welcome to paul edmund norman's the gateway

“Listen to this, Doc,” said Long Tom.
The Man of Bronze sat in the electrical section of the big tri-motor plane’s laboratory. He had a set of headphones on.
“First, the crackling noise,” Long Tom said, flipping a switch to play back the recording.
“Rapidly boiling water, in massive amounts,” said the bronze man.
“Exactly. Now, the so-called screaming.”
“An air raid siren. English manufacture.” Long Tom raised his eyebrow at Doc’s ability to discern this merely from hearing the sound.
“And now this, Doc.”
Doc listened silently.
“I take them to be mortar shells,” Long Tom suggested.
“Yes, of course,” Doc said. “I suspected as much.”
“You did?”
Doc clicked on the airplanes intercom. “Monk, have Johnny take the controls and come back here.”
“Sure thing, Doc,” Monk replied. The burly chemist quickly made his way back to the big tri-motor plane’s lab. “What’cha got?”
“Long Tom has solved the poison gas mystery for us,” Doc announced.
“So how is it that a poison gas isn’t all poison?” challenged Monk.
“We’re not dealing with Boyle’s Law, Monk,” said Doc. “Think more along the lines of van der Waal’s Equation.”
“Old van der Waal’s Equation?” Monk’s brow furrowed. “Van der Waal? You mean?” he snapped his fingers. “Of course! Blazes! There’s two gases!”
“Exactly,” agreed Doc. “The crackling noise comes from water being rapidly boiled, which forms the cloud. During the boiling, Phenol Yellow Four is added, giving the cloud its distinctive yellow-green color.”
“So how does the poison gas get there?” Monk asked.
“After the yellow-green cloud is built up, they start the screaming siren, Partly, it terrifies the populace, but it also covers up the sound of mortars being fired.”
“Mortars!”
“Yes, they shoot poison gas shells from mortars into the yellow-green cloud. With the cloud and the noise, nobody knew that had happened, and everyone assumed the entire cloud was poison.”
“A little bit of the poison gas goes a long way to scaring innocent people,” commented Long Tom.
“And they’re careful not to get it near where their own guys are,” said Monk.
“Yes, in both Pittsburgh and Cleveland, the poison gas was introduced far away from where the actual robberies took place,” Doc said. “Even with gas masks, the crooks don’t want to take any chance with poison gas.”
“O. K., I see how that part of it is working,” Monk said slowly. “But how are they making the yellow-green cloud in the first place?”
Long Tom smiled. “Doc, Monk, I think it’s time you met Margaret Adams.”
"IF THIS doesn’t work, I’m never listening to you again,” Renny rumbled.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Sally Morgan. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll both be dead.”
The big engineer’s appearance was greatly altered. Using one of Doc’s disguise kits in the speed plane, he had altered his appearance. His hair was died black, parted down the middle, and slicked down. A black, pencil-thin mustache adorned his upper lip.
The disguise had been Sally Morgan’s inspiration. “It’s kind of a stretch,” she had pondered, “but with your build, and voice, I think we’ll be able to pass you off as Blackie White, the East Coast mob boss.
“Besides,” she added, “a crook that big will get admitted automatically to a game like this.”
“Just two little problems,” Renny had rumbled.
“You can find a problem with anything,” retorted Sally.
“Problem number one,” Renny continued. “What if the real Blackie White shows up?”
“He won’t. Things got too hot for him last winter, and he had to leave the country until things cooled off. Nobody’s seen him in months.”
“And problem number two,” Renny plowed on ahead, “what if we run into somebody who knows the real Blackie White, or knows where he really is?”
“If there’s trouble,” Sally said confidently, “either we bluff our way through it, or shoot our way out of it.”
“Helluva plan.”
“You do have one of those super pistols that Doc Savage has invented, don’t you?” asked Sally.
Renny nodded, and drew it from his shoulder holster. The super-firer, of Doc’s own design, could fire hundreds of miniature bullets minute. “This’ll clear a room in a hurry.” he said.
“Good, let’s get ready,” Sally, had said.
A QUICK hours shopping had provided Renny with a gray double-breasted, pin-striped suit, and Sally with a red dress. Neither suit nor dress was large enough for the wearer. But while Renny looked like a large fellow who had trouble buying clothes large enough, the effect of the too-small dress on Sally was rather sensational -- she looked like a first-rate gangster’s moll!
Sally’s newspaper and underworld contacts had provided them with the location of the big crap game. It was in the Elite Auto Garage in downtown Toledo. Two hoods were standing guard outside of the. When Renny and Sally got out of the cab on the street, Sally got most of their attention, but one of them took a close look at Renny.
“Hey, ain’t you ...” the guard began.
“Who I am is kind of my business,” growled Renny. “And maybe you ain’t supposed to be seeing me, understand?’
“Yeah, sure, uh. Bla..., uh?” mumbled the hood.
Renny forced a smile to his lips. He slipped two bills out of his pocket. “But maybe you and your buddy recognize my buddy? President Grant?”
“Yes sir!” The two fifty dollar bills quickly disappeared. “Right this way, Mr. White!”
“Please, no names,” Renny said with a sharp edge to his voice.
“Yeah, sure thing.” The hoods held the door to the garage open.
“Let’s go, Doll Face,” he order Sally, for the benefit of the hoods.
“Sure thing, Sweetie Pie,” she replied.
The automobiles and repair equipment had been moved out of the Elite Auto Garage. A large gaming table for rolling dice was in the center of the garage. Smaller tables, for the not-so-high rollers, surrounded it. A bar was set up in the back of the garage, and liquor flowed freely among the fifty or so gamblers present.
“Do you see him,?” Renny whispered out of the corner of his mouth as he and Sally enter.
Sally scanned the room as unobtrusively as she could, looking for Seven-Eleven McSwain. “I don’t think so.” They circled the room, stopping at the bar, and ending up at the big crap table. There was no sign of the gambler Sally suspected of being the Steel Hammer.
“It’s still early,” whispered Sally. “Lots of times the real action doesn’t start at these things until after midnight..”
Renny and Sally went to the big, center table. They watched the action, and Renny had Sally make small side bets, which she invariably lost, accompanied with a squeal of dismay. They both drank steadily, but beforehand had taken a special pill of Doc Savage’s design which completely neutralized the effects of alcohol, and so were completely sober.
Various participants in the game came up to them, but Renny quickly made it clear to one and all that the name “Blackie White” was not to be spoken, and that his fondest desire was for his presence to remain unnoticed.
It was shortly after midnight when there was noise and shouting from the doorway.
“The big money’s here!”
“Now the table gets hot!”
A tall man in a cowboy hat and a western suit with a string tie swaggered into the room.
“That’s him!” Sally hissed.
“Wahoo!” the man in the cowboy hat shouted. “Seven-Eleven’s here, and the dice are calling!”
The gambler was obviously well-known, and he exchanged greeting with many people as he made his way to the center crap table. Grabbing the dice, he said, “The new shooter’s here! Now let me see whose money I’m going to be winning!”
Seven-Eleven McSwain looked around the table. When he saw Renny, his face contorted, and he instantly fell to his knees.
“Oh, God, Blackie, please don’t kill me!” he screamed.