Tales from the pulps

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 8 of 22)

2009-03-31T19:20:00.000-07:00

By Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson
VIII -- Persistent Foes

The Sun was up, blazing with a wild revelry. Away inland, the jungle was lost in a horizon infinitely blue.
Doc slanted the big plane down and patted the pontoons against the small waves. Spray fanned up and roared against the idling propellers. He taxied in toward the mud beach.
Renny stretched and yawned. The yawn gave his extremely puritanical face a ludicrous aspect.
"I believe that in the old pirate days, they actually built a foundation for part of this town out of rum bottles," Renny offered. "Ain't that right, Johnny?"
"I believe so," Johnny corroborated from his wealth of historical lore.
Plink!
The sound was exactly like a boy shooting at a tin can with a small air rifle.
Plink! It came again.
Then bur-r-r-rip! One long roar!
"Well for …" Monk swallowed the rest and sat down heavily as Doc slammed the engine throttles wide open.
Engines thundering, props scooping up water and turning it into a great funnel of mist behind the tail, the plane lunged ahead straight for the mud beach.
"What happened?" demanded Ham.
"Machine gun putting bullets through our floats," Doc said in a low voice. "Watch the shore. See if you can get a glimpse of whoever it was."
"For the love of mud!" muttered Monk. "Ain't we never gonna get that red-fingered guy out of our hair?"
"No doubt he radioed ahead to someone he knows here," Doc offered.
Distinctly audible over the bawl of the motors came 2 more metallic plinks. Then a series of them. The unseen marksman was doing his best to perforate the pontoons and sink the craft.
All 5 of Doc's men were staring through the cabin windows, seeking trace of the one who was shooting.
Abruptly, bullets began to whiz through the plane fuselage itself. Renny clapped a hand to his monster left arm. But the wound was no more than a shallow scrape. Another blob of lead wrought minor havoc in the box that held Long Tom's electrical equipment.
It was Doc who saw the sniper ahead of all the others thanks to an eye of matchless keenness.
"Over behind that fallen palm!" he said.
Then the rest perceived. The sharpshooter's weapon projected over the bole of a fallen royal palm that was like a pillar of dull silver.
Rifles leaped magically into the hands of Doc's 5 men. A whistling salvo of lead pelted the palm log, preventing the sniper from releasing further shots.
The plane dug its pontoons into the mud beach at this point. It was not a moment too soon, either. They were filling rapidly with water because some of the bullets -- striking slantwise -- had opened sizable rips. Indeed, the floats were hopelessly ruined!

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Swiftly and grim with purpose, 3 men bounded out of the plane. They were Doc, Renny, and Monk. The other three -- Johnny, Long Tom, and Ham -- all excellent marksmen -- continued to put a barrage of rifle lead against the palm log.
The log lay on a finger of land which reached out toward a very small "cay" or island. Between cay and the land finger stretched about 50 yards of water.
The sniper tried to reach the mainland, only to shriek and drop flat as a bullet from the plane creased him. Meantime Doc, Renny, and Monk had floundered to solid ground and doubled down in the scrawny tropical growth. The smell of the beach was strong in their nostrils -- seawater, wet logs, soft-shell crabs, fish, kelp, and decaying vegetation making a conglomerate odor.
To the right of the friends lay Belize with scraggly narrow streets and romantic houses with protruding balconies, brightly painted doorways, and every window as becrossed with iron bars as if it were a jail.
The sniper knew they were coming upon him. He tried again to escape. But he had not reckoned with the kind of shooting that was coming from the plane. He couldn't make it to the mainland.
Desperately, the fellow worked out toward the end of the land finger. Stunted mangroves offered puny shelter there. The man shrieked again as he was creased.
In his circle of acquaintances, it must have been customary to shoot prisoners and give no quarter because he didn't offer to surrender. Evidently he was out of ammunition.
Wild with terror, he leaped up and plunged into the water. He was going to try to swim to the little island.
"Sharks!" grunted Renny. "These waters are full of the things!"
But Doc Savage was already a dozen yards ahead, leaping out on the land finger.
The sniper was a squat, dark-skinned fellow. But his features did not resemble those of the Mayan who had committed suicide in New York. He was a low specimen of the Central American half-breed.
He was not a good swimmer, either. He splashed a great deal. Suddenly he let out a piercing squawl of terror! He had seen a dark, sinister triangle of fin sizzling through the water toward him. He tried to turn and come back. But so frightened was he that he hardly moved for all his slamming of the water with his arms.
The shark was a gigantic man-eater! It came straight for its prospective meal, not even circling to investigate. The mouth of the monster thing was open, revealing the horrible array of teeth.
The unfortunate sniper let out a weak, ghastly bleat.
It seemed too late for anything to help the fellow. In discussing the affair later, Renny maintained Doc purposely waited until the last minute so that terror would teach the sniper a lesson, to show the man the fate of an evil-doer. If true, then Doc's lesson was mightily effective.
With a tremendous spring, Doc shot outward and cleaved head-first into the water.

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The dive was perfectly executed. Curving his powerful bronze body at the instant of impact with the water, Doc seemed to hardly sink beneath the surface.
It looked like an impossible thing to do. But Doc was beside the unfortunate man even as the big shark shot in with a last burst of speed. Doc put himself between the shark's teeth and the sniper!
But the bronzed, powerful body was not there when the needled teeth slashed. Doc was alongside the shark. His left arm flipped with electric speed around the head of the thing, securing what a wrestler would call a "strangle hold".
Doc's legs kicked powerfully. For a fractional moment, he was able to lift the shark's head out of the water. In that interval, his free right fist traveled a terrific arc and found the one spot where his vast knowledge told him it was possible to stun the man-eater.
The shark became slack as a kayoed boxer!
Doc shoved the sniper ashore. The breed's swarthy face was a study. He looked like someone had jerked the cover off Hell itself and let him see what awaited men of his ilk.
Now that the shark was atop the water where rifle bullets could reach it, Renny and Monk put the finishing touch to the ugly monster.
"Why did you fire upon us?" Doc asked the breed, couching the words in Spanish. Doc spoke Spanish fluently as he did many other tongues.
Almost eagerly -- so grateful was he for what Doc had done -- the breed made answer:
"I was hired to do it, Señor. Hired by a man in Blanco Grande, the capital of Hidalgo. This man rushed me here during the night in a blue airplane."
"What was your employer's name?" Doc questioned.
"That I do not know, Señor."
"Don't lie!"
"I am not lying to you, Señor! Not after what you did for me a while ago. Truly, I do not know this man." The breed squirmed uneasily. "I have been a low mozo, hiring out for evil work to whoever pays me and asking no questions. I shall now desert that manner of living. I can take you to the spot where the blue airplane is hidden."
"Do that!" Doc directed.
They started off and soon reached the outskirts of town. Doc prepared to hail a fotingo or dilapidated flivver taxi. Then he lifted his golden eyes to the heavens.
An airplane was droning in the hot copper sky. It came into view -- a brilliant blue, single-motor monoplane.
"That is the plane of the man who hired me to shoot at you!" gasped the breed prisoner.
The gaudy blue craft whipped overhead with its engine stacks bawling and sped directly for the mud beach.
Without a word, Doc spun and ran with tremendous speed for the beach where Johnny, Long Tom, and Ham waited with his own plane.
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Half-naked children gaped at the blur of bronze that Doc made in passing them. And women muffled in rebozos -- a combination shawl and scarf -- scampered out and yanked them clear of the thundering charge of Renny, Monk, and the prisoner coming in Doc's wake.
On the beach, a machine-gun suddenly cackled. Doc knew by the particularly rapid rate of its fire that it was one that he had brought along. His friends had set it up and were firing at the blue monoplane.
The blue plane dipped back of the tufted top of a royal palm, going down in a whistling dive. Then came a loud explosion. A bomb!
Up above the palm fronds, the blue plane climbed. It was behaving erratically now. The pilot -- or some part of his azure ship -- was hit!
Straight inland it flew. And it did not come back.
Reaching the beach, Doc Savage saw the bomb had been so badly aimed as to miss his plane fully 50 yards. His 3 men were sitting on the wing with the machine-gun, grinning widely.
"We sure knocked the feathers off that bluebird!" Long Tom chuckled.
"He won't be back!" Ham decided after squinting at the distant blue dot that was the receding aircraft. "Who was it?"
"Obviously one of the gang trying to prevent us reaching that land of mine in Hidalgo," Doc replied. "The member of the gang in New York radioed to Blanco Grande -- the capital of Hidalgo -- that we were coming by plane. Right here is the logical place for us to refuel after a flight across the Caribbean. So they set a trap here. They hired this breed to machine-gun us. And when that didn't work, the pilot tried to bomb us."
At that moment, Renny and Monk came up. They were both so Big that the breed looked like a little brown boy between them.
"What do we do with his nibs?" Monk asked, shaking the breed.
Doc replied without hesitation. "Free him."
The swarthy breed nearly broke down with gratitude. Tears stood in his eyes. He blubbered profuse thanks. And before he would depart, he came close to Doc and murmured an earnest question. The others could not hear the breed's words.
"What did he ask you?" Monk inquired after the breed had departed with a strange new confidence in his walk.
"Believe-it-or-not," Doc smiled, "he wanted to know how one went about entering a monastery. I think that is one chap who will walk the 'straight-and-narrow' in the future."
"We better catch a shark and take him along if just a close look at one reforms our enemies like that!" Monk laughed.
With ropes from a local warehouse and long, thin palms which Doc hired willing natives to cut, the plane was staked to dry land.
The news was bad. The floats were badly torn. They didn't have material for patching. Nor was there any in Belize. To save a great deal of work, Doc radioed to Miami for a fresh set. A transport plane brought the pontoons down.
Altogether, 4 days were lost before they got in shape for the air again.

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Not a morning did Doc miss his exercises. From his youth, he had not neglected the 2-hour routine a single time. He did them religiously although he might have been on the go for many hours previously.
His muscular exercises were similar to ordinary setting-up movements but infinitely harder and more violent. He took them without apparatus. For instance, he would make certain muscles attempt to lift his arm while the other muscles strove to hold it down. That way, he furthered not only muscular tissue but also control over individual muscles as well. Every part of his great, bronzed body he exercised in this manner.
From the case which held his equipment, Doc took a pad-and-pencil and wrote a number of several figures. Eyes closed, he extracted the square and cube root of this number in his head, carrying the figures to many decimal places. He multiplied, divided, and subtracted the number with various figures. Next he did the same thing with a number of an even dozen figures. This disciplined him in concentration.
Out of the case came an apparatus which made sound waves of all tones -- some of a wavelength so short or so long as to be inaudible to the normal ear. For several minutes, Doc strained to detect these waves inaudible to ordinary people. Years of this had enabled him to hear many of these customarily unheard sounds.
His eyes shut, Doc rapidly identified by the sense of smell several score of different odors, all very vague -- each contained in a small vial racked in the case.
The full 2 hours Doc worked at these -- and other more intricate -- exercises.
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The morning of the 5th day after arriving in Belize, they took the air for Blanco Grande, capital of Hidalgo.
It was jungle country they flew over. Luxuriant, unhealthily rank trees in near solid masses. Lianas and grotesque aerial roots tied these into a solid carpet.
Confident of his motors, Doc flew low enough that they could see tiny parakeets and pairs of yellow-headed parrots feeding off chichem berries that grew in abundance.
Some hours later, they were over the border of Hidalgo. It was a typical country of the Southern republics. Wedged in between 2 mighty mountains and traversed in its own right by a half-dozen smaller but even more rugged ranges, it was a perfect spot for those whose minds run to revolutions and banditry.
In such localities, governments are unstable not so much because of their own lack of equilibrium, but more because of the opportunities offered others to gather in revolt.
Half of the little valleys of Hidalgo were lost even to the bandits and revolutionists who were most familiar with the terrain. The interior was inhabited by fierce tribes -- remnants of once powerful nations, each still a power in its own right and often engaging in conflict with its neighbors. Woe betide the defenseless white man who found himself wandering about in the wilder part of Hidalgo!
The warlike tribes and the utter inaccessibility of some of the rocky fastnesses probably explained the large unexplored area that Renny had noted on the best maps of Hidalgo.
The capital city itself was a concoction of little crooked streets, balconied-and-barred houses, ramshackle mud huts, and myriads of colored tile roofs with the inevitable park for parading in the center of town.
In this case, the park was also occupied by the Presidential Palace and administration buildings. They were imposing structures which showed past governments had been free with the taxpayers' money.
There was a small, shallow lake to the North of town.
On this Doc Savage landed his plane.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 7 of 22)

2009-03-31T19:13:00.000-07:00

By Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson
VII -- Danger Trail

The rain had stopped.
A bilious dawn full of fog shot through with a chill wind and was crawling along the North shore of Long Island. The big hangars at North Beach airport -- just within the boundary line of New York City -- were like pale-gray, round-backed boxes in the mist. Electric lights made a futile effort to dispel the sodden gloom.
A giant tri-motored, all-metal plane stood on the tarmac of the flying field nearby. On the fuselage just back of the bow engine was emblazoned in firm black letters:
Clark Savage, Jr.
One of Doc's crates!
In uniforms made very untidy by mud, grease, and dampness, airport attendants were busy transferring boxes from a truck to the interior of the big plane. These boxes were of light-but-stout construction. And on each was imprinted -- after the manner of exploration expeditions -- the words:
Clark Savage, Jr. Hidalgo Expedition.
"What's a 'Hidalgo'?" a thick-necked mechanic wanted to know.
"Dunno. A country, I reckon," a companion greaseball told him.
The conversation was unimportant except that it showed what a little-known country Hidalgo was. Yet the Central American republic was of no inconsiderable size.
The last box was finally in the plane. An airport worker closed the plane door. Because of the murky dawn and moisture on the windows, it was impossible to see into the pilot's compartment of the great tri-motor plane.
A mechanic climbed atop the tin pants over the big wheels and --standing there -- cranked the inertia starter of first one motor, then the other. All 3 big radial engines thundered into life. More than 1,000 throbbing horsepower!
The big plane trembled to the tune of the hammering exhaust stacks. It was not an especially new ship, being about 5 years old.
Perhaps 1-or-2 attendants about the tarmac heard the sound of another plane which had arrived overhead. Looking up, maybe they saw a huge gray bat of a shape go slicing through the mist. But that was all. The noise of its great, muffled exhaust was hardly audible above the bawl of the stacks of the old-fashioned tri-motor.
The tri-motor was moving now. The tail was up, preliminary to taking off. Faster-and-faster it raced across the tarmac. It slowly took the air.
Without banking to either side and climbing gently, the big all-metal plane flew possibly a mile.
An astounding thing happened then.
The tri-motor ship seemed to turn instantaneously into a gigantic sheet of white-hot flame! This resolved into a monster ball of villainous smoke. Then ripped fragments of the plane and its contents rained downward upon the roofs of Jackson Heights -- a conservative residential suburb of New York City.
So terrific was the explosion that windows were broken in the houses underneath. Shingles even torn off roofs.
No piece more than a few yards in area remained of the great plane. Indeed, the authorities could never have identified it had not the airport men known it had just taken off from there.
No human life could have survived aboard the tri-motor aircraft.

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Doc Savage merely blinked his golden eyes once after the blinding flash which marked the blast that annihilated the tri-motor ship.
"That was what I was afraid of," he said dryly.
The rush of air thrown by the explosion caused his plane to reel. Doc stirred the controls expertly to right it.
For Doc and his men had not been in the ill-fated tri-motor plane. They were in the other craft which had flown over the airport a moment before the tri-motor took off. Indeed, Doc himself had maneuvered the take-off of the tri-motor using radio remote-control to direct it.
Doc's radio remote-control apparatus was exactly the same type used by the Army and Navy in extensive experiments, employing changing frequencies and sensitive relays for its operation.
Doc did not know how their mysterious enemy had managed to blow up the tri-motor. But thanks to his foresight, Doc's men had escaped the devilish blast. Doc had used the tri-motor plane for a decoy. It was one of his old ships -- almost ready to be discarded, anyway.
"They must have managed to slip high-explosive into one of our boxes," Doc concluded aloud. "It is too bad we lost the equipment in the destroyed plane. But we can get along without it."
"What dizzies me," Renny muttered, "is how they fixed their bomb to explode in the air and not on the ground."
Doc banked his plane and set a course directly for the city of Washington using not only the gyroscopic compass with which the craft was fitted but also calculating wind drift expertly.
"How they made the bomb explode in the air can be simply explained," he told Renny at last. "They probably put an altimeter or barometer in the bomb. The altimeter would register a change in height. All they had to do was fix an electrical contact to be closed at a given height and … bang!"
"'Bang' is right!" Monk put in, grinning.
Their plane flashed past the upraised arm of the Statue of Liberty and sang its song of speed Southward over the Jersey marshes.
Unlike the tri-motor which had been destroyed, this plane was of the latest design. It was a tri-motor craft also. But the great engines were in eggs built directly into the wings. It was what pilots call a "low-wing job" with the wings attached well down on the fuselage instead of at the top. The landing gear was retractable -- folded up into the wings so as not to offer a trace of wind resistance.
It was the ultra in an airman's steed, this supercraft. And 200 mph was only its cruising speed.
No small point was the fact that the cabin was soundproof, enabling Doc and his friends to converse in ordinary tones.
The really essential portion of their equipment was loaded into the rear of the speed-ship cabin. Packed compactly in light metal containers -- an alloy metal that was lighter even than wood -- each carton was fitted with straps for carrying.
In a surprisingly short time, they picked up the clustered buildings of Philadelphia. Doc whipped the plane past a little East of city hall -- the center of the downtown business districts.
Onward they swept to zoom down on an airport at the outskirts of Washington.

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The landing Doc made was feather-light -- a sample of his wizardry with the controls. He tailed the plane about with sharp whirls of the nose motor and taxied for the little airport administration office.
In vain did he look about for his autogyro. Ham should have left the windmill plane here had he already arrived. But the whirligig ship was not in evidence.
An attendant -- a spick-and-span dude in a white uniform -- ran out to meet them.
"Didn't Ham show up here?" Monk demanded of the man.
"Who?"
"Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks!" Monk explained.
The airport attendant registered shock … then great embarrassment at the words. He opened his mouth to speak. But instead, excitement made him merely stutter.
"What has happened?" Doc asked in a gentle but powerful tone that compelled an instant answer.
"The airport manager is holding a man over in the field office who says his name is Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks," the attendant explained.
"Holding him … Why?"
"The manager is also a deputy sheriff. We got a call that this fellow had stolen an autogyro from a man named Clark Savage. So we arrested him."
Doc nodded absently. He was clever, this unknown enemy of theirs. He had decoyed Ham by a neat ruse.
"Where is the autogyro?" Doc asked.
"Why, this Clark Savage who telephoned the plane had been stolen asked us to send a man with it to bring him here and confront the thief."
Monk let out a loud snort. "You dumb dude! You're talkin' to Clark Savage!"
The attendant stuttered again. "I don't understand …"
"Someone foxed you," Doc said without noticeable malice. "The pilot who flew that plane to get the fake Clark Savage may be in danger. Do you know where he went?"
"The manager knows."
They hurried over to the administration building. They found a Ham Brooks who was burning up. Ham could ordinarily talk himself out of almost any situation, given a little time. But he hadn't made an impression on the blond, bullet-headed airport manager.
Doc handed Ham a phone. "Get the nearest Army flying field, Ham. See if you can raise me a pursuit ship fitted with machine-guns. It's against regulations, but …"
"Hang regulations!" Ham snapped and seized the instrument.
From the blond airport manager Doc learned where the autogyro had gone to meet the man who had put over the trick. The spot was in New Jersey.
Doc located it on the map. It was in the mountainous or, rather, the hilly western portion of Jersey.
Ham cracked the telephone receiver onto its hook. "They're warming up a pursuit job for you, Doc."
It required less than 10 minutes for Doc to ferry over to the Army drome … plug his powerful frame into a cockpit … saw the throttle back and take off. He had a regulation warplane now!

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Flying Northward, Doc had a fair idea of the purpose of their enemy in decoying the autogyro. The place was within motor distance of New York so the villainous unknown one would probably be on hand. He would destroy the autogyro, thus hampering Doc and his friends all possible.
"Whoever it is, they're willing to do anything to keep us from getting to that legacy of mine in Hidalgo," Doc concluded.
Over the Delaware River, Doc dived and tested his machine-guns by shooting at the shadow of his plane on the water.
Knobby green hills sprang up underneath. Doc used a pair of binoculars to scrutinize the terrain.
Farmhouses were scattering, ramshackle. Very few of the roads were paved.
Doc discovered his autogyro at last.
The windmill plane sat in a clearing. Nearby ran a paved road.
In the clearing with the plane were a green coupé and 2 men. One of the men was holding a gun upon the other.
The gun wielder -- Doc perceived when he came nearer -- was masked. The man discovered Doc's Army pursuit plane, diving with motor cans a-thunder. The fellow took flight.
Deserting the other man -- who must be the autogyro pilot -- the masked fellow raced to the windmill plane. The gun in his fist spat a bullet into the fuel tank of the plane. Gasoline ran out in 2 pale strings. The masked man struck a match and tossed it into the fuel. Instantly the autogyro was bundled in hot flame.
One thing Doc noted about the masked man. The fellow's fingers were a deep scarlet hue for an inch of their length!
The man was also squat and wide. He ran with short-legged, pegging steps for the green coupé, then dived into it. The green car ran out of the field like a frightened bug.
Doc's cowl machine-guns released a spray of lead that forked up dust behind the coupé. The car skewered onto the road and turned North.
Again Doc's Browning guns tore off their ripping cackle of death. After the Army fashion, every 5th bullet in the ammo cans was a phosphorous-filled tracer. These burst with hot red blots directly behind the green coupé.
Slowly … inexorably … the gray cobwebs of tracer smoke climbed into the rear of the automobile.
With a wild swing, the green car suddenly left the pavement. It vaulted a ditch -- miraculously remaining upright -- and skewered to a stop amid tall brush that practically hid it.
Doc distinctly saw the passenger quit the car and take to the concealment of the timber.
A couple of times, Doc dived and let the Browning guns spew their 1200 shots-a-minute into the timber. He did it more to give the masked man one last scare than from any hope of bagging the fellow. The timber offered perfect concealment.
Not a little disgusted, Doc landed and launched a hunt afoot for the masked man. But it was too late.
The airport attendant who had flown the autogyro here could give no worthwhile description of the masked man when Doc consulted him. The fellow had merely sprung out of the green car with a gun.
Doc telephoned the authorities and had a net spread for the masked man before he took off again for Washington. But he was pretty certain the fellow would evade the Jersey officers. The man was smart as well as very dangerous.
Doc took the chagrined airport attendant with him in the Army pursuit plane back to Washington.

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Ham and the others were waiting when Doc arrived after restoring the pursuit plane to the Army field.
"Have any trouble getting our papers up?" Doc asked.
Ham tightened his mobile, orator's mouth. "I did have a little trouble, Doc. It was strange, too. The Hidalgo consul seemed very reluctant to okay our papers. At first, he wasn't going to do it. In fact, I had to have our own Secretary-of-State make some things very clear to 'Mr. Consul' before he gave us the official high sign."
"What's your guess, Ham?" Doc asked. "Was the official directly interested in keeping us out of Hidalgo? Or had someone paid him money to make it tough for us?"
"He was paid!" Ham smiled tightly. "He gave himself away when I accused him of accepting money to refuse his okay on our papers. But I was not able to learn who had put the cash on the line."
"Somebody …" Renny rumbled, his puritanical face very long, "… somebody is taking a lot of trouble to keep us out of Hidalgo. Now I wonder why?"
"I have a hunch," Ham declared. "Doc's mysterious heritage must be of fabulous value! Men are not killed and diplomatic agents bribed without good reasons. That concession of several hundred square miles of mountainous territory in Hidalgo is the explanation, of course. Someone is trying to keep us away from it!"
"Does anybody know what they raise down in that neck-of-the-woods?" Monk inquired.
Long Tom hazarded a couple of guesses, "Bananas, chicle for making chewing gum …"
"No plantations in the region Doc seems to own," the geologist Johnny put in sharply. "I soaked up all I could find on the precise region. And you'd be surprised how little it was!"
"You mean there was not much information available about it?" Ham prompted.
"You said it! To be exact, the whole region is unexplored!"
"Unexplored?"
"Oh, the district is filled with mountains on most maps," Johnny explained. "But on the really accurate charts, the truth comes out. There's a considerable stretch of country that no white men have penetrated. And Doc's strange heritage is located slap-dab in the middle of it!"
"So we gotta play 'Columbus'!" Monk snorted.
"You'll think Columbus's trip across the briny was a pipe when you see this Hidalgo country!" Johnny informed him. "That region is unexplored for only one reason: white men can't get into it!"
Doc had been standing by during the exchange of words. But now his calm, powerful voice commanded quick attention.
"Is there any reason we can't be on our way?" he asked dryly.
They took off at once in the monster, low-wing speed plane. But before their departure, Doc telephoned long distance to Miami, Florida where he got in touch with an airplane-supplies concern. He ordered pontoons for his plane after determining the company kept them in stock.

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The approximately 900-mile flight to Miami they made in something more than 5 hours thanks to the tremendous cruising speed of Doc's superplane.
Working swiftly with lifting cranes, tools, and mechanics supplied by the plane-parts concern, they installed the pontoons before darkness flung its pall over the lower end of Florida.
Doc taxied the low-wing speed ship out over Biscayne Bay a short distance, making sure the pontoons were seaworthy. Back at the seaplane base, he took on fuel and oil from a seagoing filling station built on a barge.
To Cuba was not quite another 300 miles. They were circling over Havana before the night was many hours old. Another landing for fuel … and off again.
Doc flew. He was tireless. Renny -- huge and elephantine but without equal when it came to angles and maps and navigation -- checked their course periodically. Between times, he slept.
Long Tom, Johnny, Monk, and Ham were sleeping as soundly among the boxed supplies as they would have in sumptuous hotel beds. A faint grin was on every slumbering face. This was the sort of thing they considered real living. Action! Adventure!
Across the Caribbean to Belize -- their destination on the Central American mainland -- was somewhat over 500 miles. It was an all-water hop.
To avoid a head wind for a while, Doc flew quite near the sea -- low enough that at times he sighted barracudas and sharks. There was an island-or-two. Flat, white beaches bared to the lambent glory of a tropical Moon that was like a huge disk of rich platinum.
So stunningly beautiful was the Southern sea that he awoke the others to observe the play of phosphorescent fire and the manner in which the waves creamed in the moonlight or were blown into faintly-jeweled spindrift.
They thundered across Ambergris Cay at a thousand feet. And in no time at all, they were swinging wide over the flat, narrow streets of Belize.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 6 of 22)

2009-03-30T19:37:00.000-07:00

By Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson
VI -- Working Plans

At no time had Doc Savage ever put his ability to think like chain lightning to better use than he did now. In the fractional split-of-time that it took his golden eyes to register the deadly menace of that knife, he formulated a plan of action.
He simply let go completely the silken cord!
This in spite of the sheer fall of more than 80 stories directly below him and with not a possible chance of saving himself by clutching a projecting piece of masonry. This building was of the modernistic architecture which does not go in for trick balconies and carved ledges.
But Doc knew what he was doing. And it was a thing that called for iron nerve and stupendous strength and quickness of movement!
The silken cord -- going abruptly slack before the chair the man above pushed against it -- nearly caused the would-be murderer to pitch headlong out of the window. The fellow dropped both the chair and his knife and -- by a wild grab -- saved himself from the fall he had meant for Doc.
With a maneuver little short of marvelous, Doc caught the end of the silken cord as it snaked past. A drop of a few feet -- which his remarkable arm muscles easily cushioned -- and he was swinging close to a windowsill, none-the-worse for his narrow escape.
Doc stepped easily to the window ledge.
And not a moment too soon, either! The man above had recovered and -- desperate! -- had employed a small penknife to cut the silken line. It slithered down past Doc, writhing and twisting into fantastic shapes as it dropped those 80 stories to the street.
The window on the ledge of which Doc found himself was locked. He popped the pane inward and sprang into the office. He lunged across the room.
The door literally jumped out of its casing -- lock and all -- when he took hold of it! He halted in the corridor, stumped.
His attuned ear could detect the windy noise of an elevator dropping downward. He knew it was his quarry in flight.
A couple of floors above, Renny was yelling, his voice more than ever like thunder deep in a cave. "Doc! What's become of you?"
Doc paid no attention. He ran across the corridor to the elevator doors. So quickly that he seemed to spring directly to it! He found the cage shaft that was in operation. His fist came back, then jumped forward so swiftly as to defy the eye!
The sound as Doc's knuckles hit the sheet-steel elevator door was like the boom of a hard-swung sledge. An onlooker would have sworn the blow would shatter every bone in his fist. But Doc had learned how to tighten the muscles and tendons in his hands until they were like cushioned steel, capable of withstanding the most violent shock.
As a matter of fact, it was part of Doc's daily 2-hour routine of exercises to subject all parts of his great body to terrific blows in order that he might be able always to steel himself against them.
The sheet-metal elevator door caved in like a kicked tin can. In a moment, Doc had thrown the safety switch which the door -- when closing -- ordinarily operated. Such safety switches are a part of all elevator doors so the cage cannot move up-or-down and leave a door open for some child or careless person to fall through into the shaft. They controlled the motor current.
Many floors below, the elevator car halted with its motor circuit broken.
Doc thrust his head in and looked down the shaft. He was disappointed. The elevator car was nearly at the street level.
5 minutes elapsed before the lackadaisical elevator operator got a cage up and ferried Doc and his friends down to the street.
By that time, their quarry was hopelessly gone.
The indifferent elevator chauffeur could not even give them a description of the would-be killer who had fled the building.

