CHAPTER 1 THE SMOKE OF DEATH

Tobias Wetzel was no stranger to death. Born in the hills of West Virginia, he’d seen four of his brothers and sisters die of various diseases before he was twelve. His mother died in child-birth bringing a final sister into the world. His father and an older brother perished in a coal mine cave-in. As a miner himself, Tobias knew what it was like to face death daily. Or at least he thought he did. But it took the Great War to show Tobias Wetzel what it was like to have death as a constant companion.

As a U. S. marine in France, he saw the ravages of shot, shell, and poison gas. The death potential of the battlefield made the coal mines seem tame by comparison.

After the war, Tobias could see no reason to return to the mines of West Virginia. Like so many other hill people, he ended up in Pittsburgh. His background as a marine secured him employment as a police officer. In the line of duty, Tobias continued to see death. He saw murder by gun, knife, and bare hands. He was on the scene of suicides, traffic accidents, and drowning. His current patrol route took him along the Allegheny River. The Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers meet in Pittsburgh to form the Ohio River. The meeting place of the rivers, known as “The Point”, is the center of downtown Pittsburgh.

The rivers are the lifeblood of the city, bringing in the barges of raw materials for the steel mills, and carrying out the numerous manufactured products for which the city is well known. Three large rivers in the downtown section of a city make for many bridges. Pittsburgh has well over 100 automobile and locomotive bridges. Beneath these bridges the city’s population of winos passed their days and nights. Patrolman Tobias Wetzel had the downtown “wino patrol”. The unofficial department policy was not to spend much time with this section of the population. Their addiction to alcohol left most of them incapable of providing any serious threat to the general population. As long as they kept out of the main downtown business and shopping areas, did not cause disturbances or pass out in public, and committed no serious crimes, they were left alone. Most river-front patrol officers tended to be “bulls”, ruling with a quick jab and smack of the nightstick.

Wetzel was the exception. Perhaps from his early years, he understood the troubles that can affect a man’s life. Perhaps it was because he so often came across fellow veterans of the Great War. Less fortunate than he, many had been unable to adapt to civilian life again, and fallen into the bottle. Or perhaps he had an ulterior motive. The river front winos were Patrolman Wetzel’s snitches. In return for his selective “blind eye”, they provided him with what information they could about criminal activity in the area. Tobias Wetzel had an impressive string of commendations for crimes that had been solved based on tips he’d received from his informants.

The worst part of the job, though, was the constant presence of death. Hardly a day went by that Tobias Wetzel did not have to deal with a dead body. The life expectancy for a wino is not very long. They starve to death. They die in convulsions from drinking any manner of alcoholic concoctions (or non-alcoholic -- paint thinner was inevitably fatal). Living outdoors with no medical treatment, they were liable to die of exposure in any month of the year, not just during the winter. They fell (or jumped) into the river and drowned. They cut each other with knives, razors, and broken bottles for a single swallow of booze. But none of this -- not a lifetime of hardship, not a world war, not the daily exposure of his police beat -- prepared Tobias Wetzel for the terror of the Steel Hammer.

ON THE day the Hammer struck Pittsburgh, Patrolman Wetzel was on the east bank of the Allegheny River between the Sixth and Seventh Street Bridges. He was looking for an old wino named Dakota Pete, and hoping he wouldn’t find him. Dakota Pete was old for life under the bridges. He claimed to have been with “Colonel” Roosevelt during the Spanish-American War, and certainly he was old enough. For the past month, whenever Wetzel had seen the old man, he’d noticed his condition had worsened. Pete was loosing weight and had a cough that was awful even by the tough standards of Pittsburgh -- America’s Smokiest City. Pete usually hung out around in this area. Wetzel hadn’t seen him in three days.

Now he was walking the river bank, peering into old packing crates and warehouse entryways, trying to see if one of them had become the old man’s final resting place. Tobias Wetzel was just straightening up from shining his flashlight into the a lean-to made from wooden milk crates when the Hammer struck. First came the crackling noise. Like the fat from a 500 pound strip of bacon exploding fat into the fire. The sound of loud snapping and crackling filled the air. It was coming from the river. Wetzel turned and looked to see where it was coming from. And he couldn’t see the river! Instead there was a gigantic cloud of yellow-green fog boiling up out of the river! It rose up into the gray Pittsburgh sky in thick, billowing clouds. Within seconds it completely masked the water. The Seventh Street Bridge was less than 100 yards away, but the rolling clouds of yellow-green fog blocked it from view.

The sizzling, crackling noise coming from the river assaulted patrolman Wetzel’s ears. He found himself surrounded by the thick, putrid-looking yellow-green clouds, That was when the screaming started! Wetzel covered his ears. Unbelievably loud and high-pitched, it blended with the crackling noise in a ear-shattering cacophony. Instinctively, Patrolman Wetzel drew his service revolver, driven by a primitive urge to protect himself. This can’t be happening, he thought. I’m in downtown Pittsburgh, right between two of the busiest streets in town. But from what Wetzel could actually see, he could have been on the dark side of the moon. The vast clouds of yellowish-green limited his vision to no more than arm’s length. The crackling and the screaming sounds came from the river in a fury. Then, out of the mists, a hand grabbed his shoulder!

