authors, Arn McConnell and Todd Rutt. No copying or reproduction of this story or any portions thereof in any form whatsoever is permitted without prior written permission and consent of the authors.