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There was considerable uproar around to the side of the skyscraper when a sleepy pedestrian got the shock of his life by falling over the body of the Mayan who had jumped from the window.
Doc Savage told a straightforward story to the police, explaining exactly how the Mayan had come to his death. And such was the power of Doc -- and the esteem in which his departed father was held -- that the New York Police Commissioner gave instant orders that Doc be not molested and, moreover, that his connection with the suicide not be revealed to the newspapers.
Doc was thus left free to depart for the Central American republic of Hidalgo to investigate the mysterious legacy his father had left him.
Back up in the 86th-floor lair, Doc made plans and gave orders looking to their execution.
To waspish, quick-thinking Ham, he gave certain of the papers which had been under the brick in the Laboratory.
"Your career as a lawyer has given you a wide acquaintance in Washington, Ham," Doc told him. "You're intimate with all the high government officials. So you take care of the legal angle of our trip to Hidalgo."
Ham picked back a cuff to look at an expensive platinum wristwatch. "A passenger plane leaves New York for Washington in 4 hours. I'll be on it." He twirled his black, innocent-looking sword cane.
"Too long to wait," Doc told him. "Take my autogyro. Fly it down yourself. We'll join you at about 9:00 this morning."
Ham nodded. He was an expert airplane pilot. And so were Renny, Long Tom, Johnny, and Monk. Doc Savage had taught them, managing to imbue them with some of his own genius at the controls.
"Where is your autogyro?" Ham inquired.
"At North Beach airport out on Long Island," Doc retorted.
Ham whipped out in a hurry to get his share done.
"Renny," Doc directed, "whatever instruments you need, take them. Dig up maps. You're our navigator. We are going to fly down, of course."
"Right-o, Doc," said Renny, his utterly somber, puritanical look showing just how pleased he was.
For this thing promised action. Excitement and adventure aplenty! And how these remarkable men were enamored of that!
"Long Tom," said Doc Savage, "yours is the electrical end. You know what we might need."
"Sure!" Long Tom's pale face was flaming red with excitement.
Long Tom wasn't as unhealthy as he looked. None of the others could remember his suffering a day of illness. Unless the periodic rages -- the wild tantrums of temper into which he flew -- could be called "illness". Long Tom sometimes went months without a flare-up. But when he did explode, he certainly made up for lost time!
His unhealthy look probably came from the gloomy laboratory in which he conducted his endless electrical experiments. The enormous gold tooth he sported directly in front helped too.
Long Tom -- like Ham -- had earned his nickname in France. In a certain French village, there had been ensconced in the town park an old-fashioned "long tom" cannon of the type used centuries ago by rovers of the Spanish Main. In the heat of an enemy attack, Major Thomas J. Roberts had loaded this ancient relic with a sackful of kitchen cutlery and broken wine bottles. And it wrought genuine havoc. From that day, he was "Long Tom" Roberts.
"Chemicals," Doc told Monk.
"Oke!" grinned Monk. He sidled out. It was remarkable that a man so homely could be one of the World's leading chemists. But it was true. Monk had a great chemical laboratory of his own in a penthouse atop an office building far downtown only a short distance from Wall Street. He was headed there now.
Only Johnny -- the geologist-archaeologist -- remained with Doc.
"Johnny, your work is possibly the most important." Doc's golden eyes were thoughtful as he looked out the window. "Dig into your library for dope on Hidalgo. Also on the ancient Mayan race."
"You think the Mayan angle is important, Doc?"
"I sure do, Johnny."
The telephone bell jangled.
"That's my long-distance call to England," Doc guessed. "They took their time getting it through!"
Lifting the phone, he spoke … got an answer … then rapidly gave the model of the double-barreled elephant rifle and the number of the weapon.
"Who was it sold to?" he asked.
In a few minutes, he got his answer.
Doc rung off. His bronze face was inscrutable; golden gleamings were in his eyes.
"The English factory says they sold that gun to the government of Hidalgo," Doc said thoughtfully. "It was a part of a large lot of weapons sold to Hidalgo some months ago."
Johnny adjusted his glasses which had the magnifying lens.
"We've got to be careful, Doc," he said. "If this enemy of ours persists in making trouble, he may try to tamper with our plane."
"I have a scheme that will prevent danger from that angle," Doc assured him.
Johnny blinked, then started to ask what the scheme was. But he was too slow. Doc had already quitted the office.
With a grin, Johnny went about his own part of the preparations. He felt supreme confidence in Doc Savage.
Whatever villainous moves the enemy made against them, Doc was capable of check-mating. Already Doc was undoubtedly putting into operation some plan which would guarantee them safety in their flight Southward.
The plan to protect their plane would be one worthy of Doc's vast ingenuity.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 5 of 22)

2009-03-29T19:41:00.000-07:00

By Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson
V -- The Fly That Jumped

Astounded silence gripped the group.
"You mea …" Johnny muttered, blinking through his glasses, "You mean this fellow really speaks the tongue of ancient Maya?"
Doc nodded. "He sure does."
"It's fantastic!" Johnny grumbled. "Those people vanished hundreds of years ago. At least, all those that comprised the highest civilization did. A few ignorant peons were probably left. Even those survive to this day. But as for the higher-class Mayan" -- he made a gesture of something disappearing -- "Poof! Nobody knows for sure what became of them."
"They were a wonderful people," Doc said thoughtfully. "They had a civilization that probably surpassed ancient Egypt."
"Ask him why he paints his fingers red?" Monk requested, unfazed by talk of lost civilizations.
Doc put the query in the tongue-flapping Mayan tongue.
The stocky man gave a surly answer.
"He says he's one of the warrior sect," Doc translated. "Only members of the warrior sect sport red fingertips."
"Well, I'll be dag-gone!" Monk snorted.
"He won't talk any more," Doc advised. Then he added grimly, "We'll take him down to the office and see if he won't change his mind."
Searching the prisoner, Doc dug up a remarkable knife. It had a blade of obsidian -- a darksome, glass-like volcanic rock -- and the edge rivaled a razor in cutting qualities. The handle was simply a leather thong wrapped around and around the upper end of the obsidian shaft.
This knife Doc appropriated. He picked up the prisoner's double-barreled elephant rifle. The marvelous weapon was manufactured by the Webley & Scott firm of England.
Monk eagerly took charge of the captive, booting him ungently out to the street and to their taxi.
Swishing downtown through the rain and speaking through the taxi window, Doc tried again to persuade the stocky prisoner to talk.
The fellow disclosed only one fact. And Doc had already guessed that.
"He says he's really a Mayan," Doc translated for the others.
"Tell him I'll pull his ears off an' feed 'em to him if he don't come clean!" Monk suggested.
Anxious himself to note the effect of torture threats on the Mayan, Doc repeated Monk's remarks.
The Mayan shrugged and clucked in his native tongue.
"He says," Doc explained, "that the trees in his country are full of them like you. Only smaller. He means monkeys."
Ham let out a howl of laughter at that … and Monk subsided.

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Rain was threshing down less vigorously when they pulled up before the gleaming office building that spiked up nearly a hundred stories. Entering, they rode the elevator to the 86th floor.
The Mayan again refused to talk.
"If we just had some truth serum," suggested Long Tom, running pale fingers through his blond, Nordic hair.
Renny held up a monster fist. "This is all the truth serum we need. I'll show you how it works!"
Big -- with sloping mountains of gristle for shoulders and long kegs of bone and tendon for arms -- Renny slid over to the Library door. His fist came up.
Wham! Completely through the stout panel Renny's fist pistoned! It seemed more than bone and tendon could stand. But when Renny drew his knuckles out of the wreckage and blew off the splinters, they were unmarked.
Having demonstrated what he could do, Renny came back and towered threateningly over their captive.
"Talk to him in that gobble he calls a 'language', Doc. Tell him he's in for the same thing that door got if he don't tell us whether your father was murdered. And if he was, who did it? And we want to now why he tried to shoot us!"
The prisoner only sat in stoical silence. He was scared but determined to suffer any violence rather than talk.
"Wait, Renny," Doc suggested. "Let's try something more subtle."
"For instance?" Renny inquired.
"Hypnotism," said Doc. "If this man is of a savage race, his mind is probably susceptible to hypnotic influence. It's no secret that many savages hypnotize themselves to such an extent that they think they see their pagan gods come and talk to them."
Positioned directly before the stocky Mayan, Doc began to exert the power of his amazing golden eyes. They seemed to turn into shifting, gleaming piles of the flaked yellow metal, holding the prisoner's gaze inexorably and exerting a compelling, authoritative influence.
For a minute, the squat Mayan was quiet except for his bulging eyes. He swayed a little in his chair. Then with a piercing yell in his native tongue, the prisoner lunged backward out of his chair.
The Mayan's plunge carried him toward Renny. But the big-fisted giant had been watching Doc so intently he must have been a little hypnotized himself. He was slow breaking the spell. Reaching for the Mayan, he missed.
Straight to the window, the squat Mayan sped. A wild jump and he shot head-first through it … to his death!

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Awed silence was in the room for a while.
"He realized that he was going to be made to talk," Ham clipped, whipping his waspish frame over to the window to look callously down. "So he killed himself."
"Wonder what can be behind all this?" Long Tom puzzled, absently inspecting his unhealthy-looking features as reflected by the polished table-top.
"Let's see if the message my father left written on the window won't help," Doc suggested.
They followed Doc to the Library in a group. "Important papers back of the red brick …" read the message in invisible ink which could only be detected by ultraviolet light. They were all curious to know where the papers were and anxious to see that they were intact. Above all, they wanted to know the nature of these "important papers".
Doc had the box which manufactured ultraviolet rays under his arm. On into the Laboratory, he led the cavalcade.
Every one noticed instantly that the Laboratory floor was of brick with a rubber matting scattered here-and-there.
Monk looked like he understood … then his jaw fell. "Huh?"
The floor bricks were all red!
Doc plugged the ultraviolet apparatus into a light socket. He switched off the Laboratory lights. Deliberately, he played the black-light rays across the brick floor. The darkness was intense.
And suddenly one brick was shining with an unholy red luminance. The brick was the lid of a secret little cavity in the floor. The elder Savage had treated it with some substance that had the property of glowing red under the black-light beams.
From the secret cavity, Doc lifted a packet of papers wrapped securely in an oilskin cloth that looked like a fragment of slicker. Ham clicked on the lights. They gathered around, eagerly waiting.
Doc opened the papers. They were very official looking, replete with gaudy seals. And they were printed in Spanish.
One-at-a-time as he finished glancing over them, Doc passed the papers to Ham. The astute lawyer studied them with great interest. At last Doc was completely through the papers. He looked at Ham.
"These papers are a concession from the government of Hidalgo," Ham declared. "They give to you several hundred square miles of land in Hidalgo, providing you pay the government of Hidalgo $100,000 yearly and 1/5th of everything you remove from this land. And the concession holds for a period of 99 years."
Doc nodded. "Notice something else, Ham? Those papers are made out to me. Me, mind you! Yet they were executed 20 years ago. I was only a kid then."
"You know what I think?" Ham demanded.
"Same thing I do, I'll bet," Doc replied. "These papers are the title to the Legacy that my father left me. The legacy is something that he discovered 20 years ago."
"But what is the legacy?" Monk wanted to know.
Doc shrugged. "I haven't the slightest idea, brothers. But you can bet it's something well worthwhile! My father was never mixed up in piker deals. I have heard him treat a million-dollar transaction as casually as though he were buying a cigar."
Pausing, Doc looked steadily at each of his men in turn. The flaky-gold of his eyes shimmered strange lights. He seemed to read the thoughts of each.
"I'm going after this heritage my father left," he said at length. "I don't need to ask … You fellows are with me?"
"And how!" grinned Renny. And the others echoed his sentiment.

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Planting the papers securely in a chamois money belt about his powerful waist, Doc walked back into the Library and then into the other room.
"Did the Mayan race hang out in Hidalgo?" Renny asked abruptly, eyeing his enormous fist.
Fiddling with his glasses that had the magnifying lens , Johnny took it upon himself to answer.
"The Mayans were scattered over a large part of Central America," he said. "But the Itzans -- the clan whose dialect our late prisoner spoke -- were situated in Yucatan during the height of their civilization. However, the republic of Hidalgo is not far away, being situated among the rugged mountains farther inland."
"I'm betting this Mayan and Doc's heritage are tied up somewhere," declared Long Tom, the electrical wizard.
Doc stood facing the window. With his back to the light, his strong bronze face was not sharply outlined except when he turned slightly to the right-or-left to speak. Then the light play seemed to accentuate its remarkable qualities of character.
"The thing for us to do now is corner the man who was giving the Mayan orders," he said slowly.
"Huh? You think there's more of your enemies?" Renny demanded.
"The Mayan showed no signs of understanding the English language," Doc elaborated. "Whoever left the warning in this room wrote it in English and was educated enough to understand the ultraviolet apparatus. That man was in the building when the shot was fired because the elevator operator said no one came in between the time we left and got back. Yes, brothers, I don't think we're out-of-the-woods yet!"
Doc went over to the double-barreled elephant rifle which had been in possession of the Mayan. He inspected the manufacturer's number. He grasped the telephone.
"Get me the firearms manufacturing firm of Webley & Scott in Birmingham, England," he told the phone operator. "Yes, of course -- England! Where the Prince of Wales lives."
To his friends, Doc explained: "Perhaps the firm that made the rifle will know to whom they sold it."
"Somebody will cuss over in England when he's called out of bed by long-distance phone from America," Renny chuckled.
"You forget the 5 hours' time difference," clipped waspish Ham. "It is now early morning in England. They'll just be getting up."
Doc was facing the window again, apparently lost in thought. Actually -- while standing there a moment before -- he had felt vaguely that something was out-of-place about the window.
Then he got it! The mortar at one end of the granite slab which formed the windowsill was fresher than on the other side. The strip of mortar was no wider than a pencil mark. Yet Doc noticed it. He leaned out the window.
A fine wire -- escaping from the room through the mortared crack -- ran downward! It entered a window below.
Doc flashed back into the room. His supple, sensitive but steel-strong hands explored. He brought to light a tiny microphone of the type radio announcers call lapel mikes.
"Somebody has been listening!" His powerful voice throbbed through the room. "In the room below! Let's look into that!"

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No puff of wind could have gone out of the room and down the stairs more speedily than Doc made it. The distance was 60 feet. Doc had covered it all before his men were out of the upstairs room. And they had moved as quickly as they could.
Whipping over where the wall could shelter him from ordinary bullets, Doc tried the doorknob. Locked! He exerted what for him was only a mild pressure. Wood splintered, brass mechanism of the lock gritted and tore … and the door hopped ajar.
A pistol crashed in the room! The bullet came close enough to Doc's bronzed features that he felt the cold stir of air. A second lead missile followed. The powder noise was a great bawl of sound. Both bullets chopped plaster off the elaborately decorated corridor wall.
Within the room, a door slammed.
Doc instantly slid inside. Sure enough, his quarry had retreated to a connecting office.
All this had taken flash parts-of-a-second. Doc's men were only now clamoring at the door.
"Keep back!" Doc directed. He liked to fight his own battles. And there seemed to be only one man opposing him.
Doc crossed the office, treading new-looking cheap carpet. He circled a second-hand oak desk with edges blackened where cigarette stubs had been placed carelessly. He tried the connecting door.
It was also locked. But it gave like wet cardboard before his powerful shove. Alert and almost certain a bullet would meet him, he doubled down close to the floor. He knew he could bob into view and back before the man inside could pull trigger.
But the place was empty!
Once … twice … three times … Doc counted his own heartbeats. Then he saw the explanation.
A stout silken cord -- with hardwood rods about the size of fountain pens tied every foot-or-so for handholds -- draped out of the open window. The end of the cord was tied to a stout radiator leg. And a tense jerking showed a man was going down it.
With a single leap, Doc was at the window. He looked down.
Of the man descending the cord, little could be told. In the streaming darkness, he was no more than a black lump.
Doc drew back and whipped out his flashlight. When he played it down the cord, the man was gone!
The fellow had ducked into a window.
The flash went into Doc's pocket. Doc himself clambered over the windowsill. Grasping the silken cord, he descended. Thanks to the coordination of his great muscles, Doc negotiated the cord just about as fast as a man could run.
He passed the first window. It was closed. The office beyond it was dark and deserted-looking.
Doc went on down. He had not seen what window the quarry had disappeared into. The second window was also closed. And the third! Doc knew then that he had passed the right window. The man could not have gone this far down the cord.
It was typical of Doc that he did not give even a glance to what was below -- a sheer fall of hundreds-of-feet. So far downward did the brick-and-glass wall extend that it seemed to narrow with distance until it was only a yard-or-so across. And the street was wedge-shaped at the bottom as though cut with a great, sharp knife.
Doc had climbed a yard upward when the silk cord gave a violent jerk. He looked up.
A window had opened. A man had shoved a chair through it and was pushing on the cord so as to swing Doc out away from the building. The murk of the night hid the man's face. But it was obvious that he was Doc's quarry.
Like a rock on the end of the silken rope, Doc was swung out several feet from the building. He would have to chance to grab a windowsill.
The man above flashed a hand for the cord. A long knife glistened in the hand!

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 4 of 22)

2009-03-29T19:32:00.000-07:00

By Lester Dent writing as Kenneth Robeson
IV -- The Red Death Promise

An interval of a dozen seconds, Doc waited.
"Let's go!" he breathed then. "You fellows make for that room quick!"
The 5 men spun and began descending from the platform as swiftly as they dared. But it would take them minutes in the darkness and the jumble of girders to reach the spot where the elevators could carry them on.
"Where's Doc?" Monk rumbled when they were down a couple of stories.
Doc was not with them, they now noted.
"He stayed behind!" snapped waspish Ham. Then as Monk accidentally nudged him in the dangerous murk, "Listen, Monk! Do you want me to kick you off here?"
Doc, however, had not exactly remained behind. With the uncanny nimbleness of a forest-dwelling monkey, he had flashed across a precarious path of girders until he reached the supply elevators, erected by the workmen on the outside of the building for fetching up materials.
The cages were hundreds-of-feet below on the ground. And there was no one to operate the controls. But Doc knew that.
On the lip of the elevator shaft -- balanced by the grip of his powerful knees -- he shucked off his coat. He made it into a bundle in his hands.
The stout wire cables which lifted the elevator cab were barely discernible. A full 8 feet out over space they hung. But with a gentle leap, Doc launched out and seized them. Using his coat to protect his palms from the friction heat sure to be generated, he let himself slide down the cables.
Air swished past his ears and plucked at his trouser legs and shirtsleeves. The coat smoked and began to leave a trail of sparks. Halfway down, Doc braked to a stop by tightening his powerful hands and changed to a fresh spot in the coat.
So it was that Doc had already reached the street even while thin waspish Ham was threatening to kick the gigantic Monk off the girder if Monk shoved him again.
It was imperative to get to the office before the departure of the prowler who had lighted the match! Doc plunged into the taxi he had left standing in front and rapped an order.
Doc's voice had a magical quality of compelling sudden obedience to an order. With a squawl of clashing gears and a whine of spinning tires, the taxi doubled around in the street. It covered the several blocks in a fraction-of-a-minute.
A bronze streak, Doc was out of the cab and in the skyscraper lobby. He confronted the elevator operator.
"What sort of a looking man did you take up to '86' a few minutes ago?"
"There ain't a soul come in this building since you left!" said the elevator operator positively.

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Doc's brain fought the problem an instant. He had naturally supposed the sniper had invaded the room above. But it seemed not.
"Get this!" he clipped at the operator. "You wait here and be ready to sic my 5 men on anybody who comes out of this building. They will be here in a minute. I'm taking your cage up."
In the cage with the last word, Doc sent it sighing upward a couple of city blocks. He stopped it one floor below the 86th … quitted it there … and crept furtively up the stairs and to the suite of offices which had been his father's but which was now Doc's own.
The suite door gaped ajar. Inside was sepia blackness that might hold anything.
Doc popped the corridor lights off as a matter of safety. He feared no encounter in the dark. He had trained his ears by a system of scientific sound exercises which was a part of the 2 hours of intensive physical and mental drill Doc gave himself daily. So powerful and sensitive had his hearing become that he could detect sounds absolutely inaudible to other people. And ears were all-important in a scrimmage in the dark!
But a quick round of the 3 rooms -- a moment of listening in each -- convinced Doc the quarry had fled.
His men arrived in the corridor with a great deal of racket. Doc lighted the offices and watched them come in. Monk was absent.
"Monk remained downstairs on guard," Renny explained.
Doc nodded, his golden eyes flickering at the table. On that table -- where none had been before -- was propped a blood-red envelope!
Crossing over quickly, Doc picked up a book, opened it, and used it like pincers to pick up the strange scarlet missive. He carried it into the Laboratory and dunked it in a bath of concentrated disinfectant fluid -- stuff calculated to destroy every possible germ.
"I've heard of murderers leaving their victims an envelope full of the germs of some rare disease," he told the others dryly. "And remember, it was a strange malady that seized my father."
Carefully, he picked the crimson envelope apart until he had disclosed the missive it held. Words were lettered on scarlet paper with an odious black ink. They read:

Savage:

Turn back from your quest lest the Red Death strike once again.

There was no signature.
A silent group, they went back to the room where they had found the vermilion missive.

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It was Long Tom who gave voice to a new discovery. He leveled a rather pale hand at the box which held the ultraviolet light apparatus.
"That isn't sitting where we left it!" he declared.
Doc nodded. He had already noticed that, but he did not say so. He made it a policy never to disillusion one of his men who thought he had been first to notice something or get an idea although Doc himself might have discovered it far earlier. It was this modesty of Doc's which helped endear him to everybody he was associated with.
"The prowler who came in and left the red note used the black-light apparatus," he told Long Tom. "It's a safe guess that he inspected the window Johnny put together."
"Then he read the invisible writing on the glass!" Renny rumbled.
"Very likely."
"Could he make heads-or-tails of it?"
"I hope he could," Doc said mysteriously.
They all betrayed surprise at that. But Doc -- turning away -- indicated he wasn't ready to amplify on his strange statement. Doc borrowed the magnifying glass that Johnny wore in his left spectacle lens and inspected the door for fingerprints.
"We'll get whoever it was," Ham decided. The waspish lawyer made a wry smile. "One look at Monk's ugly phiz and nobody would try to get out of here!"
But at that instant, the elevator doors rolled back out in the corridor.
Monk waddled from the lift like a huge anthropoid.
"What d'you want?" he asked them.
They stared at him, puzzled.
Monk's big mouth crooked a gigantic scowl. "Didn't one of you phone downstairs for me to come right up?"
Doc shook his bronze head slowly. "No."
Monk let out a bellow that would have shamed the beast he resembled! He stamped up-and-down. He waved his huge corded arms that were inches longer than his legs.
"Somebody run a whizzer on me!" he howled. "Whoever if was, I'll wring his neck! I'll pull off his ears! I'll give …"
"You'll be in a cage at the zoo if you don't learn the manners of a man," waspish Ham said bitingly.
Monk promptly stopped his ape-like prancing and bellowing. He looked steadily at Ham -- starting with Ham's distinguished shock of prematurely gray hair and running his little eyes slowly down Ham's well-cared-for face, perfect business suit, and small shoes.
Suddenly Monk began to laugh! His mirth was a loud, hearty roar.
At the gusty laughter, Ham stiffened. His face became very red with embarrassment.
For all Monk had to do to get Ham's goat was laugh at him. It had all started back in the War when "Ham" was Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks. The brigadier general had been the moving spirit in a little scheme to teach Monk certain French words which had a meaning entirely different than Monk thought. As a result, Monk had spent a session in the guardhouse for some things he had innocently called a French general.
A few days after that, though, Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks was suddenly hauled up before a court-martial, accused of stealing hams. And convicted! Somebody had expertly planted plenty of evidence.
"Ham" got his nickname right there. And to this day, he had not been able to prove it was the homely Monk who framed him. That rankled Ham's lawyer soul.
Unnoticed, Doc Savage had reached over and turned on the ultraviolet-light apparatus. He focused it on the pieced-together window and then called to the others: "Take a look!"
The message on the glass had been changed!

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There now glowed with an eerie blue luminance exactly 8 more words than had been in the original message. The communication now read:
Important papers back of the red brick house at corner of Mountainair and Farmwell Streets
"Hey!" exploded the giant Renny. "How …"
With a lifted hand and a nod at the door, Doc silenced Renny and sent them all piling into the corridor.
As the elevator rushed them downward, Doc explained. "Somebody decoyed you upstairs so they could get away, Monk."
"Don't I know it!" Monk mumbled. "But what I can't savvy is who added words to that message?"
"That was my doing," Doc admitted. "I had a hunch the sniper might have seen us working with the ultraviolet-light apparatus. And he would be smart enough to see what it was. I hoped he'd try to read the message. So I changed it to lead him into a trap."
Monk popped the knuckles in hands that were near as big as gallon pails. "Trap is right! Wait'll I get my lunch shovels on that guy!"
Their taxi was still waiting outside. The driver began a wailing, "Say! When am I gonna get paid? You gotta pay for the time I been waitin' …"
Doc handed the man a bill that not only silenced him but also nearly made his eyes jump out!
North on Fifth Avenue, the taxi raced. Water whipped the windshield and washed the windows. Doc and Renny -- riding outside once more -- were pelted with the moisture drops. Renny bent his face away from the stinging drops. But Doc seemed no more affected than had he really been of bronze. His hair and skin showed not the least wetness.
"This red brick house at the corner of Mountainair and Farmwell Streets is deserted," Doc called once. "That's why I gave that address in the addition to the note."
Inside the cab, Monk rumbled about what he would do to whoever had tricked him.
A motorcycle cop fell in behind them, opened his siren, and came up rapidly. But when he caught sight of Doc -- like a striking figure of bronze on the side of the taxi -- the officer waved his hand respectfully. Doc didn't even know the man. The officer must have been one who knew and revered the elder Savage.
The cab reeled into a less frequented street, slanting around corners. Rows of unlighted houses made the thoroughfare like a black, ominous tunnel.
"Here we are," Doc told their driver at last.