“God, help me! I’m dying!” came a hoarse, choked voice.

THE PITTSBURGH Athletic Association is one of the most exclusive private clubs in town. It promotes athletics in the city, and has a modern gymnasium for its members. But it’s real reason for existing is otherwise. It’s where the movers and the shakers of the Steel City sit and make million dollar deals over lunch and cocktails.. The annual membership fee is about the cost of a new Chevrolet.

The big man striding through its entrance did not look like a typical member. Standing six feet, four inches tall, the man must have weighed 250 pounds. Big as he was, the most startling thing about the man was his hands. Curled into fists, they were the size of quart milk pails. On the man’s face was a look of utter gloom. Whatever hopes of riches and prosperity the wealthy members of the Pittsburgh Athletic Association had were not apparent in this member. And Colonel John Renwick was a member. Not because he was an up-and-coming Pittsburgh businessman, but because the big engineer spent so much time in the city that he needed a regular place to stay while there.

“Renny” Renwick was one of the most outstanding engineers in the world. In the past several years, he had been a consultant in the area for construction projects involving steel mills, hydro-electric plants, flood control dams, airports, the new turnpike -- the list went on and on. When a company had a building problem, and they could afford the best, the sent for Renny. He didn’t always take the job offered.

For Renny Renwick was an associate of Doc Savage, the Man of Bronze. His love of adventure far outstripped his interest in engineering challenges or any desire for money. If Doc Savage needed assistance, Renny would drop everything to rush to his side. Every consulting contract Renny signed contained a clause allowing him to cancel it on the spot if the Man of Bronze needed him. Renny was in Pittsburgh this time to consult on the location of a new airport. One group of advisors to the mayor was determined to locate the new skyway as close a possible to downtown. Renny was convinced they were wrong. The size of new aircraft would require much more space for landing fields than ever before. Renny had spent the morning out beyond the city limits surveying prospective sites.

“Colonel Renwick,” said the club’s dining room manager.

“What?” said Renny, in a low deep voice. The dining room manager decided this was not the time to mention the big man’s mud-caked engineer’s boots.

“Right this way for your table, sir.” “O.K. I want two of the biggest steaks you got, bloody in the middle, some fried potatoes, and a telephone,” Renny said. Renny had been in Pittsburgh for nearly a week. That was about all the time he could stand without any excitement. He was going to put through a long-distance call to Doc Savage’s headquarters in New York City. Doc maintained his headquarters on the eighty-sixth floor of the city’s tallest skyscraper The Pittsburgh Athletic Association spared no amenity to its members. The telephone was at Renny’s table in less than a minute, the steaks not long afterwards.

“Gimme Doc Savage in New York,” he told the long distance operator. No telephone number was necessary. Such was the fame of the Man of Bronze. The call went through quickly. Renny gave the code-words to the operators of the private detective agency that screened the hundreds of calls Doc received every day. The code-words allowed Renny to be connected directly to the eighty-sixth floor.

“Yeah,” came a child-like squeak over the phone.

“Monk, this is Renny. What’s going on?”

“Got me a hot date with a chorus-girl from the Roxy,” chortled Monk. Renny was unimpressed.

“Any action going on?” he asked.

“Nah. Doc’s in the lab with Long Tom every day working on that televisor thing,” Monk said. Doc Savage had five associates. Each was renowned in the own field of expertise, as well as a lover of adventure. “Monk” was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair, one of the world’s leading industrial chemists. The “Long Tom” he referred to was Major Thomas J. Roberts, the electrical wizard.

“Well, I’m still here in Pittsburgh,” Renny said with more gloom than ever, if such a thing was possible. “Let me know if anything comes up.”

“Yeah, all right.” There was a short pause, and then a squawk.

“Dang it all, Ham! I going to --”

“Colonel Renwick?” came an excited voice from behind Renny.

“Yes,” Renny replied. He turned, phone still to his ear, and recognized one of his fellow club-members. It was Pittsburgh’s police commissioner.

“Colonel Renwick, I just got word of an emergency downtown! We are under a poison gas attack!”

“Holy Cow!” exploded Renny. “Let’s go!” Standing, he barked into the telephone, “Monk I just got word of a poison gas attack here in Pittsburgh! Let Doc know!” Renny dropped the receiver and ran out of the club. He jumped on the running board of the police commissioner’s official black-and-white police car. and they took off with a scream of tires and the smell of burning rubber. The telephone receiver lay forgotten on the floor of the Pittsburgh Athletic Association dining room. The tiny, squeaking voice of Monk issued from it.

“Renny! Hey, Renny! What’s happening?”