educational establishment in the world. For it transformed criminals of all types into upright citizens.
During the course of his globe-girdling undertakings, Doc Savage had often collected the survivors of the criminal gangs which he smashed. Not believing in the concept of capital punishment, and knowing that prisons were incubators for further criminality, Doc erected the secret installation, where he sent crooks and murderers he captured alive.
Were it to become public knowledge, what ultimately befell these prisoners would have created a scandal of historic proportions. For first they were subjected to delicate brain operations, which wiped away all memory of their pasts, criminal and otherwise.
Once these men—and a sprinkling of women, too—were remade into human blank slates, Doc Savage’s staff assigned them new names, identities, and commenced a process of reeducation designed to remove all thoughts of future criminality, which was followed by any number of vocational training regimens until they were pronounced fit to be set free by the medical staff.
In the years before the war, these men were permitted to merge back into ordinary society, there to live out their lives productively in some law-abiding profession.
After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Doc Savage instituted a change in this regime of matriculation. Graduates who were able-bodied were channeled into the Armed Forces, thereby bringing whatever remnants of their old criminal skills into the mighty task of vanquishing America’s enemies.
In times past, some of these men had gone to work for Doc Savage, but since the new program was instituted, the bronze man had had to make do with the rehabilitated specimens who were found unsuitable for national service by the draft board.
There was a taxi stand in front of Doc Savage’s headquarters in New York, and several of the drivers, as well as the doorman, were graduates of the criminal-curing College.
Riding the speed elevator to the ground floor, Monk bolted out into the lobby and on through to the sidewalk, where he accosted one of these men.
“See anything of a gray-haired guy sportin’ a smoky pompadour?”
The starter said, “Sure, Mr. Mayfair. I put him in a cab.”
“One of ours?”
“Yes, sir. Harry was the driver. You remember Harry?”
Monk grinned. “Sure. Flat feet and a bum left eye.”
“That’s him. That’s Harry. Want I should call his dispatcher?”
“No, I’ll do it. I don’t want his passenger to know I’m doggin’ him. Thanks.”
The starter all but saluted as Monk dashed back into the lobby to find a pay telephone. The man had no inkling that in years past he had been one of the most vicious bank robbers in the Midwest. A man who had been written up in the same terms as John Dillinger and Pretty Boy Floyd. Now he was content to be a cog in the vast machine that was the Doc Savage enterprise.
Closing the pay telephone door behind him, Monk called the dispatcher of the cab company and spoke rapidly.
“When Harry Miller calls in, ask him where he took his fare. I’ll hold the line.”
“Yes, Mr. Mayfair,” said the dispatcher, who also worked for Doc Savage and had once masterminded a child kidnapping racket.
Monk fit more nickels into the slot, and began to worry. He was getting low on loose change.
Finally, the operator came on and said, “Please deposit an additional ten cents to keep this line open.”
“Hold your horses!” growled Monk, snapping open the booth door and grabbing the nearest passerby. “Hey, buddy, can you spare a dime?”
The fellow started. “All I have is a quarter, and I’m afraid I cannot part with it.” The man continued on, but Monk snagged him by his coat sleeve and pulled him into the wooden booth.“This is an emergency,” Monk growled. “Give me that quarter, then go up to Doc Savage headquarters on the eighty-sixth floor and a dude named Ham will give you a replacement quarter on my say-so.”
“Well, who the
Learning to Kill: Stories