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"Ghostly" described the neighborhood. The streets were narrow and the sidewalks narrower. The cement of both was cracked and rutted and gone entirely in places. Chugholes filled with water reached half to their knees.
"You each have one of Monk's gas bombs?" Doc asked, just to be sure.
They had.
Doc breathed terse orders of campaign. "Monk in front, Long Tom and Johnny on the right, Renny on the left. I'll take the back. Ham, you stay off to one side as a sort of reserve if some quick-thinking and moving has to be done."
Doc gave them half-a-minute to place themselves. Not long. But all the time they needed. He went forward himself.
The red brick house on the corner had 2 ramshackle stories. It had been deserted a long time. 2 of the 3 porch posts canted crazily. Shingles still clung to the roof only in scabs. The windows were planked up solid. And the brick looked rotten and soft.
The streetlamp at the corner cast light so pale as to be near nonexistent.
Doc encountered brush and eased into it with a peculiar twisting, worming movement of his powerful, supple frame. He had seen great jungle cats slide through dense leafage in that strangely noiseless fashion and had copied it himself. He made absolutely no sound.
And in a moment, he had raised his quarry.
The man was at the rear of the house, going over the back yard a foot-at-a-time, lighting matches in succession.
He was short but perfectly formed with a smooth yellow skin and a seeming plumpness that probably meant great muscular development. His nose was curving, slightly hooked; his lips full; and his chin not particularly large. A man of a strange race.
The ends of his fingers were dyed a brilliant scarlet.
Doc did not reveal himself at once but watched curiously.
The stocky, golden-skinned man seemed very puzzled. As indeed he had reason to be for what he sought was not there. He muttered disgustedly in some strange clucking language.
When he heard the words, Doc held back even longer. He was astounded! He had never expected to hear a man speaking that language as though it were his native tongue.
For it was the lingo of a lost civilization!
The stocky man showed signs of giving up his search. He lit one more match, putting his box away as though he didn't intend to ignite more. Then he stiffened.
Into the soaking night had permeated a low, mellow, trilling sound like the song of some exotic bird. It seemed to emanate from underfoot, overhead, to the sides, everywhere … and nowhere. The stocky man was bewildered. The sound was startling, but not awesome.
Doc was telling his men to beware. There might be more of the enemy about than this one fellow.
The stocky man half-turned, searching the darkness. He took a step toward a big, double-barreled elephant rifle that leaned against a pile of scrap wood near him. It was of huge caliber that rifle, fitted with telescopic sights. The man's hand started to close over the gun …
… and Doc had him!
Doc's leap was more expert even than the lunge of a jungle prowler. For the victim gave not even a single bleat before he was pinned, helpless in arms that banded him like steel and a hand that cut off his wind as though his throat had been poured full of lead!

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Swiftly, the others came up. They had found no one else about.
"I'd be glad to hold him for you!" Monk suggested hopefully to Doc. His furry fingers opened and shut.
Doc shook his head and released the prisoner. The man instantly started to run. But Doc's hand -- floating out with incredible speed -- stopped the man with a snap that made his teeth pop together like clapped hands!
"Why did you shoot at us?" Doc demanded in English.
The stocky man spewed clucking gutturals, highly excited.
Doc looked swiftly aside at Johnny.
The gaunt archaeologist -- who knew a great deal about ancient races -- was scratching his head with thick fingers. He took off the glasses with the magnifying lens on the left side … then nervously put them back on again.
"It's incredible!" he muttered. "The language that fellow speaks … I think it is ancient Mayan. The lingo of the tribe that built the great pyramids at Chichen Itza -- then vanished. I probably know as much about that language as anybody on Earth. Wait a minute and I'll think of a few words."
But Doc was not waiting. To the squat man, he spoke in ancient Mayan! Slowly … halting … having difficulty with the syllables, it was true … but he spoke nevertheless understandably.
And the squat man -- more excited than ever -- spouted more gutturals.
Doc asked a question.
The man made a stubborn answer.
"He won't talk," Doc complained. "All he will say is a lot of stuff about having to kill me to save his people from something he calls the Red Death!"

To Be Continued...Now!

Doc Savage: Man of Bronze (part 3 of 22)

2009-03-29T19:27:00.000-07:00

III -- The Enemy

Doc Savage was the last of the six to enter the adjoining room. But he was inside the room in less than 10 seconds! They moved with amazing speed, these men!
Doc flashed across the big Library. The speed with which he traversed the darkness -- never disturbing an article of furniture! -- showed the marvelous development of his senses. No jungle cat could have done better.
Expensive binoculars reposed in a desk drawer. A high-power hunting rifle was in a corner cabinet. In splits-of-seconds, Doc had these and was at the window.
He watched … waited.
No more shots followed the first two.
4 minutes … 5 minutes … Doc bored into the night with the binoculars. He peered into every office window within range. There were hundreds. He scrutinized the spidery framework of the observation tower atop the skyscraper under construction. Darkness packed the labyrinth of girders, and he could discern no trace of the bushwhacker.
"He's gone," Doc concluded aloud.
No sound of movement followed his words. Then the window shade ran down loudly in the room where they had been shot at. The 5 men stiffened … then relaxed at Doc's low call. Doc had moved soundlessly to the shade and drawn it.
Doc was beside the safe and the lights were turned on when they entered.
The window glass had been clouted completely out of the sash. It lay in glistening chunks and spears on the luxuriant carpet.
The glowing message which had been on it seemed destroyed forever.
"Somebody was laying for me outside," Doc said with no worry at all in his well-developed voice. "They evidently couldn't get just the aim they wanted at me through the window. When we turned out the light to look at the writing on the window, they thought we were leaving the building. So they took a couple of shots for wild luck."
"Next time, Doc, suppose we have bulletproof glass in these windows?" Renny suggested, the humor in his voice belying his dour look.
"Sure," said Doc dryly. "Next time! We're on the 86th floor and it's quite common to be shot at here."
Ham interposed a sarcastic snort. He bounced over -- waspish, quick-moving -- and nearly managed to thrust his slender arm through the hole the bullet had tunneled in the brick wall.
"Even if you put in bulletproof windows, you'd have to be blame careful to set in front of them!" he clipped dryly.
Doc was studying the hole in the safe door, noting particularly the angle at which the powerful bullet had entered. He opened the safe. The big bullet -- almost intact -- was embedded in the safe rear wall.
Renny ran a great arm into the safe and grasped the bullet with his fingers. His giant arm muscles corded as he tried to pull it out. The fist that could drive bodily through inch-thick planking with perfect ease was defied by the embedded metal slug.
"Whew!" snorted Renny. "That's a job for a drill and cold chisels."
Saying nothing -- merely as if he wanted to see if the bullet was stuck as tightly as Renny said -- Doc reached into the safe.
Great muscles popped up along his arm suddenly split his coat sleeve wide open. He glanced at the ruined sleeve ruefully … and brought his arm out of the safe.
The bullet lay loosely in his palm!

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Renny could not have looked more astounded had a spike-tailed Devil hopped out of the safe! The expression on his puritanical face was ludicrous.
Doc weighed the bullet in his palm. The lids were drawn over his golden eyes. He seemed to be giving his marvelous brain every chance to work. And he was! He was guessing the weight of that bullet within a few grains almost as accurately as a chemist's scale could weigh it.
"750 grains," he decided. "That makes it a .577 caliber Nitro-Express rifle. Probably the gun that fired that shot was a double-barreled rifle."
"How d'you figure that?" asked Ham. Possibly the most astute of Doc's five friends, Doc's reasoning nevertheless got away from even Ham.
"There were only 2 shots," Doc clarified. "Also, cartridges of this tremendous size are usually fired from double-barreled elephant rifles."
"Let's do somethin' about this!" boomed Monk. "The bushwhacker may get away while we're jawin'!"
"He's probably fled already since I could locate no trace of him with the binoculars," Doc replied. "But we'll do something about it right enough!"
With exactly 4 terse sentences -- one each directed at Renny, Long Tom, Johnny, and Monk -- Doc gave all the orders he needed to. He did not explain in detail what they were to do. That wasn't necessary. He merely gave them the idea of what he wanted … and they set to work and got it in short order. They were clever, these men of Doc's.
Renny, the engineer, picked a slide rule from the drawer of a desk, a pair of dividers, some paper, and a length of string. He probed the angle at which the bullet had passed through the inner safe door, and calculated expertly the slight amount the window had probably deflected it. In less than a minute, he had his string aligned from the safe to a spot midway in the window and was sighting down it.
"Snap out of it, Long Tom!" he called impatiently.
"Just keep your shirt on!" Long Tom complained. He was doing his own share as rapidly as the engineer.
Long Tom had made a swift swing into the Library and Laboratory collecting odds-and-ends of electrical material. With a couple of powerful light bulbs he unscrewed from sockets, some tin, and a pocket mirror he borrowed from -- of all people! -- Monk, Long Tom rigged an apparatus to project a thin, extremely powerful beam of light. He added a flashlight lens and borrowed the magnifying half of Johnny's glasses before he got just the effect he desired.
Long Tom sighted his light beam down Renny's string, thus locating precisely -- in the gloomy mass of skyscrapers -- the spot from whence the shots had come.
In the meantime, Johnny -- with fingers and eye made expert by years of assembling bits of pottery from ancient ruins and the bones of prehistoric monsters -- was fitting the shattered windowpane together. A task that would have taken a layman hours, Johnny accomplished in minutes.
Johnny turned the black-light apparatus on the glass. The message in glowing blue sprang out. Intact!
Monk came waddling in from the Laboratory. In the big furry hands that swung below his knees, he carried several bottles, tightly corked. They held a fluid of villainous color.
From the wealth of chemical formulas within his head, Monk had compounded a gas with which to fight their opponents should they succeed in cornering whoever had fired that shot. It was a gas that would instantly paralyze any one who inhaled it. But the effects were only temporary and not harmful.

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They all gathered around the table on which Johnny had assembled the fragments of glass. All but Renny who was still calculating his angles. And as Doc flashed the light upon the glass, they read the message written there:
Important papers back of the red brick …
Before the message could mean anything to their minds, Renny shouted his discovery.
"It's from the observation tower on that unfinished skyscraper!" he cried. "That's where the shot came from … and the sharpshooter must still be somewhere up there!"
"Let's go!" Doc ordered. And the men surged out into the massive, shining corridor of the building straight to the battery of elevators.
If they noticed that Doc tarried behind several seconds, none of them remarked the fact. Doc was always doing little things like that. Little things that often turned out to have amazing consequences later.
The men piled into the opened elevator with a suddenness that startled the dozing operator. He wouldn't be able to sleep on the job the rest of the night!
With a whine like a lost pup, the cage sank.
Grimly silent, Doc and his 5 friends were a remarkable collection of men. They so impressed the elevator operator that he would have shot the lift past the 1st floor into the basement had Doc not dropped a bronze, long-fingered hand on the control.
Doc led out through the lobby at a trot. A taxi was cocked in at the curb, its driver dreaming over the wheel. 4 of the 6 men piled into the machine. Doc and Renny rode the running board.
"Do a 'Barney Oldfield'!" Doc directed the cab driver.
The hack jumped away from the curb as if stung.
Rain sheeted against Doc's strong, bronzed face and his straight, close-lying bronze hair. An unusual fact was at once evident. Doc's bronze skin and hair had the strange quality of seeming impervious to water. They didn't get appreciably wet. He shed water like the proverbial duck's back!
The streets were virtually deserted in this shopping region. Over toward the theater district, perhaps, there would be a crowd.
Brakes giving one long squawk, the taxi skidded sidewise to the curb and stopped. Doc and Renny were instantly running for the entrance of the new skyscraper. The 4 passengers came out of the cab door as if blown out. Ham still carried his plain black cane.
"My pay!" howled the taxi driver.
"Wait for us!" Doc flung back at him.
In the recently finished building lobby, Doc yelled for the watchman. He got no answer. He was puzzled. There should be one around.
They entered an elevator and sent it upward to the topmost floor. Still no watchman! They sprang up a staircase to where all construction but steel work ceased. There they found the watchmen.
The man -- a big Irishman with cheeks so plump and red they looked like the halves of Christmas apples -- was bound and gagged! He was indeed grateful when Doc turned him loose. But quite astounded! For Doc -- not bothering with the knots -- simply freed the Irishman by snapping the stout ropes with his fingers as easily as he would cords.
"Begorra, man!" muttered the Irishman. "'Tis not human yez can be with a strength like that!"
"Who tied you up?" Doc asked compellingly. "What did he look like?"
"Faith, I dunno!" declared the son of Erin. "'Twas not a single look or a smell I got of him. Except for one thing. The fingers of the man were red on the ends. Like he had dipped 'em in blood!"

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On up into the wilderness of steel girders, the 6 men climbed. They left the Irishman behind. He was rubbing spots where the ropes had hurt him and mumbling to himself about a man who broke ropes with his fingers and another man who had red fingertips.
"This is about the right height," said the gaunt Johnny, bounding at Doc's heels. "He was shooting from about here."
Johnny was hardly breathing rapidly. A tall, poorly looking man, Johnny nevertheless exceeded all the others -- excepting Doc -- in endurance. He had been known to go for 3 days and 3 nights steadily with only a slice of bread and a canteen of water.
Doc veered right. He had taken a flashlight from an inside pocket.
It was not like other flashlights, that one of Doc's. It employed no battery. A tiny, powerful generator -- built into the handle and driven by a stout spring and clockwork -- supplied the current. One twist of the flash handle would wind the spring and furnish light current for some minutes. A special receptacle held spare bulbs. There was not much chance of Doc's light playing out.
The flash spiked a white rod of luminance ahead. It picked up a workman's platform of heavy planks.
"The shot came from there!" Doc vouchsafed.
A steel girder -- a few inches wide, slippery with moisture -- offered a short cut to the platform. Doc ran along it as surefooted as a bronze spider on a web thread. His 5 men -- knowing they would be flirting with death among the steel beams hundreds of feet below -- decided to go around. And they did it very carefully.
Doc had picked 2 empty cartridges off the platform and was scrutinizing them when his 5 friends put relieved feet on the planks.
"A cannon!" Monk gulped after one look at the great size of the cartridges.
"Not quite," Doc replied. "They are cartridges for the elephant rifle that I told you about. And it was a double-barreled rifle the sniper used."
"What makes you so sure, Doc?" asked big, sober-faced Renny.
Doc pointed at the plank surface of the platform. Barely visible were 2 tiny marks side-by-side. Now that Doc had called their attention to the marks, the others knew they had been made by the muzzle of a double-barreled elephant rifle rested for a moment on the boards.
"He was a short man," Doc added. "Shorter even than Long Tom here. And much wider."
"Huh?" This was beyond even quick-thinking Ham.
Seemingly unaware of their great height and the certain death the slightest misstep would bring, Doc swung around the group and back the easy route they had come. He pointed to a girder which -- because of the roof effect of another girder above -- was dry on one side. But there was a damp smear on the dry steel.
"The sniper rubbed it with his shoulder in passing," Doc explained. "That shows how tall he is. It also shows he has wide shoulders because only a wide-shouldered man would rub the girder. Now …"
Doc fell suddenly silent. As rigid as if he were the hard bronze he so resembled, he poised against the girder. His glittering golden eyes seemed to grow luminous in the darkness.
"What is it, Doc?" asked Renny.
"Someone just struck a match … up there in the room where we were shot at." He interrupted himself with an explosive sound. "There! He's lighted another!"
Doc instantly whipped the binoculars -- he had brought them along from the office -- from his pocket. He aimed them at the window.
He got but a fragmentary glimpse. The match was about burned out. Only the tips of the prowler's fingers were clearly lighted.
"His fingers … the ends are red!" Doc voiced what he had seen.

To Be Continued...Now!

Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze (part 2 of 22)

2009-03-26T09:06:00.000-07:00

II -- A Message from the Dead

Falling rain strewed the outer side of the windowpane with water. Far below -- very pallid in the soaking murk -- were streetlights. Over on the Hudson River, a steamer was tooting a foghorn. The frightened, mooing horn was hardly audible inside the room.
Some blocks away, the skyscraper under construction loomed a darksome pile, crowned with a spidery labyrinth of steel girders. Only the vaguest outlines of it were discernible.
Impossible, of course, to glimpse the strange crimson-fingered servant of death in that wilderness of metal!
Doc Savage said slowly, "I was far away when my father died."
He did not explain where he had been -- did not mention his "Fortress of Solitude", his rendezvous built on a rocky island deep in the Arctic regions. He had been there.
It was to this spot that Doc retired periodically to brush up on the newest developments in Science, Psychology, Medicine, Engineering. This was the secret of his universal knowledge, for his periods of concentration there were long and intense.
The "Fortress of Solitude" had been his father's recommendation. And no one on Earth knew the location of the retreat. Once there, nothing could interrupt Doc's studies and experiments.
Without taking his golden eyes from the wet window, Doc asked, "Was there anything strange about my father's death?"
"We're not certain," Renny muttered and set his thin lips in an expression of ominousness.
"I, for one, am certain!" snapped Littlejohn. He settled more firmly on his nose the glasses which had the extremely thick left lens.
"What do you mean, Johnny?" Doc Savage asked.
"I am positive your father was murdered!" Johnny's gauntness and his studious scientist look gave him a profoundly serious expression.
Doc Savage swung slowly from the window. His bronze face had not changed expression. But under his brown business coat, tensing muscles had made his arms inches farther around!
"Why do you say that, Johnny?"
Johnny hesitated. His right eye narrowed, the left remained wide and a little blank behind the thick spectacle lens. He shrugged.
"Only a hunch," he admitted … then added, almost shouting: "But I'm right about it! I know I am!"
That was Johnny's way. He had absolute faith in what he called his "hunches". And nearly always he was right. But on occasions when he was wrong, though, he was very wrong indeed.
"Exactly what did the doctors say caused death?" Doc asked. Doc's voice was low and pleasant. But it was a voice capable of great volume and changing tone.
Renny answered that. Renny's voice was like thunder gobbling out of a cave. "The doctors didn't know. It was a new one on them. Your father broke out with queer circular red patches on his neck. And he lasted only a couple of days."
"I ran all kinds of chemical tests trying to find if it was poison or germs or what it was caused the red spots," Monk interposed, slowly opening-and-closing his huge red-furred fists. "I never found out a thing!"
Monk's looks were deceiving. His low forehead apparently didn't contain room for a spoonful of brains. Actually, Monk was in a way of being the most widely-known chemist in America. He was a Houdini of the test tubes!
"We have no facts upon which to base suspicion," clipped Ham, the waspish Harvard lawyer whose quick thinking had earned him a brigadier generalship in the World War. "But we're suspicious anyway."
Doc Savage moved abruptly across the room to a steel safe. The safe was huge, reaching above his shoulders. He swung it open.
It was instantly evident that explosive had torn the lock out of the safe door!
A long, surprised gasp swished around the room.
"I found it broken into when I came back," Doc explained. "Maybe that has a connection with my father's death. Maybe not."

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Doc's movements were rhythmic as he swung over and perched on a corner of the big, inlaid table before the window. His eyes roved slowly over the beautifully furnished office. There was another office adjoining the Reception room. It was larger and contained a Library of technical books that was priceless because of its completeness.
And adjoining that was the vast Laboratory room, replete with apparatus for chemical and electrical experiments.
This was about all the worldly goods the elder Savage had left behind.
"What's eating you, Doc?" asked the giant Renny. "We all got the word from you to show up here tonight. Why?"
Doc Savage's strange golden eyes roved over the assembled men. From Renny, whose knowledge of engineering in all its branches was profound … to Long Tom, who was an electrical wizard … to Johnny, whose fund of information on the structure of the Earth and ancient races which had inhabited it was extremely vast … to Ham, the clever Harvard lawyer and quick thinker … and finally to Monk, who in spite of his resemblance to a gorilla was a great chemist.
In these 5 men, Doc knew he had five of the greatest brains ever to assemble in one group. Each was surpassed in his field by only one human being -- Doc Savage himself!
"I think you can guess why you are here," Doc said.
Monk rubbed his hairy hands together. Of the 6 men present, Monk's skin alone bore scars. The skin of the others held no marks of their adventurous past, thanks to Doc's uncanny skill in causing wounds to heal without leaving scars.
But not Monk. His tough, rusty iron hide was so marked with gray scars that it looked as if a flock of chickens with gray-chalk feet had paraded on him. This was because Monk refused to let Doc treat him. Monk gloried in his tough looks.
"Our big job is about to start, huh?" said Monk, vast satisfaction in his mild voice.
Doc nodded. "The work to which we shall devote the rest of our lives."
At that statement, great satisfaction appeared upon the face of every man present. They showed eagerness for what was to come.
Doc dangled a leg from the corner of the table. Unwittingly -- for he knew nothing of the red-fingered killer lurking in the distant skyscraper that was under construction -- Doc had placed his back out of line with the window. In fact, since the men had entered, he had not once been aligned with the window.
"We first got together back in the War," he told the five slowly. "We all liked the big scrap. It got into our blood. When we came back, the hum-drum life of an ordinary man was not suited to our natures. So we sought something else."
Doc held their absolute attention as if he had them hypnotized. Undeniably this golden-eyed man was the leader of the group as well as leader of anything he undertook. His very being denoted a calm knowledge of all things and an ability to handle himself under any conditions.
"Moved by mutual admiration for my father," Doc continued, "we decided to take up his work of good wherever he was forced to leave off. We at once began training ourselves for that purpose. It is the cause for which I had been reared from the cradle. But you fellows -- because of a love of excitement and adventure -- wish to join me."
Doc Savage paused. He looked over his companions one-by-one in the soft light of the well-furnished office -- one of the few remaining evidences of the wealth that once belonged to his father.
"Tonight," he went on soberly, "we begin carrying out the ideals of my father: To go here-and-there, from one end of the World to the other, looking for excitement and adventure, striving to help those who need help … and punishing those who deserve it!"

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There was a somber silence after that immense pronunciation.
It was Monk -- matter-of-fact person that he was -- who shattered the quiet.
"What flubdubs me is who broke into that safe? And why?" he grumbled. "Doc, could it have any connection with your father's death?"
"It could, of course," Doc explained. "The contents of the safe had been rifled. I do not know whether my father had anything of importance in it. But I suspect there was."
Doc drew a folded paper from inside his coat. The lower half of the paper had been burned away. That was evident from the charred edges. Doc continued speaking.
"Finding this in a corner of the safe leads me to that belief. The explosion which opened the safe obviously destroyed the lower part of the paper. And the robber probably overlooked the rest. Here … read it."
He passed it to the 5 men. The paper was covered with the fine -- almost engraving-perfect -- writing of Doc's father. They all recognized the penmanship instantly. They read:

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Clark:

I have many things to tell you. In your whole lifetime, there never was an occasion when I desired you here so much as I do now. I need you, Son, because many things have happened which indicate to me that my last journey is at hand. You will find that I have nothing much to leave you in the way of tangible wealth.

I have, however, the satisfaction of knowing that in you I shall live.

I have developed you from boyhood into the sort of man you have become. And I have spared no time or expense to make you just what I think you should be.

Everything I have done for you has been with the purpose that you should find yourself capable of carrying on the work which hopefully started and which -- in these last few years -- has been almost impossible to carry on.

If I do not see you again before this letter is in your hands, I want to assure you that I appreciate the fact that you have lacked nothing in the way of filial devotion. That you have been absent so much of the time has been a secret source of gratification to me. For your absence has, I know, made you self-reliant and able. It was all that I hoped for you.

Now, as to the heritage which I am about to leave you:

What I am passing along to you may be a doubtful heritage. It may be a heritage of woe. It may even be a heritage of destruction to you if you attempt to capitalize on it. On the other hand, it may enable you to do many things for those who are not so fortunate as you yourself and will -- in that way -- be a boon for you in carrying on your work of doing good to all.

Here is the general information concerning it:

Some 20 years ago -- in company with Hubert Robertson -- I went on an expedition to Hidalgo in Central America to investigate the report of a prehistoric …

There the missive ended. Flames had consumed the rest.
"The thing to do is get hold of Hubert Robertson!" clipped the quick-thinking Ham. Waspish and rapid-moving, he swung over to the telephone an scooped it up. "I know Hubert Robertson's phone number. He is connected with the Museum of Natural History."
"You won't get him," Doc said dryly.
"Why not?"
Doc got off the table and stood beside the giant Renny. It was only then that one realized what a BIG man Doc was. Alongside Renny, Doc was like dynamite alongside gunpowder!
"Hubert Robertson is dead," Doc explained. "He died from the same thing that killed my father -- a weird malady that started with a breaking out of red spots. And he died at about the same time as my father."

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Renny's thin mouth pinched even tighter at that. Gloom seemed to settle on his long face. He looked like a man disgusted enough with the evils of the World to cry.
Strangely enough, that somber look denoted that Renny was beginning to take interest. The tougher the going got, the better Renny functioned and the more puritanical he looked.
"That flooeys our chances of finding out more about this heritage your father left you!" he rumbled.
"Not entirely," Doc corrected. "Wait here a moment."
He stepped through another door and crossed the room banked with the volumes of his father's great technical Library. Through a second door … and he was in the Laboratory.
Cases laden with chemicals stood thick as forest trees on the floor. There were electrical coils, vacuum tubes, ray apparatus, microscopes, retorts, electric furnaces -- everything that could go into such a laboratory.
From a cabinet, Doc lifted a metal box closely resembling an old-fashioned "magic lantern". The lens -- instead of being ordinary optical glass -- was a very dark purple, almost black. There was a cord for plugging into an electric-light socket.
Doc carried this into the room where his 5 men waited. He placed it on a stand, aimed the lens at the window, and plugged the cord into an electric outlet.
Before putting the thing in operation, he lifted the metal lid and beckoned to Long Tom, the electrical wizard.
"Know what this is?"
"Of course." Long Tom pulled absently at an ear that was too big, too thin, and too pale. "That is a lamp for making ultraviolet rays -- or what is commonly called 'black light'. The rays are invisible to the human eye since they are shorter than ordinary light. But many substances when placed in the black light will glow or fluoresce after the fashion of luminous paint on a watch dial. Examples of such substances are ordinary vaseline, quinine …"
"That's plenty," interposed Doc. "Look at the window I've pointed this at. See anything unusual about it?"
Johnny -- the gaunt archaeologist-geologist -- advanced to the window and removing his glasses as he went. He held the thick-lensed left glass before his right eye, inspecting the window.
In reality, the left side of Johnny's glasses was an extremely powerful magnifying lens. His work often required a magnifier. So he wore one over his left eye which was virtually useless because of an injury received in the World War.
"I can find nothing," Johnny declared. "There's nothing unusual about the window."
"I hope you're wrong," Doc said with sobriety in his wondrously modulated voice. "But you could not see the writing on that window, should there be any. The substance my father perfected for leaving secret messages was absolutely invisible. But it glows under ultraviolet light."
"You mean …" hairy Monk rumbled.
"… that my father and I often left each other notes written on that window," Doc explained. "Watch!"
Doc crossed the room -- a big, dynamic man, light on his feet as a kitten for all his size -- and turned out the lights. He came back to the black-light box. His hand -- supple despite its enormous tendons -- clicked the switch that shot current into the apparatus.
Instantly written words sprang out on the darkened windowpane! Glowing with a dazzling electric blue, the effect of their sudden appearance was uncanny.
A split-second later came a terrific report! A bullet knocked the glass into hundreds of fragments, wiping out the sparkling blue message before they could read it. The bullet passed entirely through the steel-plate inner door of the safe. It embedded in the safe back.

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The room reeked silence. One second … then two … Nobody had moved.
And then a new sound was heard. It was a low, mellow, trilling sound. Like the song of some strange bird of the jungle. Or the sound of the wind filtering through a jungled forest. It was melodious, though it had no tune. It was inspiring, though it was not awesome.
The amazing sound had the peculiar quality of seeming to come from everywhere within the room rather than from a definite spot as though permeated with an eerie essence of ventriloquism.
A purposeful calm settled over Doc Savage's 5 men as they heard that sound. Their breathing became less rapid; their brains more alert.
For this weird sound was part of Doc -- a small, unconscious thing which he did in moments of utter concentration. To his friends it was both the cry of battle and the song of triumph. It would come upon his lips when a plan of action was being arranged, precoursing a master stroke which made all things certain.
It would come again in the midst of some struggle when the odds were all against his men, when everything seemed lost. And with the sound, new strength would come to all … and the tide would always turn.
And again, it might come when some beleaguered member of the group -- alone and attacked -- had almost given up all hope of survival. Then that sound would filter through some way … and the victim knew that help was at hand.
The whistling sound was a sign of Doc. Of safety. And of Victory!
"Who got it?" asked Johnny. He could be heard settling his glasses more firmly on his bony nose.
"No one," said Doc. "Let us crawl, brothers … crawl! That was no ordinary rifle bullet from the sound of it!"
At that instant, a second bullet crashed into the room! It came not through the window but through some inches of brick and mortar which comprised the wall. Plaster sprayed across the thick carpet!

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze (Part 1 of 22)

2009-03-25T15:12:00.000-07:00

I -- The Sinister One

There was Death afoot in the darkness.
It crept furtively along a steel girder. Hundreds-of-feet below yawned glass-and-brick-walled cracks -- New York streets. Down there, late workers scurried homeward. Most of them carried umbrellas and did not glance upward.
Even had they looked, they probably would have noticed nothing. The night was black as a cave bat. Rain threshed down monotonously. The clammy sky was like an oppressive shroud wrapped around the tops of the tall buildings.
One skyscraper was under construction. It had been completed to the 80th floor. Some offices were in use.
Above the 80th floor, an ornamental observation tower jutted up a full 150 feet more. The metal work of this was in place but no masonry had been laid. Girders lifted a gigantic steel skeleton. The naked beams were a sinister forest.
It was in this forest that Death prowled.
Death was a man!
He seemed to have the adroitness of a cat at finding his way in the dark. Upward he crept. The girders were slick with rain and treacherous. The man's progress was gruesome in its vile purpose.
From time-to-time, he spat strange, clucking words. A gibberish of hate!
A master of languages would have been baffled trying to name the tongue the man spoke. A profound student might have identified the dialect. The knowledge would be hard to believe for the words were of a lost race -- the language of a civilization long vanished!
"He must die!" the man chanted hoarsely in his strange lingo. "It is decreed by the Son of the Feathered Serpent! Tonight! Tonight Death shall strike!"
Each time he raved his paean of hate, the man hugged an object he carried closer to his chest.
This object was a box -- black and leather-covered. It was about 4 inches deep and 4 feet long.
"This shall bring death to him!" the man clucked, caressing the black case.
The rain beat him. Steel-fanged space gaped below. One slip would be his death. He climbed upward yard-after-yard.
Most of the "chimneys" which New Yorkers call office buildings had been emptied of their daily toilers. There were only occasional pale eyes of light gleaming from their sides.
The labyrinth of girders baffled the skulker a moment. He poked a flashlight beam inquisitively. The glow lasted a bare instant, but it disclosed a remarkable thing about the man's hands.
The fingertips were a brilliant red! They might have been dipped an inch of their length in a scarlet dye.
The red-fingered man scuttled onto a workmen's platform. The planks were thick. The platform was near the outside of the wilderness of steel.
The man lowered his black case. His inner pocket disgorged compact, powerful binoculars.
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On the lowermost floor of a skyscraper many blocks distant, the crimson-fingered man focused his glasses. He started counting stories upward.
The building was one of the tallest in New York. A gleaming spike of steel and brick, it rammed upward nearly a hundred stories.
At the 86th floor, the sinister man ceased to count. His glasses moved right-and-left until they found a lighted window. This was at the west corner of the building.
Only slightly blurred by the rain, the powerful binoculars disclosed what was in the room.
The broad, polished top of a massive and exquisitely inlaid table stood directly before the window.
Beyond it was the bronze figure!
This looked like the head and shoulders of a man sculptured in hard bronze. It was a startling sight, that bronze bust! The lines of the features, the unusually high forehead, the mobile and muscular but not too-full mouth, and the lean cheeks denoted a power of character seldom seen.
The bronze of the hair was a little darker than the bronze of the features. The hair was straight and lay down tightly as a metal skullcap. A genius at sculpture might have made it.
Most marvelous of all were the eyes. They glittered like pools of flake-gold when little lights from the table lamp played on them. Even from that distance, they seemed to exert a hypnotic influence through the powerful binocular lenses -- a quality that would cause the most rash individual to hesitate.
The man with the scarlet-tipped fingers shuddered.
"Death!" he croaked, as if seeking to overcome the unnerving quality of those strange golden eyes. "The Son of the Feathered Serpent has commanded. It shall be death!"
He opened the black box. Faint metallic sounded as he fitted together parts of the thing it held. After that, he ran his fingers lovingly over the object.
"The tool of the Son of the Feathered Serpent!" he chortled. "It shall deliver death!"
Once more, he pressed the binoculars to his eyes and focused them on the amazing bronze statue.
The bronze masterpiece suddenly opened its mouth and yawned. For it was no statue but a living man!

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The bronze man showed wide and very strong-looking teeth in yawning. Seated there by the immense desk, he did not seem to be a large man. An onlooker would have doubted his 6 feet plus height. And they would have been astounded to learn he weighed every ounce of 200 pounds!
The big bronze man was so well put together that the impression was not of size but of power! The bulk of his great body was forgotten in the smooth symmetry of a build incredibly powerful.
This man was Clark Savage, Jr.
Doc Savage! The man whose name was becoming a byword in the odd corners of the World.
Apparently no sound had entered the room. But the big bronze man left his chair. He went to the door. The hand he opened the door with was long-fingered, supple. Yet its enormous tendons were like cables under a thin film of bronze lacquer.
Doc Savage's keenness of hearing was vindicated. 5 men were getting out of the elevator cage which had come up silently.
These men came toward Doc. There was wild delight in their manner. But for some sober reason, they did not shout boisterous greetings. It was as though Doc bore a great grief. They sympathized deeply with him, but didn't know what to say.
The first of the 5 men was a giant who towered 4 inches over 6 feet. He weighed fully 250 pounds. His face was severe, his mouth thin, grim, and compressed tightly as though he had just finished uttering a disapproving "tsk tsk!" sound. His features had a most puritanical look.
This was "Renny" -- or Colonel John Renwick. His arms were enormous and his fists were bony monstrosities. His favorite act was to slam his great fists through the solid panel of a heavy door. He was also known throughout the World for his engineering accomplishments.
Behind Renny came William Harper Littlejohn. Very tall and very gaunt, "Johnny" wore glasses with a peculiarly thick lens over the left eye. He looked like a half-starved, studious scientist. He was probably one of the greatest living experts on Geology and Archaeology.
Next was Major Thomas J. Roberts, dubbed "Long Tom". Long Tom was the physical weakling of the crowd. Thin, not very tall, and with a none-too-healthy-appearing skin, he was a wizard with Electricity.
"Ham" trailed Long Tom. 'Brigadier General Theodore Marley Brooks' was what Ham was designated on formal occasions. Slender, waspy, quick-moving, Ham looked what he was. A quick thinker and possibly the most astute lawyer Harvard ever turned out. He carried a plain black cane, never went anywhere without it. This was -- among other things -- a sword cane.
Last came the most remarkable character of all. Only a few inches over 5 feet, he weighed better than 260 pounds. He had the build of a gorilla, arms 7 inches longer than his legs, and a chest thicker than it was wide. His eyes were so surrounded by gristle as to resemble pleasant little stars twinkling in pits. He grinned with a mouth so big that it looked like an accident.
"Monk!" No other name could fit him!
He was Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Blodgett Mayfair. But he heard the full name so seldom that he had about forgotten what it sounded like. He had earned world fame in Chemistry.

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The men entered the sumptuously-furnished room of the office suite. After the first greeting, they were silent and uncomfortable. They didn't know what to say.
Doc Savage's father had died from a weird cause since they last saw Doc.
The elder Savage had been known throughout the World for his dominant bearing and his good work. Early in life, he had amassed a tremendous fortune … for one purpose.
That purpose was to go here-and-there, from one end of the World to the other, looking for excitement and adventure, striving to help those who needed help, and punishing those who deserved it.
To that creed he had devoted his life.
His fortune had dwindled to practically nothing. But as it shrank, his influence had increased. It was unbelievably wide -- a heritage befitting the man!
Greater even, though, was the heritage he had given his son. Not in wealth but in training to take up his career of adventure and righting of wrongs where it left off.
Clark Savage, Jr. had been reared from the cradle to become the supreme adventurer.
Hardly had Doc learned to walk when his father started him taking the routine of exercises to which he still adhered. 2 hours each day, Doc exercised intensively all his muscles, senses, and his brain.
As a result of these exercises, Doc possessed a strength superhuman. There was no magic about it, though. Doc had simply built up muscle intensively all his life.
Doc's mental training had started with Medicine and Surgery. It had branched out to include all arts and sciences. Just as Doc could easily overpower the gorilla-like Monk in spite of his great strength, so did Doc know more about Chemistry. And that applied to the engineer Renny, the electrical wizard Long Tom Johnny, the geologist-archaeologist Johnny, and the lawyer Ham.
Doc had been well trained for his work.
But grief lay heavily upon Doc's 5 friends. The elder Savage had been close to their hearts.
"Your father's death … was 3 weeks ago," Renny said at last.
Doc nodded slowly. "So I learned from the newspapers when I got back today."
Renny groped for words and said finally: "We tried to get you in every way. But you were gone … almost as if you had been off the face of the Earth."
Doc looked at the window. There was grief in his golden eyes.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow!

The King in Yellow: The Repairer of Reputations

2009-03-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

This time it's "The Repairer of reputations" from The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers.
Sorry about the delays in posting, training for SATs was brutal.
Please leave comments and requests!

"Ne raillons pas les fous;leur folie dure plus longtemps que la nôtre....Voilà toute la differénce."
THE REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS
I
Toward the end of the year 1920 the government of the United States had practically completed the programme adopted during the last months of President Winthrop's administration. The country was apparently tranquil. Everybody knows how the Tariff and Labor questions were settled. The war with Germany, incident on that country's seizure of the Samoan Islands, had left no visible scars upon the republic, and the temporary occupation of Norfolk by the invading army had been forgotten in the joy over repeated naval victories and the subsequent ridiculous plight of General Von Gartenlaube's forces in the State of New Jersey. The Cuban and Hawaiian investments had paid one hundred per cent., and the territory of Samoa was well worth its cost as a coaling station. The country was in a superb state of defense. Every coast city had been well supplied with land fortifications; the army, under the parental eye of the general staff, organized according to the Prussian system, had been increased to three hundred thousand men, with a territorial reserve of a million; and six magnificent squadrons of cruisers and battle-ships patrolled the six stations of the navigable seas, leaving a steam reserve amply fitted to control home waters. The gentlemen from the West had at last been constrained to acknowledge that a college for the training of diplomats was a necessary as law schools are for the training of barristers; consequently we were no longer represented abroad by incompetent patriots. The nation was prosperous. Chicago, for a moment paralyzed after a second great fire, had risen from its ruins, white and imperial, and more beautiful than the white city which had been built for its plaything in 1893. Everywhere good architecture was replacing bad, and even in New York a sudden craving for decency had swept away a great portion of the existing horrors. Streets had been widened, properly paved, and lighted, trees had been planted, squares laid out, elevated structures demolished, and underground roads built to replace them. The new government buildings and barracks were fine bits of architecture, and the long system of stone quays which completely surrounded the island had been turned into parks, which proved a godsend to the population. The subsidizing of the state theatre and state opera brought its own reward. The United States National Academy of Design was much like European institutions of the same kind. Nobody envied the Secretary of Fine Arts either his cabinet position or his portfolio. The Secretary of Forestry and Game Preservation had a much easier time, thanks to the new system of National Mounted Police. We had profited well by the latest treaties with France and England; the exclusion of foreign-born Jews as a measure of national self-preservation, the settlement of the new independent negro state of Suanee, the checking of immigration, the new laws concerning naturalization, and the gradual centralization of power in the executive all contributed to national calm and prosperity. When the government solved the Indian problem and squadrons of Indian cavalry scouts in native costume were substituted for the pitiable organizations tacked on to the tail of skeletonized regiments by the former Secretary of War, the nation drew a long sigh of relief. When, after the colossal Congress of Religions, bigotry and intolerance were laid in their graves, and kindness and charity began to draw warring sects together, many thought the millennium had arrived, at least in the new world, which, after all, is a world by itself.
But self-preservation is the first law, and the United States had to look on in helpless sorrow as Germany, Italy, Spain, and Belgium writhed in the throes of anarchy, while Russia, watching from the Caucasus, stooped and bound them one by one.
In the city of New York the summer of 1910 was signalized by the dismantling of the Elevated Railroads. The summer of 1911 will live in the memories of New York people for many a cycle; the Dodge statue was removed in that year. In the following winter began the agitation for the repeal of the laws prohibiting suicide which bore its final fruit in the month of April, 1920, when the first Government Lethal Chamber was opened on Washington Square.
I had walked down that day from Dr. Archer's house on Madison Avenue, where I had been as a mere formality. Ever since that fall from my horse, four years before, I had been troubled at times with pains in the back of my head and neck, but now for months they had been absent, and the doctor sent me away that day saying there was nothing more to be cured in me. It was hardly worth his fee to be told that; I knew it myself. Still I did not grudge him the money. What I minded was the mistake which he made at first. When they picked me up from the pavement where I lay unconscious, and somebody had mercifully sent a bullet though my horse's head, I was carried to Dr. Archer, and he, pronouncing my brain affected, placed me in his private asylum, where I was obliged to endure treatment for insanity. At last he decided that I was well, and I, knowing that my mind had always been as sound as his, if not sounder, "paid my tuition," as he jokingly called it, and left. I told him, smiling, that I would get even with him for his mistake, and he laughed heartily, and asked me to call once in a while. I did so, hoping for a chance to even up accounts, but he gave me none, and I told him I would wait.
The fall from my horse had fortunately left no evil results; on the contrary, it had changed my whole character for the better. From a lazy young man about town, I had become active, energetic, temperate, and, above all -- oh, above all else -- ambitious. There was only one thing which troubled me: I laughed at my own uneasiness, and yet it troubled me.
During my convalescence I had bought and read for the first time "The King in Yellow." I remember after finishing the first act that it occurred to me that I had better stop. I started up and flung the book into the fireplace; the volume struck the barred grate and fell open on the hearth in the fire-light. If I had not caught a glimpse of the opening words in the second act I should never have finished it, but as I stooped to pick it up my eyes became riveted to the open page, and with a cry of terror, or perhaps it was of joy so poignant that I suffered in every nerve, I snatched the thing from the hearth and crept shaking to my bedroom, where I read it and reread it, and wept and laughed and trembled with a horror which at times assails me yet. This is the thing that troubles me, for I cannot forget Carcosa, where black stars hang in the heavens, where the shadows of men's thoughts lengthen in the afternoon, when the twin suns sink into the Lake of Hali, and my mind will bear forever the memory of the Pallid Mask. I pray God will curse the writer, as the writer has cursed the world with this beautiful, stupendous creation, terrible in its simplicity, irresistible in its truth -- a world which now trembles before the King in Yellow. When the French government seized the translated copies which had just arrived in Paris, London, of course, became eager to read it. It is well known how the book spread like an infectious disease, from city to city, from continent to continent, barred out here, confiscated there, denounced by press and pulpit, censured even by the most advanced of literary anarchists. No definite principles had been violated in those wicked pages, no doctrine promulgated, no convictions outraged. It could not be judged by any known standard, yet, although it was acknowledged that the supreme note of art had been struck in "The King in Yellow," all felt that human nature could not bear the strain nor thrive on words in which the essence of purest poison lurked. The very banality and innocence of the first act only allowed the blow to fall afterwards with more awful effect.
It was, I remember, the 13th day of April, 1920, that the first Government Lethal Chamber was established on the south side of Washington Square, between Wooster Street and South Fifth Avenue. The block, which had formerly consisted of a lot of shabby old buildings, used as cafés and restaurants for foreigners, had been acquired by the government in the winter of 1913. The French and Italian cafés and restaurants were torn down; the whole block enclosed by a gilded iron railing, and converted into a lovely garden, with lawns, flowers, and fountains. In the centre of the garden stood a small, white building, severely classical in architecture, and surrounded by thickets of flowers. Six Ionic columns supported the roof, and the single door was of bronze. A splendid marble group of "the Fates" stood before the door, the work of a young American sculptor, Boris Yvain, who had died in Paris when only twenty-three years old.
The inauguration ceremonies were in progress as I crossed University Place and entered the square. I threaded my way through the silent throng of spectators but was stopped at Fourth Street by a cordon of police. A regiment of United States Lancers were drawn up in a hollow square around the Lethal Chamber. On a raised tribune facing Washington Park stood the Governor of New York, and behind him were grouped the Mayor of Greater New York, the Inspector-General of Police, the commandant of State troops, Colonel Livingston (military aid to the President of the United States), General Blount (commanding at Governor's Island), Major-General Hamilton (commanding the garrison of Greater New York), Admiral Buffby (of the fleet in the North River), Surgeon-General Lanceford, the staff of the National Free Hospital, Senators Wyse and Franklin, of New York, and the Commissioner of Public Works. The tribune was surrounded by a squadron of hussars of the National Guard.
The Governor was finishing his reply to the short speech of the Surgeon-General. I heard him say: "The laws prohibiting suicide and providing punishment for any attempt at self-destruction have been repealed. The government has seen fit to acknowledge the right of man to end an existence which may have become intolerable to him, through physical suffering or mental despair. It is believed that the community will be benefited by the removal of such people from their midst. Since the passage of this law, the number of suicides in the United States has not increased. Now that the government has determined to establish a Lethal Chamber in every city, town, and village in the country, it remains to be seen whether or not that class of humans creatures from whose desponding ranks new victims of self-destruction fall daily will accept the relief thus provided." He paused, and turned to the white Lethal Chamber. The silence in the street was absolute. "There a painless death awaits him who can no longer bear the sorrows of this life. If death is welcome, let him seek it here." Then, quickly turning to the military aid of the President's household, he said, "I declare the Lethal Chamber open"; and again facing the vast crowd, he cried in a clear voice: "Citizens of New York and of the United States of America, through me the government declares the Lethal Chamber to be open."
The solemn hush was broken by a sharp cry of command, the squadron of hussars filed after the Governor's carriage, the lancers wheeled and formed along Fifth Avenue to wait for the commandant of the garrison, and the mounted police followed them. I left the crowd to gape and stare at the white marble death-chamber, and, crossing South Fifth Avenue, walked along the western side of that thoroughfare to Bleecker Street. Then I turn to the right and stopped before a dingy shop which bore the sign,
HAWBERK, ARMORER.
I glanced in at the door-way and saw Hawberk busy in his little shop at the end of the hall. He looked up and, catching sight of me, cried, in his deep, hearty voice, "Come in, Mr. Castaigne!" Constance, his daughter, rose to meet me as I crossed the threshold, and held out her pretty hand, but I saw the blush of disappointment on her cheeks, and knew that it was another Castaigne she had expected, my cousin Louis. I smiled at her confusion and complimented her on the banner which she was embroidering from a colored plate. Old Hawberk sat riveting the worn greaves of some ancient suit of armor, and the ting! ting! of his little hammer sounded pleasantly in the quaint shop. Presently he dropped his hammer and fussed about for a moment with a tiny wrench. The soft clash of the mail sent a thrill of pleasure through me. I loved to hear the music of steel brushing against steel, the mellow shock of the mallet on thigh-pieces, and the jingle of chain armor. That was the only reason I went to see Hawberk. He had never interested me personally, nor did Constance, except for the fact of her being in love with Louis. This did occupy my attention, and sometimes even kept me awake at night. But I knew in my heart that all would come right, and that I should arrange their future as I expected to arrange that of my kind doctor, John Archer. However, I should never have troubled myself about visiting them just then had it not been, as I say, that the music of the tinkling hammer had for me this strong fascination. I would sit for hours, listening and listening, and when a stray sunbeam struck the inlaid steel, the sensation it gave me was almost too keen to endure. My eyes would become fixed, dilating with a pleasure that stretched every nerve almost to breaking, until some movement of the old armorer cut off the ray of sunlight, then, still thrilling secretly, I leaned back and listened again to the sound of the polishing rag -- swish! swish! -- rubbing rust from the rivets.
Constance worked with the embroidery over her knees, now and then pausing to examine more closely the pattern in the colored plate from the Metropolitan Museum.
"Who is this for?" I asked.
Hawberk explained that in addition to the treasures of armor in the Metropolitan Museum, of which he had been appointed armorer, he also had charge of several collections belonging to rich amateurs. This was the missing greave of a famous suit which a client of his had traced to a little shop in Paris on the Quai d'Orsay. He, Hawberk, had negotiated for and secured the greave, and now the suit was complete. He laid down his hammer and read me the history of the suit, traced since 1450 from owner to owner until it was acquired by Thomas Stainbridge.
When his superb collection was sold, this client of Hawberk's bought the suit, and since then the search for the missing greave has been pushed until it was, almost by accident, located in Paris.
"Did you continue the search so persistently without any certainty of the greave being still in existence?" I demanded.
"Of course," he replied, coolly.
Then for the first time I took a personal interest in Hawberk.
"It was worth something to you," I ventured.
"No," he replied, laughing, "my pleasure in finding it was my reward."
"Have you no ambition to be rich?" I asked, smiling.
"My one ambition is to be the best armorer in the world," he answered, gravely.
Constance asked me if I had seen the ceremonies at the Lethal Chamber. She herself had noticed cavalry passing up Broadway that morning, and had wished to see the inauguration, but her father wanted the banner finished, and she had stayed at his request.
"Did you see your cousin, Mr. Castaigne, there?" she asked, with the slightest tremor of her soft eyelashes.
"No," I replied, carelessly. "Louis' regiment is manoeuvring out in Westchester County." I rose and picked up my hat and cane.
"Are you going up-stairs to see the lunatic again?" laughed old Hawberk. If Hawberk knew how I loathe that word "lunatic," he would never use it in my presence. I rouses certain feelings within me which I do not care to explain. However, I answered him quietly:
"I think I shall drop in and see Mr. Wilde for a moment or two."
"Poor fellow," said Constance, with a shake of her head, "it must be hard to live alone year after year, poor, crippled, and almost demented. It is very good of your, Mr. Castaigne, to visit him as often as you do."
"I think he is vicious," observed Hawberk, beginning again with his hammer. I listened to the golden tinkle on the greave-plates; when he had finished I replied:
"No, he is not vicious, nor is he in the least demented. His mind is a wonder chamber, from which he can extract treasures that you and I would give years of our lives to acquire."
Hawberk laughed.
I continued, a little impatiently: "He knows history as no one else could know it. Nothing, however trivial, escapes his search, and his memory is so absolute, so precise in details, that were it known in New York that such a man existed the people could not honor him enough."
"Nonsense!" muttered Hawberk, searching on the floor for a fallen rivet.
"Is it nonsense," I asked, managing to suppress what I felt -- "is it nonsense when he says that the tassets and cuissards of the enamelled suit of armor commonly known as the 'Prince's Emblazoned' can be found among a mass of rusty theatrical properties, broken stoves, and ragpicker's refuse in a garret in Pell Street?"
Hawberk's hammer fell to the ground, but he picked it up and asked, with a great deal of calm, how I knew that the tassets and left cuissard were missing from the "Prince's Emblazoned."
"I did not know until Mr. Wilde mentioned it to me the other day. He said they were in the garret of 998 Pell Street."
"Nonsense!" he cried; but I noticed his hand trembling under his leather apron.
"Is this nonsense, too?" I asked pleasantly. "Is it nonsense when Mr. Wilde continually speaks of you as the Marquis of Avonshire, and of Miss Constance --"
I did not finish, for Constance had started to her feet with terror written on her every feature. Hawberk looked at me and slowly smoothed his leathern apron. "That is impossible," he observed. "Mr. Wilde may know a great many things --"
"About armor, for instance, and the 'Prince's Emblazoned,'" I interposed, smiling.
"Yes," he continued, slowly, "about armor also -- maybe -- but he is wrong in regard to the Marquis of Avonshire, who, as you know, killed his wife's traducer years ago, and went to Australia, where he did not long survive his wife."
"Mr. Wilde is wrong," murmured Constance. Her lips were blanched, but her voice was sweet and calm.
"Let us agree, if you please, that in this one circumstance Mr. Wilde is wrong," I said.
II
I climbed the three dilapidated flights of stairs which I had so often climbed before, and knocked at a small door at the end of the corridor. Mr. Wilde opened the door and I walked in.
When he had double-locked the door and pushed a heavy chest against it, he came and sat down beside me, peering up into my face with his little, light-colored eyes. Half a dozen new scratches covered his nose and cheeks, and the silver wires which supported his artificial ears had become displaced. I thought I had never seen him so hideously fascinating. He had no ears. The artificial ones, which now stood out at an angle from the fine wire, were his one weakness. They were made of wax and painted a shell pink; but the rest of his face was yellow. He might better have revelled in the luxury of some artificial fingers for his left hand, which was absolutely fingerless, but it seemed to cause him no inconvenience, and he was satisfied with his wax ears. He was very small, scarcely higher than a child of ten, but his arms were magnificently developed, and his thighs as thick as any athlete's. Still, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Wilde was that a man of his marvellous intelligence and knowledge should have such a head. It was flat and pointed, like the heads of many of those unfortunates whom people imprison in asylums for the weak-minded. Many called him insane, but I knew him to be as sane as I was.
I do not deny that he was eccentric; the mania he had for keeping that cat and teasing her until she flew at his face like a demon was certainly eccentric. I never could understand why he kept the creature, nor what pleasure he found in shutting himself up in his room with the surly, vicious beast. I remember once glancing up from the manuscript I was studying by the light of some tallow dips and seeing Mr. Wilde squatting motionless on his high chair, his eyes fairly blazing with excitement, while the cat, which had risen from her place before the stove, came creeping across the floor right at him. Before I could move she flattened her belly to the ground, crouched, trembled, and sprang onto his face. Howling and foaming, they rolled over and over on the floor, scratching and clawing, until the cat screamed and fled under the cabinet, and Mr. Wilde turned over on his back, his limbs contracting and curling up like the legs of a dying spider. He was eccentric.
Mr. Wilde had climbed into his high chair, and, after studying my face, picked up a dog's-eared ledger and opened it.
"Henry B. Matthews," he read, "book-keeper with Whysot Whysot & Company, dealers in church ornaments. Called April 3rd. Reputation damaged on the racetrack. Known as a welcher. Reputation to be repaired by August 1st. Retainer, Five Dollars." He turned the page and ran his fingerless knuckles down the closely written columns.
"P. Greene Dusenberry, Minister of the Gospel, Fairbeach, New Jersey. Reputation damaged in the Bowery. To be repaired as soon as possible. Retainer, $100."
He coughed and added, "Called, April 6th."
"Then you are not in need of money, Mr. Wilde," I inquired.
"Listen" -- he coughed again.
"Mrs. C. Hamilton Chester, of Chester Park, New York City, called April 7th. Reputation damaged at Dieppe, France. To be repaired by October 1st. Retainer, $500."
"Note -- C. Hamilton Chester, Captain U.S.S. Avalanche, ordered home from South Sea Squadron October 1st."
"Well," I said, "the profession of a Repairer of Reputations is lucrative."
His colorless eyes sought mine. "I only wanted to demonstrate that I was correct. You said it was impossible to succeed as a Repairer of Reputations; that even if I did succeed in certain cases, it would cost me more than I would gain by it. To-day I have five hundred men in my employ, who are poorly paid, but who pursue the work with an enthusiasm which possibly may be born of fear. These men enter every shade and grade of society; some even are pillars of the most exclusive social temples; other are the prop and pride of the financial world; still others hold undisputed sway among the 'Fancy and the Talent.' I choose them at my leisure from those who reply to my advertisements. It is easy enough -- they are all cowards. I could treble the number in twenty days if I wished. So, you see, those who have in their keeping the reputations of their fellow citizens, I have in my pay."
"They may turn on you," I suggested.
He rubbed his thumb over his cropped ears and adjusted the wax substitutes. "I think not," he murmured, thoughtfully, "I seldom have to apply the whip, and then only once. Besides, they like their wages."
"How do you apply the whip?" I demanded.
His face for a moment was awful to look upon. His eyes dwindled to a pair of green sparks.
"I invite them to come and have a little chat with me," he said, in a soft voice.
A knock at the door interrupted him, and his face resumed its amiable expression.
"Who is it?" he inquired.
"Mr. Steylette," was the answer.
"Come to-morrow," replied Mr. Wilde.
"Impossible," began the other; but was silenced by sort of bark from Mr. Wilde.
"Come to-morrow," he repeated.
We heard somebody move away from the door and turn the corner by the stair-way.
"Who is that?" I asked.
"Arnold Steylette, owner and editor-in-chief of the great New York daily."
He drummed on the ledger with his fingerless hand, adding, "I pay him very badly, but he thinks it is a good bargain."
"Arnold Steylette!" I repeated, amazed.
"Yes," said Mr. Wilde, with a self-satisfied cough.
The cat, which had entered the room as he spoke, hesitated, looked up at him, and snarled. He climbed down from the chair, and, squatting on the floor, took the creature into his arms and caressed her. The cat ceased snarling and presently began a loud purring, which seemed to increase in timbre as he stroked her.
"Where are the notes?" I asked. He pointed to the table, and for the hundredth time I picked up the bundle of manuscript entitled
"THE IMPERIAL DYNASTY OF AMERICA."
One by one I studied the well-worn pages, worn only by my own handling, and, although I knew all by heart, from the beginning, "when from Carcosa, the Hyades, Hastur, and Aldebaran," to "Castaigne, Louis de Calvados, born December 19, 1887," I read it with an eager, rapt attention, pausing to repeat parts of it aloud, and dwelling especially on "Hildred de Calvados, only son of Hildred Castaigne and Edythe Landes Castaigne, first in succession," etc., etc.
When I finished, Mr. Wilde nodded and coughed. "Speaking of your legitimate ambition," he said, how do Constance and Louis get along?"
"She loves him," I replied, simply.
The cat on his knee suddenly turned and struck at his eyes, and he flung her off and climbed onto the chair opposite me.
"And Dr. Archer? But that's a matter you can settle any time you wish," he added.
"Yes," I replied, "Dr. Archer can wait, but it is time I saw my cousin Louis."
"It is time," he repeated. Then he took another ledger from the table and ran over the leaves rapidly.
"We are now in communication with ten thousand men," he muttered. "We can count on one hundred thousand within the first twenty-eight hours, and in forty-eight hours the State will rise en masse. The country follows the State, and the portion that will not, I mean California and the Northwest, might better never have been inhabited. I shall not send them the Yellow Sign."
The blood rushed to my head, but I only answered, "A new broom sweeps clean."
"The ambition of Caesar and of Napoleon pales before that which could not rest until it had seized the minds of men and controlled even their unborn thoughts," said Mr. Wilde.
"You are speaking of the King in Yellow," I groaned, with a shudder.
"He is a king whom emperors have served."
"I am content to serve him," I replied.
Mr. Wilde sat rubbing his ears with his crippled hand. "Perhaps Constance does not love him," he suggested.
I started to reply, but a sudden burst of military music from the street below drowned my voice. The Twentieth Dragoon Regiment, formerly in garrison at Mount St. Vincent, was returning from the manoeuvres in Westchester County to its new barracks on East Washington Square. It was my cousin's regiment. They were a fine lot of fellows, in their pale-blue, tight-fitting jackets, jaunty busbies, and with riding-breeches, with the double yellow stripe, into which their limbs seemed to have been moulded. Every other squadron was armed with lances, from the metal points of which fluttered yellow-and-white pennons. The band passed, playing the regimental march, then came the colonel and staff, the horses crowding and trampling, while their heads bobbed in unison, and the pennons fluttered from their lance points. The troopers, who rode with the beautiful English seat, looked brown as berries from their bloodless campaign among the farms of Westchester, and the music of their sabres against the stirrups, and the jingle of spurs and carbines was delightful to me. I saw Louis riding with his squadron. He was as handsome an officer as I have ever seen. Mr. Wilde, who had mounted a chair by the window, saw him, too, but said nothing. Louis turned and looked straight at Hawberk's shop as he passed, and I could see the flush on his brown cheeks. I think Constance must have been at the window. When the last troopers had clattered by, and the last pennons vanished into South Fifth Avenue, Mr. Wilde clambered out of his chair and dragged the chest away from the door.
"Yes," he said, "it is time that you saw your cousin Louis."
He unlocked the door and I picked up my hat and stick and stepped into the corridor. The stairs were dark. Groping about, I set my foot on something soft, which snarled and spit, and I aimed a murderous blow at the cat, but my cane shivered to splinters against the balustrade, and the beast scurried back into Mr. Wilde's room.
Passing Hawberk's door again, I saw him still at work on the armor, but I did not stop, and, stepping out into Bleecker Street, I followed it to Wooster, skirted the grounds of the Lethal Chamber, and, crossing Washington Park, went straight to my rooms in the Benedick. Here I lunched comfortably, read the Herald and the Meteor, and finally went to the steel safe in my bedroom and set the time combination. The three and three-quarter minutes which it is necessary to wait, while the time lock is opening, are to me golden moments. From the instant I set the combination to the moment when I grasp the knobs and swing back the solid steel doors, I live in an ecstasy of expectation. Those moments must be like moments passed in paradise. I know what I am to find at the end of the time limit. I know what the massive safe holds secure for me, for me alone, and the exquisite pleasure of waiting is hardly enhanced when the safe opens and I lift, from its velvet crown, a diadem of purest gold, blazing with diamonds. I do this every day, and yet the joy of waiting and at last touching again the diadem only seems to increase as the days pass. It is a diadem fit for a king among kings, an emperor among emperors. The King in Yellow might scorn it, but it shall be worn by his royal servant.
I held it in my arms until the alarm on the safe rang harshly, and then tenderly, proudly I replaced it and shut the steel doors. I walked slowly back into my study, which faces Washington Square, and leaned on the window-sill. The afternoon sun poured into my windows, and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of the elms and maples in the park, not covered with buds and tender foliage. A flock of pigeons circled about the tower of the memorial Church, sometimes alighting on the purple-tiled roof, sometimes wheeling downward to the lotos fountain in front of the marble arch. The gardeners were busy with the flowerbeds around the fountain, and the freshly turned earth smelled sweet and spicy. A lawn-mower, drawn by a fat, white horse, clinked across the greensward, and watering-carts poured showers of spray over the asphalt drives. Around the statue of Peter Stuyvesant, which in 1906 had replaced the monstrosity supposed to represent Garibaldi, children played in the spring sunshine, and nurse girls wheeled elaborate baby-carriages with reckless disregard for the pasty-face occupants, which could probably be explained by the presence of half a dozen trim dragoon troopers languidly lolling on the benches. Through the trees the Washington Memorial Arch glistened like silver in the sunshine, and beyond, on the eastern extremity of the square, the gray-stone barracks of the dragoons and the white-granite artillery stables were alive with color and motion.
I looked at the Lethal Chamber on the corner of the square opposite. A few curious people still lingered about the gilded iron railing, but inside the grounds the paths were deserted. I watched the fountains ripple and sparkle; the sparrows had already found this new bathing nook, and the basins were crowded with the dusty-feathered little things. Two or three white peacocks picked their way across the lawns, and a drab-colored pigeon sat so motionless on the arm of one of the Fates that it seemed to be a part of the sculptured stone.
As I was turning carelessly away, a slight commotion in the group of curious loiterers around the gates attracted my attention. A young man had entered, and was advancing with nervous strides along the gravel path which leads to the bronze doors of the Lethal Chamber. He paused a moment before the Fates, and as he raised his head to those three mysterious faces, the pigeon rose from its sculptured perch, circled about for a moment, and wheeled to the east. The young man pressed his hands to his face, and then, with an undefinable gesture, sprang up the marble steps, the bronze doors closed behind him, and half an hour later the loiterers slouched away and the frightened pigeon returned to its perch in the arms of Fate.
I put on my hat and went out into the park for a little walk before dinner. As I crossed the central drive-way a group of officers passed, and one of them called out, "Hello, Hildred!" and came back to shake hands with me. It was my cousin Louis, who stood smiling and tapping his spurred heels with his riding-whip.
"Just back from Westchester," he said; "been doing the bucolic; milk and curds, you know; dairy-maids in sun-bonnets, who say 'haeow' and 'I don't think' when you tell them they are pretty. I'm nearly dead for a square meal at Delmonico's. What's the news?"
"There is none," I replied, pleasantly. "I saw your regiment coming in this morning."
"Did you? I didn't see you. Where were you?"
"In Mr. Wilde's window."
"Oh, hell!" he began, impatiently, "that man is stark mad! I don't understand why you --"
He saw how annoyed I felt by this outburst, and begged my pardon.
"Really, old chap," he said, "I don't mean to run down a man you like, but for the life of me I can't see what the deuce you find in common with Mr. Wilde. He's not well bred, to put it generously; he's hideously deformed; his head is the head of a criminally insane person. You know yourself he's been in an asylum --"
"So have I," I interrupted, calmly.
Louis looked startled and confused for a moment, but recovered and slapped me heartily on the shoulder.
"You were completely cured," he began; but I stopped him again.
"I suppose you mean that I was simply acknowledged never to have been insane."
"Of course that -- that's what I meant," he laughed.
I disliked his laugh, because I knew it was forced; but I nodded gayly and asked him where he was going. Louis looked after his brother officers, who had now almost reached Broadway.
"We had intended to sample a Brunswick cocktail, but, to tell you the truth, I was anxious for an excuse to go and see Hawberk instead. Come along; I'll make you my excuse."
We found Hawberk, neatly attired in a fresh spring suit, standing at the door of his shop and sniffing the air.
"I had just decided to take Constance for a little stroll before dinner," he replied to the impetuous volley of questions from Louis. "We though of walking on the park terrace along the North River."
At that moment Constance appeared and grew pale and rosy by turns as Louis bent over her small, gloved fingers. I tried to excuse myself, alleging an engagement up-town, but Louis and Constance would not listen, and I saw I was expected to remain and engage old Hawberk's attention. After all, it would be just as well if I kept my eye on Louis, I thought, and, when they hailed a Spring Street electric-car, I got in after them and took my seat beside the armorer.
The beautiful line of parks and granite terraces overlooking the wharves along the North River, which were built in 1910 and finished in the autumn of 1917, had become one of the most popular promenades in the metropolis. They extended from the Battery to One Hundred and Ninetieth street, overlooking the noble river, and affording a fine view of the Jersey shore and the Highlands opposite. Cafés and restaurants were scattered here and there among the trees, and twice a week military bands from the garrison played in the kiosques on the parapets.
We sat down in the sunshine on the bench at the foot of the equestrian status of General Sheridan. Constance tipped her sunshade to shield her eyes, and she and Louis began a murmuring conversation which was impossible to catch. Old Hawberk, leaning on his ivory-headed cane, lighted an excellent cigar, the mate to which I politely refused, and smiled at vacancy. The sun hung low above the Staten Island woods, and the bay was dyed with golden hues reflected from the sun-warmed sails of the shipping in the harbor.
Brigs, schooners, yachts, clumsy ferry-boats, their decks swarming with people, railroad transports carrying lines of brown, blue, and white freight-cars, stately Sound steamers, declasse tramp steamers, coasters, dredgers, scows, and everywhere pervading the entire bay impudent little tugs puffing and whistling officiously -- these were the craft which churned the sunlit waters as far as the eye could reach. In calm contrast to the hurry of sailing vessel and steamer, a silent fleet of white war-ships lay motionless in mid-stream.
Constance's merry laugh aroused me from my reverie.
"What are you staring at?" she inquired.
"Nothing -- the fleet." I smiled.
Then Louis told us what the vessels were, pointing out each by its relative position to the old red fort on Governor's Island.
"That little cigar-shaped thing is a torpedo-boat," he explained; "there are four more lying close together. They are the Tarpon, the Falcon, the Sea Fox, and the Octopus. The gunboats just above are the Princeton, the Champlain, the Still Water, and the Erie. Next to them lie the cruisers Farragut and Los Angeles, and above them the battle-ships California and Dakota, and the Washington, which is the flagship. Those two squatty-looking chunks of metal which are anchored there off Castle William are the double-turreted monitors Terrible and Magnificent; behind them lies the ram Osceola."
Constance looked at him with deep approval in her beautiful eyes. "What loads of things you know for a soldier," she said, and we all joined in the laugh which followed.
Presently Louis rose with a nod to us and offered his arm to Constance, and they strolled away along the river-wall. Hawberk watched them for a moment, and then turned to me.
Mr. Wilde was right," he said. "I have found the missing tassets and left cuissard of the 'Prince's Emblazoned,' in a vile old junk garret in Pell Street."
"998?" I inquired, with a smile.
"Yes."
"Mr. Wilde is a very intelligent man," I observed.
"I want to give him the credit of this most important discovery," continued Hawberk. "And I intend it shall be known that he is entitled to the fame of it."
"He won't thank you for that," I answered, sharply; "please say nothing about it."
"Do you know what it is worth?" said Hawberk.
"No -- fifty dollars, perhaps."
"It is valued at five hundred, but the owner of the 'Prince's Emblazoned' will give two thousand dollars to the person who completes his suit; that reward also belongs to Mr. Wilde."
"He doesn't want it! He refuses it!" I answered, angrily. "What do you know about Mr. Wilde? He doesn't need the money. He is rich -- or will be -- richer than any living man except myself. What will we care for money then -- what will we care, he and I, when -- when -- "
"When what?" demanded Hawberk, astonished.
"You will see," I replied, on my guard again.
He looked at me narrowly, much as Dr. Archer used to, and I knew he thought I was mentally unsound. Perhaps it was fortunate for him that he did not use the word lunatic just then.
"No," I replied to his unspoken thought, "I am not mentally weak; my mind is as healthy as Mr. Wilde's. I do not care to explain just yet what I have on hand, but it is an investment which will pay more than mere gold, silver, and precious stones. It will secure the happiness and prosperity of a continent -- yes, a hemisphere!"
"Oh," said Hawberk.
"And eventually," I continued, more quietly, "it will secure the happiness of the whole world."
"And incidentally your own happiness and prosperity as well as Mr. Wilde's?"
"Exactly," I smiled, but I could have throttled him for taking that tone.
He looked at me in silence for a while, and then said, very gently: "Why don't you give up your books and studies, Mr. Castaigne, and take a tramp among the mountains somewhere or other? You used to be fond of fishing. Take a cast or two at the trout in the Rangelys."
"I don't care for fishing any more," I answered, without a shade of annoyance in my voice.
"You used to be fond of everything," he continued -- "athletics, yachting, shooting, riding -- "
"I have never cared to ride since my fall," I said, quietly.
"Ah, yes, your fall," he repeated, looking away from me.
I thought this nonsense had gone far enough, so I turned the conversation back to Mr. Wilde; but he was scanning my face again in a manner highly offensive to me.
"Mr. Wilde," he repeated; "do you know what he did this afternoon? He came down-stairs and nailed a sign over the hall door next to mine; it read:
MR. WILDEREPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS3rd Bell.
Do you know what a Repairer of Reputations can be?"
"I do," I replied, suppressing rage within.
"Oh," he said again.
Louis and Constance came strolling by and stopped to ask if we would join them. Hawberk looked at his watch. At the same moment a puff of smoke shot from the casemates of Castle William, and the boom of the sunset gun rolled across the water and was re-echoed from the Highlands opposite. The flag came running down from the flagpole, and bugles sounded on the white decks of the warships, and the first electric light sparkled out from the Jersey shore.
As I turned into the city with Hawberk I heard Constance murmur something to Louis which I did not understand; but Louis whispered "My darling!" in reply; and again, walking ahead with Hawberk through the square, I heard a murmur of "sweetheart!" and "my own Constance!" and I knew the time had nearly arrived when I should speak of important matters with my cousin Louis.
III
One morning early in May I stood before the steel safe in my bedroom, trying on the golden jewelled crown. The diamonds flashed fire as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy beaten gold burned like a halo about my head. I remembered Camilla's agonized scream and the awful words echoing through the dim streets of Carcosa. They were the last lines of the first act, and I dared not think of what followed -- dared not, even in the spring sunshine, there in my own room, surrounded with familiar objects, reassured by the bustle from the street and the voices of the servants in the hall-way outside. For those poisoned words had dropped slowly into my heart, as death-sweat drops upon a bed-sheet and is absorbed. Trembling, I put the diadem from my head and wiped my forehead, but I thought of Hastur and of my own rightful ambition, and I remembered Mr. Wilde as I had last left him, his face all torn and bloody from the claws of that devil's creature, and what he said -- ah, what he said! The alarm-bell in the safe began to whir harshly, and I knew my time was up; but I would not heed it, and, replacing the flashing circlet upon my head, I turned defiantly to the mirror. I stood for a long time absorbed in the changing expression of my own eyes. The mirror reflected a face which was like my own, but whiter, and so thin that I hardly recognized it. And all the time I kept repeating between my clinched teeth, "The day has come! the day has come!" while the alarm in the safe whirred and clamored, and the diamonds sparkled and flamed above my brow. I heard a door open, but did not heed it. It was only when I saw two faces in the mirror; it was only when another face rose over my shoulder, and two other eyes met mine. I wheeled like a flash and seized a long knife from my dressing-table, and my cousin sprang back very pale, crying: "Hildred! for God's sake!" Then, as my hand fell, he said: "It is I, Louis; don't you know me?" I stood silent. I could not have spoken from my life. He walked up to me and took the knife from my hand.
"What is all this?" he inquired, in a gentle voice. "Are you ill?"
"No," I replied. But I doubt if he heard me.
"Come, come, old fellow," he cried, "take off that brass crown and toddle into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What's all this theatrical tinsel anyway?"
I was glad he thought the crown was made of brass and paste, yet I didn't like him any the better for thinking so. I let him take it from my hand, knowing it was best to humor him. He tossed the splendid diadem in the air, and, catching it, turned to me smiling.
"It's dear at fifty cents," he said. "What's it for?"
I did not answer, but took the circlet from his hands, and, placing it in the safe, shut the massive door. The alarm ceased its infernal din at once. He watched me curiously, but did not seem to notice the sudden ceasing of the alarm. He did, however, speak of the safe as a biscuit-box. Fearing lest he might examine the combination, I led the way into my study. Louis threw himself on the sofa and flicked at flies with his eternal riding-whip. He wore his fatigue uniform, with the braided jacket and jaunty cap, and I noticed that his riding-boots were all splashed with red mud.
"Where have you been?" I inquired.
"Jumping mud creeks in Jersey," he said. "I haven't had time to change yet; I was rather in a hurry to see you. Haven't you got a glass of something? I'm dead tired; been in the saddle twenty-four hours."
I gave him some brandy from my medicinal store, which he drank with a grimace.
"Damned bad stuff," he observed. "I'll give you an address where they sell brandy that is brandy."
"It's good enough from my needs," I said, indifferently. "I use it to rub my chest with." He stared and flicked at another fly.
"See here, old fellow," he began, "I've got something to suggest to you. It's four years now that you've shut yourself up here like an owl, never going anywhere, never taking any healthy exercise, never doing a damn thing but poring over those books up there on the mantel-piece."
He glanced along the row of shelves. "Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon!" he read. "For Heaven's sake, have you nothing but Napoleon there?"
"I wish they were bound in gold," I said. "But wait -- yes, there is another book, 'The King in Yellow.'" I looked him steadily in the eye.
"Have you never read it?" I asked.
"I? No, thank God! I don't want to be driven crazy."
I saw he regretted his speech as soon as he had uttered it. There is only one word which I loathe more than I do lunatic, and that word is crazy. But I controlled myself and asked him why he though "The King in Yellow" dangerous.
"Oh, I don't know," he said, hastily. "I only remember the excitement it created and the denunciations from pulpit and press. I believe the author shot himself after bringing forth this monstrosity, didn't he?"
"I understand he is still alive," I answered.
"That's probably true," he muttered; "bullets couldn't kill a fiend like that."
"It is a book of great truths," I said.
"Yes," he replied, "of 'truths' which send men frantic and blast their lives. I don't care if the thing is, as they say, the very supreme essence of art. It's a crime to have written it, and I for one shall never open its pages."
"Is that what you have come to tell me?" I asked.
"No," he said, "I came to tell you that I am going to be married."
I believe for a moment my heart ceased to beat, but I kept my eyes on his face.
"Yes," he continued, smiling happily, "married to the sweetest girl on earth."
"Constance Hawberk," I said, mechanically.
"How did you know?" he cried, astonished. "I didn't know it myself until that evening last April, when we strolled down to the embankment before dinner."
"When is it to be?" I asked.
"It was to have been next September; but an hour ago a despatch came, ordering our regiment to the Presidio, San Francisco. We leave at noon to-morrow. To-morrow," he repeated. "Just think, Hildred, to-morrow I shall be the happiest fellow that ever drew breath in this jolly world, for Constance will go with me."
I offered my hand in congratulation, and he seized and shook it like the good-natured fool he was -- or pretended to be.
"I am going to get my squadron as a wedding present," he rattled on. "Captain and Mrs. Louis Castaigne -- eh, Hildred?"
Then he told me where it was to be and who were to be there, and made me promise to come and be best man. I set my teeth and listened to his boyish chatter without showing what I felt, but --
I was getting to the limit of my endurance, and when he jumped up, and, switching his spurs till they jingled, said he must go, I did not detain him.
"There's only one thing I want to ask of you," I said, quietly.
"Out with it -- it's a promise," he laughed.
"I want you to meet me for a quarter of an hour's talk to-night."
"Of course, if you wish," he said, somewhat puzzled. "Where?"
"Anywhere -- in the park there."
"What time, Hildred?"
"Midnight."
"What in the name of -- " he began, but checked himself and laughingly assented. I watched him go down the stairs and hurry away, his sabre banging at every stride. He turned into Bleecker Street, and I knew he was going to see Constance. I gave him ten minutes to disappear and then followed in his footsteps, taking with me the jewelled crown and the silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign. When I turned into Bleecker Street and entered the door-way which bore the sign,
MR. WILDEREPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS3rd. Bell.
I saw old Hawberk moving about in his shop, and imagined I heard Constance's voice in the parlor; but I avoided them both and hurried up the trembling stairways to Mr. Wilde's apartment. I knocked, and entered without ceremony. Mr. Wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face covered with blood, his clothes torn to shreds. Drops of blood were scattered about over the carpet, which had also been ripped and frayed in the evidently recent struggle.
"It's that cursed cat," he said, ceasing his groans and turning his colorless eyes to me; "she attacked me while I was asleep. I believe she will kill me yet."
This was too much, so I went into the kitchen and, seizing a hatchet from the pantry, started to find the infernal beast and settle her then and there. My search was fruitless, and after a while I gave it up and came back to find Mr. Wilde squatting on his high chair by the table. He had washed his face and changed his clothes. The great furrows which the cat's claws had ploughed up in his face he had filled with collodion, and a rag hid the wound in his throat. I told him I should kill the cat when I came across her, but he only shook his head and turned to the open ledger before him. He read name after name of the people who had come to him in regard to their reputation, and the sums he had amassed were startling.
"I put on the screws now and then," he explained.
"One day or other some of these people will assassinate you," I insisted.
"Do you think so?" he said, rubbing his mutilated ears.
It was useless to argue with him, so I took down the manuscript entitled Imperial Dynasty of America for the last time I should ever take it down in Mr. Wilde's study. I read it through, thrilling and trembling with pleasure. When I had finished, Mr. Wilde took the manuscript, and, turning to the dark passage which leads from his study to his bedchamber, called out, in a loud voice, "Vance." Then for the first time I noticed a man crouching there in the shadow. How I had overlooked him during my search for the cat I cannot imagine.
"Vance, come in!" cried Mr. Wilde.
The figure rose and crept towards us, and I shall never forget the face that he raised to mine as the light from the window illuminated it.
"Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne," said Mr. Wilde. Before he had finished speaking, the man threw himself on the ground before the table, crying and gasping, "Oh, God! Oh, my God! Help me! Forgive me -- Oh, Mr. Castaigne, keep that man away! You cannot, you cannot mean it! You are different -- save me! I am broken down -- I was in a madhouse, and now -- when all was coming right -- when I had forgotten the King -- the King in Yellow, and -- but I shall go mad again -- I shall go mad -- "
His voice died into a choking rattle, for Mr. Wilde had leaped on him, and his right hand encircled the man's throat. When Vance fell in a heap on the floor, Mr. Wilde clambered nimbly into his chair again, and, rubbing his mangled ears with the stump of his hand, turned to me and asked me for the ledger. I reached it down from the shelf and he opened it. After a moment's searching among the beautifully written pages, he coughed complacently and pointed to the name Vance.
"Vance," he read aloud -- "Osgood Oswald Vance." At the sound of his name the man on the floor raised his head and turned a convulsed face to Mr. Wilde. His eyes were injected with blood, his lips tumified. "Called April 28th," continued Mr. Wilde. "Occupation, cashier in the Seaforth National Bank; has served a term for forgery at Sing Sing, whence he was transferred to the Asylum for the Criminal Insane. Pardoned by the Governor of New York, and discharged from the Asylum January 19, 1918. Reputation damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumors that he lives beyond his income. Reputation to be repaired at once. Retainer, $1500.
"Note. -- Has embezzled sums amounting to $30,000 since March 20, 1919. Excellent family, and secured present position through uncle's influence. Father, President of Seaforth Bank."
I looked at the man on the floor.
"Get up, Vance," said Mr. Wilde, in a gentle voice. Vance rose as if hypnotized. "He will do as we suggest now," observed Mr. Wilde, and, opening the manuscript, he read the entire history of the Imperial Dynasty of America. Then, in a kind and soothing murmur, he ran over the important points with Vance, who stood like one stunned. His eyes were so blank and vacant that I imagined he had become half-witted, and remarked it to Mr. Wilde, who replied that it was of no consequence anyway. Very patiently we pointed out to Vance what his share in the affair would be, and he seemed to understand after a while. Mr. Wilde explained the manuscript, using several volumes on Heraldry to substantiate the result of his researches. He mentioned the establishment of the Dynasty in Carcosa, the lakes which connected Hastur, Aldebaran, and the mystery of the Hyades. He spoke of Cassilda and Camilla, and sounded the cloudy depths of Demhe and the Lake of Hali. "The scalloped tatters of the King in Yellow must hide Yhill forever," he muttered, but I do not believe Vance heard him. Then by degrees he led Vance along the ramifications of the imperial family to Uoht and Thale, from Naotalba and Phantom of Truth to Aldones, and then, tossing aside his manuscript and notes he began the wonderful story of the Last King. Fascinated and thrilled, I watched him. He threw up his head, his long arms were stretched out in a magnificent gesture of pride and power, and his eyes blazed deep in their sockets like two emeralds. Vance listened, stupefied. As for me, when at last Mr. Wilde had finished, and, pointing to me, cried, "The cousin of the King," my head swam with excitement.
Controlling myself with a superhuman effort, I explained to Vance why I alone was worthy of the crown, and why my cousin must be exiled or die. I made him understand that my cousin must never marry, even after renouncing all his claims, and how that, least of all, he should marry the daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire and bring England into the question. I showed him a list of thousands of names which Mr. Wilde had drawn up; every man whose name was there had received the Yellow Sign, which no living human being dared disregard. The city, the State, the whole land, were ready to rise and tremble before the Pallid Mask.
The time had come, the people should know the son of Hastur, and the whole world bow to the black stars which hang in the sky over Carcosa.
Vance leaned on the table, his head buried in his hands. Mr. Wilde drew a rough sketch on the margin of yesterday's Herald with a bit of lead-pencil. It was a plan of Hawberk's rooms. Then he wrote out the order and affixed the seal, and, shaking like a palsied man, I signed my first writ of execution with my name Hildred-Rex.
Mr. Wilde clambered to the floor and, unlocking the cabinet, took a long, square box from the first shelf. This he brought to the table and opened. A new knife lay in the tissue-paper inside, and I picked it up and handed it to Vance, along with the order and the plan of Hawberk's apartment. Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he could go; and he went, shambling like an outcast of the slums.
I sat for a while watching the daylight fade behind the square tower of the Judson Memorial Church, and finally, gathering up the manuscript and notes, took my hat and started for the door. Mr. Wilde watched me in silence. When I had stepped into the hall I looked back; Mr. Wilde's small eyes were still fixed on me. Behind him the shadows gathered in the fading light. Then I closed the door behind me and went out into the darkening streets.
I had eaten nothing since breakfast, but I was not hungry. A wretched, half-starved creature, who stood looking across the street at the Lethal Chamber, noticed me and came up to tell me a tale of misery. I gave him money -- I don't know why -- and he went away without thanking me. An hour later another outcast approached and whined his story. I had a blank bit of paper in my pocket, on which was traced the Yellow Sign, and I handed it to him. He looked at it stupidly for a moment, and then, with an uncertain glance at me, folded it with what seemed to me exaggerated care and placed it in his bosom.
The electric lights were sparkling among the trees, and the new moon shone in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. It was tiresome waiting in the square; I wandered from the marble arch to the artillery stables, and back again to the lotos fountain. The flowers and grass exhaled a fragrance which troubled me. The jet of the fountain drops reminded me of the tinkle of chain mail in Hawberk's shop. But it was not so fascinating, and the dull sparkle of the moonlight on the water brought no such sensations of exquisite pleasure as when the sunshine played over the polished steel of a corselet on Hawberk's knee. I watched the bats darting and turning above the water plants in the fountain basin, but their rapid, jerky flight set my nerves on edge, and I went away again to walk aimlessly to and fro among the trees.
The artillery stables were dark, but in the cavalry barracks the officers' windows were brilliantly lighted, and the sally-port was constantly filled with troopers in fatigues, carrying straw and harness and baskets filled with tin dishes.
Twice the mounted sentry at the gates was changed while I wandered up and down the asphalt walk. I looked at my watch. It was nearly time. The lights in the barracks went out one by one, the barred gate was closed, and every minute or two an officer passed in through the side wicket, leaving a rattle of accoutrements and a jingle of spurs on the night air. The square had become very silent. The last homeless loiterer had been driven away by the gray-coated park policeman, the car tracks along Wooster Street were deserted, and the only sound which broke the stillness was the stamping of the sentry's horse and the ring of his sabre against the saddle pommel. In the barracks the officers' quarters were still lighted, and military servants passed and repassed before the bay-windows. Twelve o'clock sounded from the new spire of St. Francis Xavier, and at the last stroke of the sad-toned bell a figure passed through the portcullis, returned the salute of the sentry, and, crossing the street, entered the square and advanced towards the Benedick apartment house.
"Louis," I called.
The man pivoted on his spurred heels and came straight towards me.
"Is that you, Hildred?"
"Yes, you are on time."
I took his offered hand and we strolled towards the Lethal Chamber.
He rattled on about his wedding and the graces of Constance and their future prospects, calling my attention to his captain's shoulder-straps and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and fatigue cap. I believe I listened as much to the music of his spurs and sabre as I did to his boyish babble, and at last we stood under the elms on the Fourth Street corner of the square opposite the Lethal Chamber. Then he laughed and asked me what I wanted with him. I motioned him to a seat on a bench under the electric light, and sat down beside him. He looked at me curiously, with that same searching glance which I hate and fear so in doctors. I felt the insult of his look, but he did not know it, and I carefully concealed my feelings.
"Well, old chap," he inquired, "what can I do for you?"
I drew from my pocket the manuscript and notes of the Imperial Dynasty of America, and, looking him in the eye, said:
"I will tell you. On your word as a soldier, promise me to read this manuscript from beginning to end, without asking me a question. Promise me to read these notes in the same way, and promise to me to listen to what I have to tell later."
"I promise, if you wish it," he said, pleasantly. "Give me the paper, Hildred."
He began to read, raising his eyebrows with a puzzled, whimsical air, which made me tremble with suppressed anger. As he advanced, his eyebrows contracted, and his lips seemed to form the word "rubbish."
Then he looked slightly bored, but apparently for my sake read, with an attempt at interest, which presently ceased to be an effort. He started when, in the closely written pages he came to his own name, and when he came to mine he lowered the paper and looked sharply at me for a moment. But he kept his word, and resumed his reading, and I let the half-formed question die on his lips unanswered. When he came to the end and read the signature of Mr. Wilde, he folded the paper carefully and returned it to me. I handed him the notes, and he settled back, pushing his fatigue cap up to his forehead with a boyish gesture which I remembered so well in school. I watched his face as he read, and when he finished I took the notes, with the manuscript, and placed them in my pocket. Then I unfolded a scroll marked with the Yellow Sign. He saw the sign, but he did not seem to recognize it, and I called his attention to it somewhat sharply.
"Well," he said, "I see it. What is it?"
"It is the Yellow Sign," I said, angrily.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Louis, in that flattering voice which Dr. Archer used to employ with me, and would probably have employed again, had I not settled his affair for him.
I kept my rage down and answered as steadily as possible, "Listen, you have engaged your word?"
"I am listening, old chap," he replied, soothingly.
I began to speak very calmly: "Dr. Archer, having by some means become possessed of the secret of the Imperial Succession, attempted to deprive me of my right, alleging that, because of a fall from my horse four years ago, I had become mentally deficient. He presumed to place me under restraint in his own house in hopes of either driving me insane or poisoning me. I have not forgotten it. I visited him last night and the interview was final."
Louis turned quite pale, but did not move. I resumed, triumphantly: "There are yet three people to be interviewed in the interests of Mr. Wilde and myself. They are my cousin Louis, Mr. Hawberk, and his daughter Constance."
Louis sprang to his feet, and I arose also, and flung the paper marked with the Yellow Sign to the ground.
"Oh, I don't need that to tell you what I have to say," I cried, with a laugh of triumph. "You must renounce the crown to me -- do you hear, to me?"
Louis looked at me with a startled air, but, recovering himself, said kindly, "Of course I renounce the -- what is it I must renounce?"
"The crown," I said, angrily.
"Of course," he answered. "I renounce it. Come, old chap, I'll walk back to your rooms with you."
"Don't try your doctor's tricks on me," I cried, trembling with fury. "Don't act as if you think I am insane."
"What nonsense!" he replied. "Come, it's getting late, Hildred."
"No," I shouted, "you must listen. You cannot marry; I forbid it. Do you hear? I forbid it. You shall renounce the crown, and in reward I grant you exile; but if you refuse you shall die."
He tried to calm me, but I was roused at last, and, drawing my long knife, barred his way.
Then I told him how they would find Dr. Archer in the cellar with his throat open, and I laughed in his face when I thought of Vance and his knife, and the order signed by me.
"Ah, you are the King," I cried, "but I shall be King. Who are you to keep me from empire over all the habitable earth! I was born the cousin of a king, but I shall be King!"
Louis stood white and rigid before me. Suddenly a man came running up Fourth Street, entered the gate of the Lethal Temple, traversed the path to the bronze doors at full speed, and plunged into the death-chamber with the cry of one demented, and I laughed until I wept tears, for I had recognized Vance, and knew that Hawberk and his daughter were no longer in my way.
"Go," I cried to Louis, "you have ceased to be a menace. You will never marry Constance now, and if you marry any one else in your exile, I will visit you as I did my doctor last night. Mr. Wilde takes charge of you to-morrow." Then I turned and darted into South Fifth Avenue, and with a cry of terror Louis dropped his belt and sabre and followed me like the wind. I heard him close behind me at the corner of Bleecker Street, and I dashed into the door-way under Hawberk's sign. He cried, "Halt, or I fire!" but when he saw that I flew up the stairs leaving Hawberk's shop below, he left me, and I heard him hammering and shouting at their door as though it were possible to arouse the dead.
Mr. Wilde's door was open, and I entered, crying "It is done, it is done! Let the nations rise and look upon their King!" but I could not find Mr. Wilde, so I went to the cabinet and took the splendid diadem from its case. Then I drew on the white silk robe, embroidered with the Yellow Sign, and placed the crown upon my head. At last I was King, King in my right in Hastur, King because I knew the mystery of the Hyades, and my mind had sounded the depths of the Lake of Hali. I was King! The first gray pencillings of dawn would raise a tempest which would shake two hemispheres. Then as I stood, my every nerve pitched to the highest tension, faint with the joy and splendor of my thought, without, in the dark passage, a man groaned.
I seized the tallow dip and sprang to the door. The cat passed me like a demon, and the tallow dip went out, but my long knife flew swifter than she, and I heard her screech, and I knew that my knife had found her. For a moment I listened to her tumbling and thumping about in the darkness, and then, when her frenzy ceased, I lighted a lamp and raised it over my head. Mr. Wilde lay on the floor with his throat torn open. At first I thought he was dead, but as I looked a green sparkle came into his sunken eyes, his mutilated hand trembled, and then a spasm stretched his mouth from ear to ear. For a moment my terror and despair gave place to hope, but as I bent over him his eyeballs rolled clean around in his head, and he died. Then, while I stood transfixed with rage and despair, seeing my crown, my empire, every hope and every ambition, my very life, lying prostrate there with the dead master, they came, seized me from behind and bound me until my veins stood out like cords, and my voice failed with the paroxysms of my frenzied screams. But still I raged, bleeding and infuriated, among them and more than one policeman felt my sharp teeth. Then when I could no longer move they came nearer; I saw old Hawberk, and behind him my cousin Louis' ghastly face, and farther away, in the corner, a woman, Constance, weeping softly.
"Ah, I see it now!" I shrieked. "You have seized the throne and the empire. Woe! woe to you who are crowned with the crown of the King in Yellow!" [EDITOR'S NOTE. -- Mr. Castaigne died yesterday in the Asylum for Criminal Insane.]

The Daughter od Huang Chow

2009-03-07T08:21:00.000-08:00

This Time its "The Daugher of Huang Chow" by Sax Rohmer.
Comments and requests would be greatly appreciated.

The Daughter Of Huang Chow
Chapter I
"Diamond Fred"
In the saloon bar of a public-house, situated only a few hundred yards from the official frontier of Chinatown, two men sat at a small table in a corner, engaged in earnest conversation. They afforded a sharp contrast. One was a thick-set and rather ruffianly looking fellow, not too cleanly in either person or clothing, and, amongst other evidences that at one time he had known the prize ring, possessing a badly broken nose. His companion was dressed with that spruceness which belongs to the successful East End Jew; he was cleanly shaven, of slight build, and alert in manner and address.
Having ordered and paid for two whiskies and sodas, the Jew, raising his glass, nodded to his companion and took a drink. The glitter of a magnificent diamond which he wore seemed to attract the other's attention almost hypnotically.
"Cheerio, Freddy!" said the thick-set man. "Any news?"
"Nothing much," returned the one addressed as Freddy, setting his glass upon the table and selecting a cigarette from a packet which he carried in his pocket.
"I'm not so sure," growled the other, watching him suspiciously. "You've been lying low for a long time, and it's not like you to slack off except when there's something big in sight."
"Hm!" said his companion, lighting his cigarette. "What do you mean exactly?"
Jim Poland -- for such was the big man's name--growled and spat reflectively into a spittoon.
"I've had my eye on you, Freddy," he replied; "I've had my eye on you!"
"Oh, have you?" murmured the other. "But tell me what you mean!"
Beneath his suave manner lay a threat, and, indeed, Freddy Cohen, known to his associates as "Diamond Fred," was in many ways a formidable personality. He had brought to his chosen profession of crook a first-rate American training, together with all that mental agility and cleverness which belong to his race, and was at once an object of envy and admiration amongst the fraternity which keeps Scotland Yard busy.
Jim Poland, physically a more dangerous character, was not in the same class with him; but he was not without brains of a sort, and Cohen, although smiling agreeably, waited with some anxiety for his reply.
"I mean," growled Poland, "that you're not wasting your time with Lala Huang for nothing."
"Perhaps not," returned Cohen lightly. "She's a pretty girl; but what business is it of yours?"
"None at all. I ain't interested in 'er good looks; neither are you."
Cohen shrugged and raised his glass again.
"Come on," growled Poland, leaning across the table. "I know, and I'm in on it. D'ye hear me? I'm in on it. These are hard times, and we've got to stick together."
"Oh," said Cohen, "that's the game, is it?"
"That's the game right enough. You won't go wrong if you bring me in, even at fifty-fifty, because maybe I know things about old Huang that you don't know."
The Jew's expression changed subtly, and beneath his drooping lids he glanced aside at the speaker. Then:
"It's no promise," he said, "but what do you know?"
Poland bent farther over the table.
"Chinatown's being watched again. I heard this morning that Red Kerry was down here."
Cohen laughed.
"Red Kerry!" he echoed. "Red Kerry means nothing in my young life, Jim."
"Don't 'e?" returned Jim, snarling viciously. "The way he cleaned up that dope crowd awhile back seemed to show he was no jug, didn't it?"
The Jew made a racial gesture as if to dismiss the subject.
"All right," continued Poland. "Think that way if you like. But the patrols have been doubled. I suppose you know that? And it's a cert there are special men on duty, ever since the death of that Chink."
Cohen shifted uneasily, glancing about him in a furtive fashion.
"See what I mean?" continued the other. "Chinatown ain't healthy just now."
He finished his whisky at a draught, and, standing up, lurched heavily across to the counter. He returned with two more glasses. Then, reseating himself and bending forward again:
"There's one thing I reckon you don't know," he whispered in Cohen's ear. "I saw that Chink talking to Lala Huang only a week before the time he was hauled out of Limehouse Reach. I'm wondering, Diamond, if, with all your cleverness, you may not go the same way."
"Don't try to pull the creep stuff on me, Jim," said Cohen uneasily. "What are you driving at, anyway?"
"Well," replied Poland, sipping his whisky reflectively, "how did that Chink get into the river?"
"How the devil do I know?"
"And what killed him? It wasn't drowning, although he was all swelled up."
"See here, old pal," said Cohen. "I know 'Frisco better than you know Limehouse. Let me tell you that this little old Chinatown of yours is pie to me. You're trying to get me figuring on Chinese death traps, secret poisons, and all that junk. Boy, you're wasting your poetry. Even if you did see the Chink with Lala, and I doubt it -- Oh, don't get excited, I'm speaking plain -- there's no connection that I can see between the death of said Chink and old Huang Chow."
"Ain't there?" growled Poland huskily. He grasped the other's wrist as in a vise and bent forward so that his battered face was close to the pale countenance of the Jew. "I've been covering old Huang for months and months. Now I'm going to tell you something. Since the death of that Chink Red Kerry's been covering him, too."
"See here!" Cohen withdrew his arm from the other's grasp angrily. "You can't freeze me out of this claim with bogey stuff. You're listed, my lad, and you know it. Chief Inspector Kerry is your pet nightmare. But if he walked in here right now I could ask him to have a drink. I wouldn't but I could. You've got the wrong angle, Jim. Lala likes me fine, and although she doesn't say much, what she does say is straight. I'll ask her to-night about the Chink."
"Then you'll be a damned fool."
"What's that?"
"I say you'll be a damned fool. I'm warning you, Freddy. There are Chinks and Chinks. All the boys know old Huang Chow has got a regular gold mine buried somewhere under the floor. But all the boys don't know what I know, and it seems that you don't either."
"What is that?"
Jim Poland bent forward more urgently, again seizing Cohen's wrist, and:
"Huang Chow is a mighty big bug amongst the Chinese," he whispered, glancing cautiously about him. "He's hellish clever and rotten with money. A man like that wants handling. I'm not telling you what I know. But call it fifty-fifty and maybe you'll come out alive."
The brow of Diamond Fred displayed beads of perspiration, and with a blue silk handkerchief which he carried in his breast pocket he delicately dried his forehead.
"You're an old hand at this stuff, Jim," he muttered. "It amounts to this, I suppose; that if I don't agree you'll queer my game?"
Jim Poland's brow lowered and he clenched his fists formidably. Then:
"Listen," he said in his hoarse voice. "It ain't your claim any more than mine. You've covered it different, that's all. Yours was always the petticoat lay. Mine's slower but safer. Is anyone else in with you?"
"No."
"Then we'll double up. Now I'll tell you something. I was backing out."
"What? You were going to quit?"
"I was."
"Why?"
"Because the thing's too dead easy, and a thing like that always looks like hell to me."
Freddy Cohen finished his glass of whisky.
"Wait while I get some more drinks," he said.
In this way, then, at about the hour of ten on a stuffy autumn night, in the crowded bar of that Wapping public-house, these two made a compact; and of its outcome and of the next appearance of Cohen, the Jewish-American cracksman, within the ken of man, I shall now proceed to tell.
Chapter II
The End Of Cohen
"I've been expecting this," said Chief Inspector Kerry. He tilted his bowler hat farther forward over his brow and contemplated the ghastly exhibit which lay upon the slab of the mortuary. Two other police officers -- one in uniform -- were present, and they treated the celebrated Chief Inspector with the deference which he had not only earned but had always demanded from his subordinates.
Earmarked for important promotion, he was an interesting figure as he stood there in the gloomy, ill-lighted place, his pose that of an athlete about to perform a long jump, or perhaps, as it might have appeared to some, that of a dancing-master about to demonstrate a new step.
His close-cropped hair was brilliantly red, and so was his short, wiry, aggressive moustache. He was ruddy of complexion, and he looked out unblinkingly upon the world with a pair of steel-blue eyes. Neat he was to spruceness, and while of no more than medium height he had the shoulders of an acrobat.
The detective who stood beside him, by name John Durham, had one trait in common with his celebrated superior. This was a quick keenness, a sort of alert vitality, which showed in his eyes, and indeed in every line of his thin, clean-shaven face. Kerry had picked him out as the most promising junior in his department.
"Give me the particulars," said the Chief Inspector. "It isn't robbery. He's wearing a diamond ring worth two hundred pounds."
His diction was rapid and terse -- so rapid as to create the impression that he bit off the ends of the longer words. He turned his fierce blue eyes upon the uniformed officer who stood at the end of the slab.
"They are very few, Chief Inspector," was the reply. "He was hauled out by the river police shortly after midnight, at the lower end of Limehouse Reach. He was alive then--they heard his cry--but he died while they were hauling him into the boat."
"Any statement?" rapped Kerry.
"He was past it, Chief Inspector. According to the report of the officer in charge, he mumbled something which sounded like: 'It has bitten me,' just before he became unconscious."
"'It has bitten me,'" murmured Kerry. "The divisional surgeon has seen him?"
"Yes, Chief Inspector. And in his opinion the man did not die from drowning, but from some form of virulent poisoning."
"Poisoning?"
"That's the idea. There will be a further examination, of course. Either a hypodermic injection or a bite."
"A bite?" said Kerry. "The bite of what?"
"That I cannot say, Chief Inspector. A venomous reptile, I suppose."
Kerry stared down critically at the swollen face of the victim, and then glanced sharply aside at Durham.
"Accounts for his appearance, I suppose," he murmured.
"Yes," said Durham quietly. "He hadn't been in the water long enough to look like that." He turned to the local officer. "Is there any theory as to the point at which he went in?"
"Well, an arrest has been made."
"By whom? of whom?" rapped Kerry.
"Two constables patrolling the Chinatown area arrested a man for suspicious loitering. He turned out to be a well-known criminal--Jim Poland, with a whole list of convictions against him. They're holding him at Limehouse Station, and the theory is that he was operating with -- " He nodded in the direction of the body.
"Then who's the smart with the swollen face?" inquired Kerry. "He's a new one on me."
"Yes, but he's been identified by one of the K Division men. He is an American crook with a clean slate, so far as this side is concerned. Cohen is his name. And the idea seems to be that he went in at some point between where he was found by the river police and the point at which Jim Poland was arrested."
Kerry snapped his teeth together audibly, and:
"I'm open to learn," he said, "that the house of Huang Chow is within that area."
"It is."
"I thought so. He died the same way the Chinaman died awhile ago," snapped Kerry savagely.
"It looks very queer." He glanced aside at the local officer. "Cover him up," he ordered, and, turning, he walked briskly out of the mortuary, followed by Detective Durham.
Although dawn was not far off, this was the darkest hour of the night, so that even the sounds of dockland were muted and the riverside slept as deeply as the great port of London ever sleeps. Vague murmurings there were and distant clankings, with the hum of machinery which is never still.
Few of London's millions were awake at that hour, yet Scotland Yard was awake in the person of the fierce-eyed Chief Inspector and his subordinate. Perhaps those who lightly criticize the Metropolitan Force might have learned a new respect for the tireless vigilance which keeps London clean and wholesome, had they witnessed this scene on the borders of Limehouse, as Kerry, stepping into a waiting taxi-cab accompanied by Durham, proceeded to Limehouse Police Station in that still hour when the City slept.
The arrival of Kerry created something of a stir amongst the officials on duty. His reputation in these days was at least as great as that of the most garrulous Labour member.
The prisoner was in cells, but the Chief Inspector elected to interview him in the office; and accordingly, while the officer in charge sat at an extremely tidy writing-table, tapping the blotting-pad with a pencil, and Detective John Durham stood beside him, Kerry paced up and down the little room, deep in reflection, until the door opened and the prisoner was brought in.
One swift glance the Chief Inspector gave at the battle-scarred face, and recognized instantly that this was a badly frightened man. Crossing to the table he took up a typewritten slip which lay there, and:
"Your name is James Poland?" he said. "Four convictions; one, robbery with violence."
Jim Poland nodded sullenly.
"You were arrested at the corner of Pekin Street about midnight. What were you doing there?"
"Taking a walk."
"I'll say it again," rapped Kerry, fixing his fierce eyes upon the man's face. "What were you doing there?"
"I've told you."
"And I tell you you're a liar. Where did you leave the man Cohen?"
Poland blinked his small eyes, cleared his throat, and looked down at the floor uneasily. Then:
"Who's Cohen?" he grunted.
"You mean, who was Cohen?" cried Kerry.
The shot went home. The man clenched his fists and looked about the room from face to face.
"You don't tell me -- " he began huskily.
"I've told you," said Kerry. "He's on the slab. Spit out the truth; it'll be good for your health."
The man hesitated, then looked up, his eyes half closed and a cunning expression upon his face.
"Make out your own case," he said. "You've got nothing against me."
Kerry snapped his teeth together viciously.
"I've told you what happened to your pal," he warned. "If you're a wise man you'll come in on our side, before the same thing happens to you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," growled Poland.
Kerry nodded to the constable at the doorway.
"Take him back," he ordered.
Jim Poland being returned to his cell, Kerry, as the door closed behind the prisoner and his guard, stared across at Durham where he stood beside the table.
"An old hand," he said. "But there's another way." He glanced at the officer in charge. "Hold him till the morning. He'll prove useful."
From his waistcoat pocket he took out a slip of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and placed the mint-flavoured wafer between his large white teeth. He bit upon it savagely, settled his hat upon his head, and, turning, walked toward the door. In the doorway he paused.
"Come with me, Durham," he said. "I am leaving the conduct of the case entirely in your hands from now onward."
Detective Durham looked surprised and not a little anxious.
"I am doing so for two reasons," continued the Chief Inspector. "These two reasons I shall now explain."
Chapter III
The Secret Treasure-House
Unlike its sister colony in New York, there are no show places in Limehouse. The visitor sees nothing but mean streets and dark doorways. The superficial inquirer comes away convinced that the romance of the Asiatic district has no existence outside the imaginations of writers of fiction. Yet here lies a secret quarter, as secret and as strange, in its smaller way, as its parent in China which is called the Purple Forbidden City.
On a morning when mist lay over the Thames reaches, softening the harshness of the dock buildings and lending an air of mystery to the vessels stealing out upon the tide, a man walked briskly along Limehouse Causeway, looking about him inquiringly, as one unfamiliar with the neighbourhood. Presently he seemed to recognize a turning to the right, and he pursued this for a time, now walking more slowly.
A European woman, holding a half-caste baby in her arms, stood in an open doorway, watching him uninterestedly. Otherwise, except for one neatly dressed young Chinaman, who passed him about halfway along the street, there was nothing which could have told the visitor that he had crossed the borderline dividing West from East and was now in an Oriental town.
A very narrow alleyway between two dingy houses proved to be the spot for which he was looking; and, having stared about him for a while, he entered this alleyway. At the farther end it was crossed T-fashion, by another alley, the only object of interest being an iron post at the crossing, and the scenery being made up entirely of hideous brick walls.
About halfway along on the left, set in one of these walls, were strong wooden gates, apparently those of a warehouse. Beside them was a door approached by two very dirty steps. There was a bell-push near the door, but upon neither of these entrances was there any plate to indicate the name of the proprietor of the establishment.
From his pocket-book the visitor extracted a card, consulted something written upon it, and then pressed the bell.
It was very quiet in this dingy little court. No sound of the busy thoroughfares penetrated here; and although the passage forming the top of the "T" practically marked the river bank, only dimly could one discern the sounds which belong to a seaport.
Presently the door was opened by a Chinese boy who wore the ordinary native working dress, and who regarded the man upon the step with oblique, tired-looking eyes.
"Mr. Huang Chow?" asked the caller.
The boy nodded.
"You wantchee him see?"
"If he is at home."
The boy glanced at the card, which the visitor still held between finger and thumb, and extended his hand silently. The card was surrendered. It was that of an antique dealer of Dover Street, Piccadilly, and written upon the back was the following: "Mr. Hampden would like to do business with you." The signature of the dealer followed.
The boy turned and passed along a dim and perfectly unfurnished passage which the opening of the door had revealed, while Mr. Hampden stood upon the step and lighted a cigarette.
In less than a minute the boy returned and beckoned to him to come in. As he did so, and the door was closed, he almost stumbled, so dark was the passage.
Presently, guided by the boy, he found himself in a very business-like little office, where a girl sat at an American desk, looking up at him inquiringly.
She was of a dark and arresting type. Without being pretty in the European sense, there was something appealing in her fine, dark eyes, and she possessed the inviting smile which is the heritage of Eastern women. Her dress was not unlike that of any other business girl, except that the neck of her blouse was cut very low, a fashion affected by many Eurasians, and she wore a gaily coloured sash, and large and very costly pearl ear-rings. As Mr. Hampden paused in the doorway:
"Good morning," said the girl, glancing down at the card which lay upon the desk before her. "You come from Mr. Isaacs, eh?"
She looked at him with a caressing glance from beneath half- lowered lashes, but missed no detail of his appearance. She did not quite like his moustache, and thought that he would have looked better cleanshaven. Nevertheless, he was a well-set-up fellow, and her manner evidenced approval.
"Yes," he replied, smiling genially. "I have a small commission to execute, and I am told that you can help me."
The girl paused for a moment, and then:
"Yes, very likely," she said, speaking good English but with an odd intonation. "It is not jade? We have very little jade."
"No, no. I wanted an enamelled casket."
"What kind?"
"Cloisonne."
"Cloisonne? Yes, we have several."
She pressed a bell, and, glancing up at the boy who had stood throughout the interview at the visitor's elbow, addressed him rapidly in Chinese. He nodded his head and led the way through a second doorway. Closing this, he opened a third and ushered Mr. Hampden into a room which nearly caused the latter to gasp with astonishment.
One who had blundered from Whitechapel into the Khan Khalil, who had been transported upon a magic carpet from a tube station to the Taj Mahal, of dropped suddenly upon Lebanon hills to find himself looking down upon the pearly domes and jewelled gardens of Damascus, could not well have been more surprised. This great treasure-house of old Huang Chow was one of Chinatown's secrets -- a secret shared only by those whose commercial interests were identical with the interests of Huang Chow.
The place was artificially lighted by lamps which themselves were beautiful objects of art, and which swung from the massive beams of the ceiling. The floor of the warehouse, which was partly of stone, was covered with thick matting, and spread upon it were rugs and carpets of Karadagh, Kermanshah, Sultan-abad, and Khorassan, with lesser-known loomings of almost equal beauty. Skins of rare beasts overlay the divans. Furniture of ivory, of ebony and lemonwood, preciously inlaid, gave to the place an air of cunning confusion. There were tall cabinets, there were caskets and chests of exquisite lacquer and enamel, loot of an emperor's palace; robes heavy with gold; slippers studded with jewels; strange carven ivories; glittering weapons; pots, jars, and bowls, as delicate and as fragile as the petals of a lily.
Last, but not least, sitting cross-legged upon a low couch, was old Huang Chow, smoking a great curved pipe, and peering half blindly across the place through large horn-rimmed spectacles. This couch was set immediately beside a wide ascending staircase, richly carpeted, and on the other side of the staircase, in a corresponding recess, upon a gilded trestle carved to represent the four claws of a dragon, rested perhaps the strangest exhibit of that strange collection -- a Chinese coffin of exquisite workmanship.
The boy retired, and Mr. Hampden found himself alone with Huang Chow. No word had been exchanged between master and servant, but:
"Good morning, Mr. Hampden," said the Chinaman in a high, thin voice. "Please be seated. It is from Mr. Isaacs you come?"
Chapter IV
Personal Report Of Detective John Durham To Chief Inspector Kerry, Officer In Charge Of Limehouse Inquiry
Dear Chief Inspector, -- Following your instructions I returned and interviewed the prisoner Poland in his cell. I took the line which you had suggested, pointing out to him that he had nothing to gain and everything to lose by keeping silent.
"Answer my questions," I said, "and you can walk straight out. Otherwise, you'll be up before the magistrate, and on your record alone it will mean a holiday which you probably don't want."
He was very truculent, but I got him in a good humour at last, and he admitted that he had been cooperating with the dead man, Cohen, in an attempt to burgle the house of Huang Chow. His reluctance to go into details seemed to be due rather to fear of Huang Chow than to fear of the law, and I presently gathered that he regarded Huang as responsible for the death not only of Cohen, but also of the Chinaman who was hauled out of the river about three weeks ago, as you well remember. The post-mortem showed that he had died of some kind of poisoning, and when we saw Cohen in the mortuary, his swollen appearance struck me as being very similar to that of the Chinaman. (See my report dated 31st ultimo.)
He finally agreed to talk if I would promise that he should not be charged and that his name should never be mentioned to anyone in connection with what he might tell me. I promised him that outside the ordinary official routine I would respect his request, and he told me some very curious things, which no doubt have a bearing on the case.
For instance, he had discovered -- I don't know in what way -- that the dead Chinaman, whose name was Pi Lung, had been in negotiation with Huang Chow for some sort of job in his warehouse. Poland had seen the man talking to Huang's daughter, at the end of the alley which leads to the place. He seemed to attach extraordinary importance to this fact. At last:
"I'll tell you what it is," he said. "That Chink was a stranger to Limehouse; I can swear to it. He was a gent of his hands; I reckon they've got 'em in China as well as here. He went out for the old boy's money-box, and finished like Cohen finished."
"Make your meaning clearer," I said.
"My meaning's this: Old Huang Chow is the biggest dealer in stolen and smuggled valuables from overseas we've got in London. He's something else as well; he's a big swell in China. But here's the point. He's got business with buyers all over London, and they have to pay cash -- no checks. He doesn't bank it: I've proved that. He's got it in gold, or diamonds, or something, being wise to present conditions, hidden there in the house. Pi Lung was after his hoard. He didn't get it. Cohen and me was after it. Where's Cohen?"
I agreed that it looked very suspicious, and presently:
"When I went in with Cohen," continued Poland, "I knew one thing he didn't know -- a short cut into the warehouse. He's been playing pretty-like with Lala, old Huang's daughter, and it's my belief that he knew where the store was hidden; but he never told me. We knew there were special men on duty, and we'd arranged that I was to give a signal when the patrol had passed. Cohen all the time had planned to double on me. While I was watching down on the Causeway end he climbed up and got in through the skylight I'd shown him. When I got there he was missing, but the skylight was open. I started off after him."
Then Poland clutched me, and his fright was very real.
"I heard a shriek like nothing I ever heard in my life. I saw a light shine through the trap, and then I heard a sort of moaning. Last, I heard a bang, and the light went out. I staggered down the passage half silly, started to run, and ran straight into the arms of two coppers."
This evidence I thought was conclusive, and in accordance with your instructions I proceeded to Mr. Isaacs in Dover Street. He didn't seem too pleased at my suggestion, but when I pointed out to him that one good turn deserved another, he agreed to give me an introduction to Huang Chow.
I adopted a very simple disguise, just altering my complexion and sticking on a moustache with spirit gum, hair by hair, and trimming it down military fashion. Everything ran smoothly, and I seemed to make a fairly favourable impression upon Lala Huang, the Chinaman's daughter, who evidently interviews prospective customers before they are admitted to the warehouse.
She is a Eurasian and extremely good looking. But when I found myself in the room where old Huang keeps his treasures, I really thought I was dreaming. It's a collection that must be worth thousands. He showed me snuff-bottles, cut out of gems, and with a little opening no bigger than the hole in a pipe-stem, but with wonderful paintings done inside the bottles. He'd got a model of a pagoda made out of human teeth, and a big golden rug woven from the hair of Circassian slave girls. Excuse this, Chief Inspector; I know it is what you call the romantic stuff; but I think it would have impressed you if you had seen it.
Anyway, I bought a little enamelled box, in accordance with Mr. Isaacs's instructions, although whether I succeeded in convincing Huang Chow that I knew anything about the matter is more than doubtful. He got up from a sort of throne he sits on, and led the way up a broad staircase to a private room above.
"Of course, you have brought the cash, Mr. Hampden?" he said.
He speaks quite faultless English. He walked up three steps to a sort of raised writing-table in this upstairs room, and I counted out the money to him. When he sat at the table he faced toward the room, and I couldn't help thinking that, in his horn-rimmed spectacles, he looked like some old magistrate. He explained that he would pack the purchase for me, but that I must personally take it away. And:
"You understand," said he, "that you bought it from a gentleman who had purchased it abroad."
I said I quite understood. He bowed me out very politely, and presently I found myself back in the office with Lala Huang.
She seemed quite disposed to talk, and I chatted with her while the box was being packed for me to take away. I knew I must make good use of my time, but you have never given me a job I liked less. I mean, there is something very appealing about her, and I hated to think that I was playing a double game. However, without actually agreeing to see me again, she told me enough to enable me to meet her "accidentally," if I wanted to. Therefore, I am going to look out for her this evening, and probably take her to a picture palace, or somewhere where we can have a quiet talk. She seems to be fancy free, and for some reason I feel sorry for the girl. I don't altogether like the job, but I hope to justify your faith in me, Chief.
I will prepare my official report this evening when I return.
Yours obediently, -- John Durham.
Chapter V
Lala Huang
"No," said Lala Huang, "I don't like London -- not this part of London."
"Where would you rather be?" asked Durham. "In China?"
Dusk had dropped its merciful curtain over Limehouse, and as the two paced slowly along West India Dock Road it seemed to the detective that a sort of glamour had crept into the scene.
He was a clever man within his limitations, and cultured up to a point; but he was not philosopher enough to know that he viewed the purlieus of Limehouse through a haze of Oriental mystery conjured up by the conversation of his companion. Temple bells there were in the clangour of the road cars. The smoke-stacks had a semblance of pagodas. Burma she had conjured up before him, and China, and the soft islands where she had first seen the light. For as well as a streak of European, there was Kanaka blood in Lala, which lent her an appeal quite new to Durham, insidious and therefore dangerous.
"Not China," she replied. "Somehow I don't think I shall ever see China again. But my father is rich, and it is dreadful to think that we live here when there are so many more beautiful places to live in."
"Then why does he stay?" asked Durham with curiosity.
"For money, always for money," answered Lala, shrugging her shoulders. "Yet if it is not to bring happiness, what good is it?"
"What good indeed?" murmured Durham.
"There is no fun for me," said the girl pathetically. "Sometimes someone nice comes to do business, but mostly they are Jews, Jews, always Jews, and -- " Again she shrugged eloquently.
Durham perceived the very opening for which he had been seeking..
"You evidently don't like Jews," he said endeavouring to speak lightly.
"No," murmured the girl, "I don't think I do. Some are nice, though. I think it is the same with every kind of people -- there are good and bad."
"Were you ever in America?" asked Durham.
"No."
"I was just thinking," he explained, "that I have known several American Jews who were quite good fellows."
"Yes?" said Lala, looking up at him naively, "I met one not long ago. He was not nice at all."
"Oh!" exclaimed Durham, startled by this admission, which he had not anticipated. "One of your father's customers?"
"Yes, a man named Cohen."
"Cohen?"
"A funny little chap," continued the girl. "He tried to make love to me." She lowered her lashes roguishly. "I knew all along he was pretending. He was a thief, I think. I was afraid of him."
Durham did some rapid thinking, then:
"Did you say his name was Cohen?" he asked.
"That was the name he gave."
"A man named Cohen, an American, was found dead in the river quite recently."
Lala stopped dead and clutched his arm.
"How do you know?" she demanded.
"There was a paragraph in this morning's paper."
She hesitated, then:
"Did it describe him?" she asked.
"No," replied Durham, "I don't think it did in detail. At least, the only part of the description which I remember is that he wore a large and valuable diamond on his left hand."
"Oh!" whispered Lala.
She released her grip of Durham's arm and went on.
"What?" he asked. "Did you think it was someone you knew?"
"I did know him," she replied simply. "The man who was found drowned. It is the same. I am sure now, because of the diamond ring. What paper did you read it in? I want to read it myself."
"I'm afraid I can't remember. It was probably the Daily Mail."
"Had he been drowned?"
"I presume so -- yes," replied Durham guardedly.
Lala Huang was silent for some time while they paced on through the dusk. Then:
"How strange!" she said in a low voice.
"I am sorry I mentioned it," declared Durham. "But how was I to know it was your friend?"
"He was no friend of mine," returned the girl sharply. "I hated him. But it is strange nevertheless. I am sure he intended to rob my father."
"And is that why you think it strange?"
"Yes," she said, but her voice was almost inaudible.
They were come now to the narrow street communicating with the courtway in which the great treasure-house of Huang Chow was situated, and; Lala stopped at the corner.
"It was nice of you to walk along with me," she said. "Do you live in Limehouse?"
"No," replied Durham, "I don't. As a matter of fact, I came down here to-night in the hope of seeing you again."
"Did you?"
The girl glanced up at him doubtfully, and his distaste for the task set him by his superior increased with the passing of every moment. He was a man of some imagination, a great reader, and ambitious professionally. He appreciated the fact that Chief Inspector Kerry looked for great things from him, but for this type of work he had little inclination.
There was too much chivalry in his make-up to enable him to play upon a woman's sentiments, even in the interests of justice. By whatever means the man Cohen had met his death, and whether or no the Chinaman Pi Lung had died by the same hand, Lala Huang was innocent of any complicity in these matters, he was perfectly well assured.
Doubts were to come later when he was away from her, when he had had leisure to consider that she might regard him in the light of a third potential rifler of her father's treasure-house. But at the moment, looking down into her dark eyes, he reproached himself and wondered where his true duty lay.
"It is so gray and dull and sordid here," said the girl, looking down the darkened street. "There is no one much to talk to."
"But you have your business interests to keep you employed during the day, after all."
"I hate it all. I hate it all."
"But you seem to have perfect freedom?"
"Yes. My mother, you see, was not Chinese."
"But you wish to leave Limehouse?"
"I do. I do. Just now it is not so bad, but in the winter how I tire of the gray skies, the endless drizzling rain. Oh!" She shrank back into the shadow of a doorway, clutching at Durham's arm. "Don't let Ah Fu see me."
"Ah Fu? Who is Ah Fu?" asked Durham, also drawing back as a furtive figure went slinking down the opposite side of the street.
"My father's servant. He let you in this morning."
"And why must he not see you?"
"I don't trust him. I think he tells my father things."
"What is it that he carries in his hand?"
"A birdcage, I expect."
"A birdcage?"
"Yes!"
He caught the gleam of her eyes as she looked up at him out of the shadow.
"Is he, then, a bird-fancier?"
"No, no, I can't explain because I don't understand myself. But Ah Fu goes to a place in Shadwell regularly and buys young birds, always very young ones and very little ones."
"For what or for whom?"
"I don't know."
"Have you an aviary in your house?"
"No."
"Do you mean that they disappear, these purchases of Ah Fu's?"
"I often see him carrying a cage of young birds, but we have no birds in the house."
"How perfectly extraordinary!" muttered Durham.
"I distrust Ah Fu," whispered the girl. "I am glad he did not see me with you."
"Young birds," murmured Durham absently. "What kind of young birds? Any particular breed?"
"No; canaries, linnets -- all sorts. Isn't it funny?" The girl laughed in a childish way. "And now I think Ah Fu will have gone in, so I must say good night."
But when presently Detective Durham found himself walking back along West India Dock Road, his mind's eye was set upon the slinking figure of a Chinaman carrying a birdcage.
Chapter VI
A Hint Of Incense
One Chinaman more or less does not make any very great difference to the authorities responsible for maintaining law and order in Limehouse. Asiatic settlers are at liberty to follow their national propensities, and to knife one another within reason. This is wisdom. Such recreations are allowed, if not encouraged, by all wise rulers of Eastern peoples.
"Found drowned," too, is a verdict which has covered many a dark mystery of old Thames, but "Found in the river, death having been due to the action of some poison unknown," is a finding which even in the case of a Chinaman is calculated to stimulate the jaded official mind.
New Scotland Yard had given Durham a roving commission, and had been justified in the fact that the second victim, and this time not a Chinaman, had been found under almost identical conditions. The link with the establishment of Huang Chow was incomplete, and Durham fully recognized that it was up to him to make it sound and incontestable.
Jim Poland was not the only man in the East End who knew that the dead Chinaman had been in negotiation with Huang Chow. Kerry knew it, and had passed the information on to Durham.
Some mystery surrounded the life of the old dealer, who was said to be a mandarin of high rank, but his exact association with the deaths first of the Chinaman Pi Lung, and second of Cohen, remained to be proved. Certain critics have declared the Metropolitan detective service to be obsolete and inefficient. Kerry, as a potential superintendent, resented these criticisms, and in his protege Durham, perceived a member of the new generation who was likely in time to produce results calculated to remove this stigma.
Durham recognized that a greater responsibility rested upon his shoulders than the actual importance of the case might have indicated; and now, proceeding warily along the deserted streets, he found his brain to be extraordinarily active and his imagination very much alive.
There is a night life in Limehouse, as he had learned, but it is a mole life, a subterranean life, of which no sign appears above ground after a certain hour. Nevertheless, as he entered the area which harbours those strange, hidden resorts the rumour of which has served to create the glamour of Chinatown, he found himself to be thinking of the great influence said to be wielded by Huang Chow, and wondering if unseen spies watched his movements.
Lala was Oriental, and now, alone in the night, distrust leapt into being within him. He had been attracted by her and had pitied her. He told himself now that this was because of her dark beauty and the essentially feminine appeal which she made. She was perhaps a vampire of the most dangerous sort, one who lured men to strange deaths for some sinister object beyond reach of a Western imagination.
He found himself doubting the success of those tactics upon which, earlier in the day, he had congratulated himself. Perhaps beneath the guise of Hampden, who bought antique furniture on commission, those cunning old eyes beneath the horn-rimmed spectacles had perceived the detective hidden, or at least had marked subterfuge.
While he could not count Lala a conquest -- for he had not even attempted to make love to her -- the ease with which he had developed the acquaintance now, afforded matter for suspicion.
At the entrance to the court communicating with the establishment of Huang Chow he paused, looking cautiously about him. The men on the Limehouse beats had been warned of the investigation afoot tonight, and there was a plain-clothes man on point duty at no great distance away, although carefully hidden, so that Durham had quite failed to detect his presence.
Durham wore rough clothes and rubber-soled shoes; and now, as he entered the court, he was thinking of the official report of the police sergeant who, not so many hours before, had paid a visit to the house of Huang Chow in order to question him respecting his knowledge of the dead man Cohen, and to learn when last he had seen him.
Old Huang, who had received his caller in the large room upstairs, the room which boasted the presence of the writing- dais, had exhibited no trace of confusion, assuring the sergeant that he had not seen the man Cohen for several days. Cohen had come to him with an American introduction, which he, Huang, believed to be forged, and had wanted him to undertake a shady agency, respecting the details of which he remained peculiarly reticent. In short, nothing had been gained by this official interrogation, and Huang blandly denied any knowledge of an attempted burglary of his establishment.
"What have I to lose?" he had asked the inquirer. "A lot of old lumber which I have accumulated during many years, and a reputation for being wealthy, due to my lonely habits and to the ignorance of those who live around me."
Durham, mentally reviewing the words of the report, reconstructed the scene in his mind; and now, having come to the end of the lane where the iron post rested, he stood staring up at a place in the ancient wall where several bricks had decayed, and where it was possible, according to the statement of the man Poland, to climb up on to a piece of sloping roof, and thence gain the skylight through which Cohen had obtained admittance on the night of his death.
He made sure that his automatic pistol was in his pocket, questioned the dull sounds of the riverside for a moment, looking about him anxiously, and then, using the leaning post as a stepping-stone, he succeeded in wedging his foot into a crevice in the wall. By the exercise of some agility he scrambled up to the top, and presently found himself lying upon a sloping roof.
The skylight remained well out of reach, but his rubber-soled shoes enabled him to creep up the slates until he could grasp the framework with his hands. Presently he found himself perched upon the trap which, if his information could be relied upon, possessed no fastener, or one so faulty that the trap could be raised by means of a brad-awl. He carried one in his pocket, and, screwing it into the framework, he lifted it cautiously, making very little noise.
The trap opened, and up to his nostrils there stole a queer, indefinable odour, partly that which belongs to old Oriental furniture and stuffs, but having mingled with it a hint of incense and of something else not so easily named. He recognized the smell of that strange store-room, which, as Mr. Hampden, he had recently visited.
For one moment he thought he could detect the distant note of a bell. But, listening, he heard nothing, and was reassured.
He rested the trap back against the frame, and shone the ray of an electric torch down into the darkness beneath him. The light fell upon the top of a low carven table, dragon-legged and gilded. Upon it rested the model pagoda constructed of human teeth, and there was something in this discovery which made Durham feel inclined to shudder. However, the impulse was only a passing one.
He measured the distance with his eye. The little table stood beside a deep divan, and he saw that with care it would be possible to drop upon this divan without making much noise. He calculated its exact position before replacing the torch in his pocket, and then, resting back against one side of the frame, he clutched the other with his hands. He wriggled gradually down until further purchase became impossible. He then let himself drop, and swung for a moment by his hands before releasing his hold.
He fell, as he had calculated, upon the divan. It creaked ominously. Catching his foot in the cushions, he stumbled and lay forward for a moment upon his face, listening intently.
The room was very hot but nothing stirred.
Chapter VII
The Scuffling Sound
Detective Durham, as he lay there inhaling the peculiar perfume of the place, recognized that he had put himself outside the pale of official protection, and was become technically a burglar.
He wondered if Chief Inspector Kerry would have approved; but he had outlined this plan of investigation for himself, and knew well that, if it were crowned by success, the end would be regarded as having justified the means. On the other hand, in the event of detention he must personally bear the consequences of such irregular behaviour. He knew well, however, that his celebrated superior had achieved promotion by methods at least as irregular; and he knew that if he could but obtain evidence to account for the death of the man Cohen, and of the Chinaman Pi Lung, who had preceded him by the same mysterious path, the way of his obtaining it would not be too closely questioned.
He was an ambitious man, and consequently one who took big chances. Nothing disturbed the silence; he sat upon the divan and again pressed the button of his torch, shining it all about the low-beamed apartment and peering curiously into the weird shadows of the place. He calculated he was now in the position which Cohen had occupied during the last moments of his life, and a sense of the uncanny touched him coldly.
As he thought of the unnatural screams spoken of by Poland, some strange instinct prompted him to curl up his feet upon the divan again, as though a secret menace crawled upon the floor amid its many rugs and carpets.
He must now endeavour to reconstruct the plan upon which the American cracksman had operated. Poland had a persistent belief that Cohen had known where the fabled hoard of Huang Chow was concealed.
Durham began a deliberate inspection of the place. He thought it unlikely that a wily old Chinaman, assuming that he possessed hidden wealth, would keep it in so accessible a spot as this. It was far more probable that he had a fireproof safe in the room upstairs, perhaps built into the wall. Yet, according to Poland's account, it was in this room and not in any other that death came to Diamond Fred.
The wall-hangings first engaged Durham's attention. He moved them aside systematically, one after another, seeking for any hiding-place, but failing to find one. The door communicating with the outer office he found to be locked, but he did not believe for a moment that the office would be worthy of inspection.
There were cases containing jewelled weapons and cups and goblets inlaid with precious stones, but none of these seemed to have been tampered with, and all were locked, as was the big cabinet filled with snuff bottles.
Many of the larger pieces about the place contained drawers and cupboards, and these he systematically opened one after another, without making any discovery of note. Some of the cupboards contained broken pieces of crockery, and more or less damaged curios of one kind and another, but none of them gave him the clue for which he was seeking.
He examined the couch upon which Huang Chow had been seated when first he had met him, but although he searched it scientifically he was rewarded by no discovery.
A very fusty and unpleasant smell was more noticeable at this point than elsewhere in the room, and he found himself staring speculatively up the wide, carpeted stairs. Next he turned his attention to the lacquered coffin which occupied the corresponding recess to that filled by the couch. It was an extraordinarily ornate piece of lacquer work and probably of great value.
The lid appeared to be screwed on, and Durham stood staring at the thing, half revolted and half fascinated. He failed to discover any means of opening it, however, and when he tried to move it bodily found it very heavy. He came to the conclusion that all the portable valuables were contained in locked cases or cabinets, and out of this discovery grew an idea.
The case containing the snuff bottles stood too close to the wall to enable him t test his new theory, but a square case near the office door, in which were five of six small but almost priceless pieces of porcelain, afforded the very evidence for which he was looking.
Thin electric flex descended from somewhere inside the case down one of the legs of the pedestal, and through a neatly drilled hole in the floor, evidently placed there to accommodate it.
"Burglar alarm!" he muttered.
The opening of this case, and doubtless of any of the others, would set alarm bells ringing. This was not an unimportant discovery, but it brought him very little nearer to a solution of the chief problem which engaged his mind. Assuming that Cohen had opened one of the cases and had alarmed old Huang Chow, what steps had the latter taken to deal with the intruder which had resulted in so ghastly a death? And how had he disposed of the body?
As Durham stood there musing and looking down through the plate- glass at the delicate porcelain beneath, a faint sound intruded itself upon the stillness. It gave him another idea. Part of the floor was stone-paved, but part was wood.
Upon a portion of the latter, where no carpet rested, Durham dropped flat, pressing his ear to the floor.
A faint swishing and trickling sound was perceptible from some place beneath.
"Ah!" he murmured.
Remembering that the premises almost overhung the Thames, he divined that the cellars were flooded at high tide, or that there was some kind of drain or cutting running underneath the house.
He stood up again, listening intently for any sound within the building. He thought he had detected something, and now, as he stood there alert, he heard it again -- a faint scuffling, which might have been occasioned by rats or even mice, but which, in some subtle and very unpleasant way, did not suggest the movements of these familiar rodents.
Even as he perceived it, it ceased, leaving him wondering, and uncomfortably conscious of a sudden dread of his surroundings. He wondered in what part of this mysterious house Lala resided, and recognizing that his departure must leave traces, he determined to prosecute his inquiries as far as possible, since another opportunity might not arise.
He was baffled but still hopeful. Something there was in the smell of the place which threatened to unnerve him; or perhaps in its silence, which remained quite unbroken save when, by acute listening, one detected the dripping of water.
That unexplained scuffling sound, too, which he had failed to trace or identify, lingered in his memory insistently, and for some reason contained the elements of fear.
He crossed the room and began softly to mount the stair. It creaked only slightly, and the door at the top proved to be ajar. He peeped in, to find the place empty. It was a typical Chinese apartment, containing very little furniture, the raised desk being the most noticeable item, except for a small shrine which faced it on the other side of the room.
He mounted the steps to the desk and inspected a number of loose papers which lay upon it. Without exception they were written in Chinese. A sort of large, dull white blotting-pad lay upon the table, but its surface was smooth and glossy.
Over it was suspended what looked like a lampshade, but on inspection it proved to contain no lamp, but to communicate, by a sort of funnel, with the ceiling above.
At this contrivance Durham stared long and curiously, but without coming to any conclusion respecting its purpose. He might have investigated further, but he became aware of a dull and regular sound in the room behind him.
He turned in a flash, staring in the direction of two curtains draped before what he supposed to be a door.
On tiptoe he crossed and gently drew the curtains aside.
He looked into a small, cell-like room, lighted by one window, where upon a low bed Huang Chow lay sleeping peacefully!
Durham almost held his breath; then, withdrawing as quietly as he had approached, he descended the stair. At the foot his attention was again arrested by the faint scuffling sound. It ceased as suddenly as it had begun, leaving him wondering and conscious anew of a chill of apprehension.
He had already made his plans for departure, but knew that they must leave evidence, when discovered, of his visit.
A large and solid table stood near the divan, and he moved this immediately under the trap. Upon it he laid a leopard-skin to deaden any noise he might make, and then upon the leopard-skin he set a massive chair: he replaced his torch in his pocket and drew himself up on to the roof again. Reclosing the trap by means of the awl which he had screwed into it, he removed the awl and placed it in his pocket.
Then, sliding gently down the sloping roof, he dropped back into the deserted court.
Chapter VIII
A Cage Of Birds
"No," said Lala, "we have never had robbers in the house." She looked up at Durham naively. "You are not a thief, are you?" she asked.
"No, I assure you I am not," he answered, and felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair.
They were seated in a teashop patronized by the workers of the district; and as Durham, his elbows resting on the marble-topped table, looked into the dark eyes of his companion, he told himself again that whatever might be the secrets of old Huang Chow, his daughter did not share them.
The Chinaman had made no report to the authorities, although the piled up furniture beneath the skylight must have afforded conclusive evidence that a burglarious entry had been made into the premises.
"I should feel very nervous," Durham declared, "with all those valuables in the house."
"I feel nervous about my father," the girl answered in a low voice. "His room opens out of the warehouse, but mine is shut away in another part of the building. And Ah Fu sleeps behind the office."
"Were you not afraid when you suspected that Cohen was a burglar? You told me yourself that you did suspect him."
"Yes, I spoke to my father about it."
"And what did he say?"
"Oh" -- she shrugged her shoulders -- "he just smiled and told me not to worry."
"And that was the last you heard about the matter?"
"Yes, until you told me he was dead."
Again he questioned the dark eyes and again was baffled. He felt tempted, and not for the first time, to throw up the case. After all, it rested upon very slender data -- the mysterious death of a Chinaman whose history was unknown and the story of a crook whose word was worth nothing.
Finally he asked himself, as he had asked himself before, what did it matter? If old Huang Chow had disposed of these people in some strange manner, they had sought to rob him. The morality of the case was complicated and obscure, and more and more he was falling under the spell of Lala's dark eyes.
But always it was his professional pride which came to the rescue. Murder had been done, whether justifiably or otherwise, and to him had been entrusted the discovery of the murderer. It seemed that failure was to be his lot, for if Lala knew anything she was a most consummate actress, and if she did not, his last hope of information was gone.
He would have liked nothing better than to be rid of the affair, provided he could throw up the case with a clear conscience. But when presently he parted from the attractive Eurasian, and watched her slim figure as, turning, she waved her hand and disappeared round a corner, he knew that rest was not for him.
He had discovered the emporium of a Shadwell live-stock dealer with whom Ah Fu had a standing order for newly fledged birds of all descriptions. Purchases apparently were always made after dusk, and Ah Fu with his birdcage was due that evening.
A scheme having suggested itself to Durham, he now proceeded to put it into execution, so that when dusk came, and Ah Fu, carrying an empty birdcage, set out from the house of Huang Chow, a very dirty-looking loafer passed the corner of the street at about the time that the Chinaman came slinking out.
Durham had mentally calculated that Ah Fu would be gone about half an hour upon his mysterious errand, but the Chinaman travelled faster than he had calculated.
Just as he was about to climb up once more on to the sloping roof, he heard the pattering footsteps returning to the courtyard, although rather less than twenty minutes had elapsed since the man had set out.
Durham darted round the corner and waited until he heard the door closed; then, returning, he scrambled up on to the roof, creeping forward until he was lying looking down through the skylight into the darkened room below.
For ten minutes or more he waited, until he began to feel cramped and uncomfortable. Then that happened which he had hoped and anticipated would happen. The place beneath became illuminated, not fully, by means of the hanging lamps, but dimly so that distorted shadows were cast about the floor. Someone had entered carrying a lantern.
Durham's view-point limited his area of vision, but presently, as the light came nearer and nearer, he discerned Ah Fu, carrying a lantern in one hand and a birdcage in the other. He could hear nothing, for the trap fitted well and the glass was thick. Moreover, it was very dirty. He was afraid, however, to attempt to clean a space.
Ah Fu apparently had set the lantern upon a table, and into the radius of its light there presently moved a stooping figure. Durham recognized Huang Chow, and felt his heart beats increasing in rapidity.
Clutching the framework of the trap with his hands, he moved his head cautiously, so that presently he was enabled to see the two Chinamen. They were standing beside the lacquered coffin upon its dragon-legged pedestal. Durham stifled an exclamation.
One end of the ornate sarcophagus had been opened in some way!
Now, to the watcher's unbounded astonishment, Ah Fu placed the birdcage in the opening, and apparently reclosed the trap in the end of the coffin. He made other manipulations with his bony yellow fingers, which Durham failed to comprehend. Finally the birdcage was withdrawn again, and as it was passed before the light of the lantern he saw that it was empty, whereas previously it had contained a number of tiny birds all huddled up together!
The light gleamed upon the spectacles of Huang Chow. Watching him, Durham saw him take out from a hidden drawer in the pedestal a long, slender key, insert it in a lock concealed by the ornate carving, and then slightly raise the lid which had so recently defied his own efforts.
He raised it only a few inches, and then, taking up the lantern, peered into the interior of the coffin, at the same time waving his hand in dismissal to Ah Fu. For a while he stood there, peering into the interior, and then, lowering the lid again, he relocked this gruesome receptacle and, lantern in hand, began to mount the stair.
Durham inhaled deeply. He realized that during the last few seconds he had been holding his breath. Now, as he began to creep back down the slope, he discovered that his hands were shaking.
He dropped down into the court again, and for several minutes leaned against the wall, endeavouring to reason out an explanation of what he had seen, and in a measure to regain his composure.
There was a horror underlying it all which he was half afraid to face. But the real clue to the mystery still eluded him.
Whether what he had witnessed were some kind of obscene ceremony, or whether an explanation more vile must be sought, he remained undetermined. He must repeat his exploit, if possible, and once more gain access to the room which contained the lacquer coffin.
But the adventure was very distasteful. He recollected the smell of the place, and the memory brought with it a sense of nausea. He thought of Lala Huang, and his ideas became grotesque and chaotic. Yet the solution of the mystery lay at last within his grasp, and to the zest of the investigator everything else became subjugated.
He walked slowly away, silent in his rubber-soled shoes.
Chapter IX
The Picture On The Pad
Lala Huang lay listening to the vague sounds which disturbed the silence of the night. Presently her thoughts made her sigh wearily. During the lifetime of her mother, who had died while Lala was yet a little girl, life had been different and so much brighter.
She imagined that in the mingled sounds of dock and river which came to her she could hear the roar of surf upon a golden beach. The stuffy air of Limehouse took on the hot fragrance of a tropic island, and she sighed again, but this time rapturously, for in spirit she was a child once more, lulled by the voice of the great Pacific.
Young as she was, the death of her mother had been a blow from which it had taken her several years to recover. Then had commenced those long travels with her father, from port to port, from ocean to ocean, sometimes settling awhile, but ever moving onward, onward.
He had had her educated after a fashion, and his love for her she did not doubt. But her mother's blood spoke more strongly than that part of her which was Chinese, and there was softness and a delicious languor in her nature which her father did not seem to understand, and of which he did not appear to approve.
She knew that he was wealthy. She knew that his ways were not straight ways, although that part of his business to which he had admitted her as an assistant, and an able one, was legitimate enough, or so it seemed.
Consignments of goods arrived at strange hours of the night at the establishment in Limehouse, and from this side of her father's transactions she was barred. The big double doors opening on the little courtyard would be opened by Ah Fu, and packing cases of varying sizes be taken in. Sometimes the sounds of these activities would reach her in her room in a distant part of the house; but only in the morning would she recognize their significance, when in the warehouse she would discover that some new and choice pieces had arrived.
She wondered with what object her father accumulated wealth, and hoped, against the promptings of her common sense, that he designed to return East, there to seek a retirement amidst the familiar and the beautiful things of the Orient which belonged to Lala's dream of heaven.
Stories about her father often reached her ears. She knew that he had held high rank in China before she had been born; but that he had sacrificed his rights in some way had always been her theory. She had been too young to understand the stories which her mother had told her sometimes; but that there were traits in the character of Huang Chow which it was not good for his daughter to know she appreciated and accepted as a secret sorrow.
He allowed her all the freedom to which her education entitled her. Her life was that of a European and not of an Oriental woman. She loved him in a way, but also feared him. She feared the dark and cruel side of his character, of which, at various periods during their life together, she had had terrifying glimpses.
She had decided that cruelty was his vice. In what way he gratified it she had never learned, nor did she desire to do so. There were periodical visits from the police, but she had learned long ago that her father was too clever to place himself within reach of the law.
However crooked one part of his business methods might be, his dealings with his clients were straight enough, so that no one had any object in betraying him; and the legality or otherwise of his foreign relations evidently afforded no case against him upon which the authorities could act, or upon which they cared to act.
In America it had been graft which had protected him. She had learned this accidentally, but never knew whether he bought his immunity in the same way in London.
Some of the rumours which reached her were terrifying. Latterly she had met many strange glances in her comings and goings about Limehouse. This peculiar atmosphere had always preceded the break-up of every home which they had shared. She divined the fact that in some way Huang Chow had outstayed his welcome in Chinatown, London. Where their next resting-place would be she could not imagine, but she prayed that it might be in some more sunny clime.
She found herself to be thinking over much of John Hampden. His bona fides were not above suspicion, but she could scarcely expect to meet a really white man in such an environment.
Lala would have liked to think that he was white, but could not force herself to do so. She would have liked to think that he sought her company because she appealed to him personally; but she had detected the fact that another motive underlay his attentions. She wondered if he could be another of those moths drawn by the light of that fabled wealth of her father.
It was curious, she reflected, that Huang Chow never checked -- indeed, openly countenanced -- her friendship with the many chance acquaintances she had made, even when her own instincts told her that the men were crooked; so that, knowing the acumen of her father, she was well aware that he must know it too.
Several of these pseudo lovers of hers had died. It was a point which often occurred to her mind, but upon which she did not care to dwell even now. But John Hampden -- John Hampden was different. He was not wholly sincere. She sighed wearily. But nevertheless he was not like some of the others.
She started up in bed, seized with a sudden dreadful idea. He was a detective!
She understood now why she had found so much that was white in him, but so much that was false. His presence seemed to be very near her. Something caressing in his voice echoed in her mind. She found herself to be listening to the muted sounds of Limehouse and of the waterway which flowed so close beside her.
That old longing for the home of her childhood returned tenfold, and tears began to trickle down her cheeks. She was falling in love with this man whose object was her father's ruin. A cold terror clutched at her heart. Even now, while their friendship was so new, so strange, there was a query, a stark, terrifying query, to stand up before her.
If put to the test, which would she choose?
She was unable to face that issue, and dropped back upon her pillow, stifling a sob.
Yes, he was a detective. In some way her father had at last attracted the serious attention of the law. Rumours of this were flying round Chinatown, to which she had not been entirely deaf. She thought of a hundred questions, a hundred silences, and grew more and more convinced of the truth.
What did he mean to do? Before her a ghostly company uprose -- the shadows of some she had known with designs upon her father. John Hampden's design was different. But might he not join that mysterious company?
Now again she suddenly sprang upright, this time because of a definite sound which had reached her ears from within the house: a very faint, bell-like tinkling which ceased almost immediately. She had heard it one night before, and quite recently; indeed, on the night before she had met John Hampden. Cohen -- Cohen, the Jew, had died that night!
She sprang lightly on to the floor, found her slippers, and threw a silk kimono over her nightrobe. She tiptoed cautiously to the door and opened it.
It was at this very moment that old Huang Chow, asleep in his cell-like apartment, was aroused by the tinkling of a bell set immediately above his head. He awoke instantly, raised his hand and stopped the bell. His expression, could anyone have been present to see it, was a thing unpleasant to behold. Triumph was in it, and cunning cruelty.
His long yellow fingers reached out for his hornrimmed spectacles which lay upon a little table beside him. Adjusting them, he pulled the curtains aside and shuffled silently across the large room.
Mounting the steps to the raised writing-table, he rested his elbows upon it, and peered down at that curious blotting-pad which had so provoked the curiosity of Durham. Could Durham have seen it now the mystery must have been solved. It was an ingenious camera obscura apparatus, and dimly depicted upon its surface appeared a reproduction of part of the storehouse beneath! The part of it which was visible was that touched by the light of an electric torch, carried by a man crossing the floor in the direction of the lacquered coffin upon the gilded pedestal!
Old Huang Chow chuckled silently, and his yellow fingers clutched the table edge as he moved to peer more closely into the picture.
"Poor fool!" he whispered in Chinese. "Poor fool!"
It was the man who had come with the introduction from Mr. Isaacs -- a new impostor who sought to rob him, who sought to obtain information from his daughter, who had examined his premises last night, and had even penetrated upstairs, so that he, old Huang Chow, had been compelled to disconnect the apparatus and to feign sleep under the scrutiny of the intruder.
To-night it would be otherwise. To-night it would be otherwise.
Chapter X
The Lacquered Coffin
Durham gently raised the trap in the roof of Huang Chow's treasure-house. He was prepared for snares and pitfalls. No sane man, on the evidence which he, Durham, had been compelled to leave behind, would have neglected to fasten the skylight which so obviously afforded a means of entrance into his premises.
Therefore, he was expected to return. The devilish mechanism was set ready to receive him. But the artist within him demanded that he should unmask the mystery with his own hands.
Moreover, he doubted that an official visit, even now, would yield any results. Old Huang Chow was too cunning for that. If he was to learn how the man Cohen had died, he must follow the same path to the bitter end. But there were men on duty round the house, and he believed that he had placed them so secretly as to deceive even this master of cunning with whom he was dealing.
He repeated his exploit, dropping with a dull thud upon the cushioned divan. Then, having lain there listening awhile, he pressed the button of his torch, and, standing up, crept across the room in the direction of the stairway.
Here he paused awhile, listening intently. The image of Lala Huang arose before his mind's eye reproachfully, but he crushed the reproach, and advanced until he stood beside the lacquered coffin.
He remembered where the key was hidden, and, stooping, he fumbled for a while and then found it. He was acutely conscious of an unnameable fear. He felt that he was watched, and yet was unwilling to believe it. The musty and unpleasant smell which he had noticed before became extremely perceptible.
He quietly sought for the hidden lock, and, presently finding it, inserted the key, then paused awhile. He rested his torch upon the cushions of the divan where the light shone directly upon the coffin. Then, having his automatic in his left hand, he turned the key.
He had expected now to be able to raise the lid as he had seen Huang Chow do; but the result was far more surprising.
The lid, together with a second framework of fine netting, flew open with a resounding bang; and from the interior of the coffin uprose a most abominable stench.
Durham started back a step, and as he did so witnessed a sight which turned him sick with horror.
Out on to the edge of the coffin leapt the most gigantic spider which he had ever seen in his life! It had a body as big as a man's fist, jet black, with hairy legs like the legs of a crab and a span of a foot or more!
A moment it poised there, while he swayed, sick with horror. Then, unhesitatingly, it leapt for his face!
He groaned and fired, missed the horror, but diverted its leap, so that it fell with a sickening thud a yard behind him. He turned, staggering back towards the stair, and aware that a light had shone out from somewhere.
A door had been opened only a few yards from where he stood, and there, framed in the opening, was Lala Huang, her eyes wide with terror and her gaze set upon him across the room.
"You!" she whispered. "You!"
"Go back!" he cried hoarsely. "Go back! Close the door. You don't understand -- close the door!"
Her gaze set wildly upon him, Lala staggered forward; stopped dead; looked down at her bare ankle, and then, seeing the thing which had fastened upon her, uttered a piercing shriek which rang throughout the place.
At which moment the floor slid away beneath Durham, and he found himself falling -- falling -- and then battling for life in evil- smelling water, amidst absolute darkness.
Police whistles were skirling around the house of Huang Chow. As the hidden men came running into the court:
"You heard the shot?" cried the sergeant in charge. "I warned him not to go alone. Don't waste time on the door. One man stay on duty there; the rest of you follow me."
In a few moments, led by the sergeant, the party came dropping heavily through the skylight into the treasure-house of Huang Chow, in which every lamp was now alight. A trap was open near the foot of the stairs, and from beneath it muffled cries proceeded. In this direction the sergeant headed. Craning over the trap:
"Hallo, Mr. Durham!" he called. "Mr. Durham!"
"Get a rope and a ladder," came a faint cry from below. "I can just touch bottom with my feet and keep my head above water, but the tide's coming in. Look to the girl, though, first. Look to the girl!"
The sergeant turned to where, stretched upon a tiger skin before a half-open door, Lala Huang lay, scantily clothed and white as death.
Upon one of her bare ankles was a discoloured mark.
As the sergeant and another of the men stooped over her a moaning sound drew their attention to the stair, and there, bent and tottering slowly down, was old Huang Chow, his eyes peering through the owl-like glasses vacantly across the room to where his daughter lay.
"My God!" whispered the sergeant, upon one knee beside her. He looked blankly into the face of the other man. "She's dead!"
Two plain-clothes men were busy knotting together tapestries and pieces of rare stuff with which to draw Durham out of the pit; but at these old Huang Chow looked not at all, but gropingly crossed the room, as if he saw imperfectly, or could not believe what he saw. At last he reached the side of the dead girl, stooped, touched her, laid a trembling yellow hand over her heart, and then stood up again, looking from face to face.
Ignoring the mingled activities about him, he crossed to the open coffin and began to fumble amongst the putrefying mass of bones and webbing which lay therein. Out from this he presently drew an iron coffer.
Carrying it across the room he opened the lid. It was full almost to the top with uncut gems of every variety -- diamonds, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, topaz, amethysts, flashing greenly, redly, whitely. In handfuls he grasped them and sprinkled them upon the body of the dead girl.
"For you," he crooned brokenly in Chinese. "They were all for you!"
The extemporized rope had just been lowered to Durham, when:
"My God!" cried the sergeant, looking over Huang Chow's shoulder. "What's that?"
He had seen the giant spider, the horror from Surinam, which the Chinaman had reared and fed to guard his treasure and to gratify his lust for the strange and cruel. The insect, like everything else in that house, was unusual, almost unique. It was one of the Black Soldier spiders, by some regarded as a native myth, but actually existing in Surinam and parts of Brazil. A member of the family, Mygale, its sting was more quickly and certainly fatal than that of a rattle-snake. Its instinct was fearlessly to attack any creature, great or small, which disturbed it in its dark hiding-place.
Now, with feverish, horrible rapidity it was racing up the tapestries on the other side of the room.
"Merciful God!" groaned the sergeant.
Snatching a revolver from his pocket he fired shot after shot. The third hit the thing but did not kill it. It dropped back upon the floor and began to crawl toward the coffin. The sergeant ran across and at close quarters shot it again.
Red blood oozed out from the hideous black body and began to form a deep stain upon the carpet.
When Durham, drenched but unhurt, was hauled back into the treasure-house, he did not speak, but, scrambling into the room stood -- pallid -- staring dully at old Huang Chow.
Huang Chow, upon his knees beside his daughter, was engaged in sprinkling priceless jewels over her still body, and murmuring in Chinese:
"For you, for you, Lala. They were all for you."

The Sliced-Crosswise Only-on-Tuesday World

2009-03-06T10:59:00.000-08:00

This time its "The Sliced-Crosswise Only-on-Tuesday World" by Philip Jose Farmer. Normaly I avoid things that may or may not still be under copyright, but I think in honor of his death I can make an exception to the rule
Comments and requests would be greatly appreciated.

The Sliced-Crosswise Only-on-Tuesday World
Getting into Wednesday was almost impossible.
Tom Pym had thought about living on other days of the week. Almost everybody with any imagination did. There were even TV shows speculating on this. Tom Pym had even acted in two of these. But he had no genuine desire to move out of his own world. Then his house burned down.
This was on the last day of the eight days of spring. He awoke to look out the door at the ashes and the firemen. A man in a white asbestos suit motioned for him to stay inside. After fifteen minutes, another man in a suit gestured that it was safe. He pressed the button by the door, and it swung open. He sank down in the ashes to his ankles; they were a trifle warm under the inch-thick coat of water-soaked crust.
There was no need to ask what had happened, but he did, anyway.
The firemen said, "A short-circuit, I suppose. Actually, we don't know. It started shortly after midnight, between the time that Monday quit and we took over."
Tom Pym thought that it must be strange to be a fireman or a policeman. Their hours were so different, even though they were still limited by the walls of midnight.
By then the others were stepping out of their stoners or "coffins" as they were often called. That left sixty still occupied.
They were due for work at 08:00. The problem of getting new clothes and a place to live would have to be put off until off-hours, because the TV studio where they worked was behind in the big special it was due to put on in 144 days.
They ate breakfast at an emergency center. Tom Pym asked a grip if he knew of any place he could stay. Though the government would find one for him, it might not look very hard for a convenient place.
The grip told him about a house only six blocks from his former house. A makeup man had died, and as far as he knew the vacancy had not been filled. Tom got onto the phone at once, since he wasn't needed at that moment, but the office wouldn't be open until ten, as the recording informed him. The recording was a very pretty girl with red hair, tourmaline eyes, and a very sexy voice. Tom would have been more impressed if he had not known her. She had played in some small parts in two of his shows, and the maddening voice was not hers. Neither was the color of her eyes.
At noon he called again, got through after a ten-minute wait, and asked Mrs. Bellefield if she would put through a request for him. Mrs. Bellefield reprimanded him for not having phoned sooner; she was not sure that anything could be done today. He tried to tell her his circumstances and then gave up. Bureaucrats! That evening he went to a public emergency place, slept for the required four hours while the inductive field speeded up his dreaming, woke up, and got into the upright cylinder of eternium. He stood for ten seconds, gazing out through the transparent door at other cylinders with their still figures, and then he pressed the button. Approximately fifteen seconds later he became unconscious.
He had to spend three more nights in the public stoner. Three days of fall were gone; only five left. Not that that mattered in California so much. When he had lived in Chicago, winter was like a white blanket being shaken by a madwoman. Spring was a green explosion. Summer was a bright roar and a hot breath. Fall was the topple of a drunken jester in garish motley.
The fourth day, he received notice that he could move into the very house he had picked. This surprised and pleased him. He knew of a dozen who had spent a whole year -- forty-eight days or so -- in a public station while waiting. He moved in the fifth day with three days of spring to enjoy. But he would have to use up his two days off to shop for clothes, bring in groceries and other goods, and get acquainted with his housemates. Sometimes, he wished he had not been born with the compulsion to act. TV'ers worked five days at a stretch, sometimes six, while a plumber, for instance, only put in three days out of seven.
The house was as large as the other, and the six extra blocks to walk would be good for him. It held eight people per day, counting himself. He moved in that evening, introduced himself, and got Mabel Curta, who worked as a secretary for a producer, to fill him in on the household routine. After he made sure that his stoner had been moved into the stoner room, he could relax somewhat.
Mabel Curta had accompanied him into the stoner room, since she had appointed herself his guide. She was a short, overly curved woman of about thirty-five (Tuesday time). She had been divorced three times, and marriage was no more for her unless, of course, Mr. Right came along. Tom was between marriages himself, but he did not tell her so.
"We'll take a look at your bedroom," Mabel said. "It's small but it's soundproofed, thank God."
He started after her, then stopped. She looked back through the doorway and said, "What is it?"
"This girl --"
There were sixty-three of the tall gray eternium cylinders. He was looking through the door of the nearest at the girl within.
"Wow! Really beautiful!"
If Mabel felt any jealousy, she suppressed it.
"Yes, isn't she!"
The girl had long, black, slightly curly hair, a face that could have launched him a thousand times times a thousand times, a figure that had enough but not too much, and long legs. Her eyes were open; in the dim light they looked a purplish-blue. She wore a thin silvery dress.
The plate by the top of the door gave her vital data. Jennie Marlowe. Born 2031 A.D., San Marino, California. She would be twenty-four years old. Actress. Unmarried. Wednesday's child.
"What's the matter?" Mabel said.
"Nothing."
How could he tell her that he felt sick in his stomach from a desire that could never be satisfied? Sick from beauty. For will in us is over-ruled by fate.
Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?
"What?" Mabel said, and then, after laughing, "You must be kidding?"
She wasn't angry. She realized that Jennie Marlowe was no more competition than if she were dead. She was right. Better for him to busy himself with the living of this world. Mabel wasn't too bad, cuddly, really, and, after a few drinks, rather stimulating.
They went downstairs afterward after 18:00 to the TV room. Most of the others were there, too. Some had their ear plugs in; some were looking at the screen but talking. The newscast was on, of course. Everybody was filling up on what had happened last Tuesday and today. The Speaker of the House was retiring after his term was up. His days of usefulness were over and his recent ill health showed no signs of disappearing. There was a shot of the family graveyard in Mississippi with the pedestal reserved for him. When science someday learned how to rejuvenate, he would come out of stonerment.
"That'll be the day!" Mabel said. She squirmed on his lap.
"Oh, I think they'll crack it," he said. "They're already on the track; they've succeeded in stopping the aging of rabbits."
"I don't mean that," she said. "Sure, they'll find out how to rejuvenate people. But then what? You think they're going to bring them all back? With all the people they got now and then they'll double, maybe triple, maybe quadruple, the population? You think they won't just leave them standing there?" She giggled, and said, "What would the pigeons do without them?"
He squeezed her waist. At the same time, he had a vision of himself squeezing that girl's waist. Hers would be soft enough but with no hint of fat.
Forget about her. Think of now. Watch the news.
A Mrs. Wilder had stabbed her husband and then herself with a kitchen knife. Both had been stonered immediately after the police arrived, and they had been taken to the hospital. An investigation of a work slowdown in the county government offices was taking place. The complaints were that Monday's people were not setting up the computers for Tuesday's. The case was being referred to the proper authorities of both days. The Ganymede base reported that the Great Red Spot of Jupiter was emitting weak but definite pulses that did not seem to be random.
The last five minutes of the program was a precis devoted to outstanding events of the other days. Mrs. Cuthmar, the housemother, turned the channel to a situation comedy with no protests from anybody.
Tom left the room, after telling Mabel that he was going to bed early -- alone, and to sleep. He had a hard day tomorrow.
He tiptoed down the hall and the stairs and into the stoner room. The lights were soft, there were many shadows, and it was quiet. The sixty-three cylinders were like ancient granite columns of an underground chamber of a buried city. Fifty-five faces were white blurs behind the clear metal. Some had their eyes open; most had closed them while waiting for the field radiated from the machine in the base. He looked through Jennie Marlowe's door. He felt sick again. Out of his reach; never for him. Wednesday was only a day away. No, it was only a little less than four and a half hours away.
He touched the door. It was slick and only a little cold. She stared at him. Her right forearm was bent to hold the strap of a large purse. When the door opened, she would step out, ready to go. Some people took their showers and fixed their faces as soon as they got up from their sleep and then went directly into the stoner. When the field was automatically radiated at 05:00, they stepped out a minute later, ready for the day.
He would like to step out of his "coffin," too, at the same time.
But he was barred by Wednesday.
He turned away. He was acting like a sixteen-year-old kid. He had been sixteen about one hundred and six years ago, not that that made any difference. Physiologically, he was thirty.
As he started up to the second floor, he almost turned around and went back for another look. But he took himself by his neck-collar and pulled himself up to his room. There he decided he would get to sleep at once. Perhaps he would dream about her. If dreams were wish-fulfillments, they would bring her to him. It still had not been "proved" that dreams always expressed wishes, but it had been proved that man deprived of dreaming did go mad. And so the somniums radiated a field that put man into a state in which he got all the sleep, and all the dreams, that he needed within a four-hour period. Then he was awakened and a little later went into the stoner where the field suspended all atomic and subatomic activity. He would remain in that state forever unless the activating field came on.
He slept, and Jennie Marlowe did not come to him. Or, if she did, he did not remember. He awoke, washed his face, went down eagerly to the stoner, where he found the entire household standing around, getting in one last smoke, talking, laughing. Then they would step into their cylinders, and a silence like that at the heart of a mountain would fall.
He had often wondered what would happen if he did not go into the stoner. How would he feel? Would he be panicked? All his life, he had known only Tuesdays. Would Wednesday rush at him, roaring, like a tidal wave? Pick him up and hurl him against the reefs of a strange time?
What if he made some excuse and went back upstairs and did not go back down until the field had come on? By then, he could not enter. The door to his cylinder would not open again until the proper time. He could still run down to the public emergency stoners only three blocks away. But if he stayed in his room, waiting for Wednesday?
Such things happened. If the breaker of the law did not have a reasonable excuse, he was put on trial. It was a felony second only to murder to "break time," and the unexcused were stonered. All felons, sane or insane, were stonered. Or maÃ±anaed, as some said. The maÃ±anaed criminal waited in immobility and unconsciousness, preserved unharmed until science had techniques to cure the insane, the neurotic, the criminal, the sick. MaÃ±ana.
"What was it like in Wednesday?" Tom had asked a man who had been unavoidably left behind because of an accident.
"How would I know? I was knocked out except for about fifteen minutes. I was in the same city, and I had never seen the faces of the ambulance men, of course, but then I've never seen them here. They stonered me and left me in the hospital for Tuesday to take care of."
He must have it bad, he thought. Bad. Even to think of such a thing was crazy. Getting into Wednesday was almost impossible. Almost. But it could be done. It would take time and patience, but it could be done.
He stood in front of his stoner for a moment. The others said, "See you! So long! Next Tuesday!" Mabel called, "Good night, lover!"
"Good night," he muttered.
"What?" she shouted.
"Good night!"
He glanced at the beautiful face behind the door. Then he smiled. He had been afraid that she might hear him say good night to a woman who called him lover.
He had ten minutes yet. The intercom alarms were whooping. Get going, everybody! Time to take the six-day trip! Run! Remember the penalties!
He remembered, but he wanted to leave a message. The recorder was on a table. He activated it, and said, "Dear Miss Jennie Marlowe. My name is Tom Pym, and my stoner is next to yours. I am an actor, too; in fact, I work at the same studio as you. I know this is presumptuous of me, but I have never seen anybody so beautiful. Do you have a talent to match your beauty? I would like to see some run-offs of your shows. Would you please leave some in room five? I'm sure the occupant won't mind. Yours, Tom Pym."
He ran it back. It was certainly bald enough, and that might be just what was needed. Too flowery or too pressing would have made her leery. He had commented on her beauty twice but not overstressed it. And the appeal to her pride in her acting would be difficult to resist. Nobody knew better than he about that.
He whistled a little on his way to the cylinder. Inside, he pressed the button and looked at his watch. Five minutes to midnight. The light on the huge screen above the computer in the police station would not be flashing for him. Ten minutes from now, Wednesday's police would step out of their stoners in the precinct station, and they would take over their duties.
There was a ten-minute hiatus between the two days in the police station. All hell could break loose in these few minutes and it sometimes did. But a price had to be paid to maintain the walls of time.
He opened his eyes. His knees sagged a little and his head bent. The activation was a million microseconds fast-from eternium to flesh and blood almost instantaneously and the heart never knew that it had been stopped for such a long time. Even so, there was a little delay in the muscles' response to a standing position.
He pressed the button, opened the door, and it was as if his button had launched the day. Mabel had made herself up last night so that she looked dawn-fresh. He complimented her and she smiled happily. But he told her he would meet her for breakfast. Halfway up the staircase, he stopped, and waited until the hall was empty. Then he sneaked back down and into the stoner room. He turned on the recorder.
A voice, husky but also melodious, said, "Dear Mister Pym. I've had a few messages from other days. It was fun to talk back and forth across the abyss between the worlds, if you don't mind my exaggerating a little. But there is really no sense in it, once the novelty has worn off. If you become interested in the other person, you're frustrating yourself. That person can only be a voice in a recorder and a cold waxy face in a metal coffin. I wax poetic. Pardon me. If the person doesn't interest you, why continue to communicate? There is no sense in either case. And I may be beautiful. Anyway, I thank you for the compliment, but I am also sensible.
"I should have just not bothered to reply. But I want to be nice; I didn't want to hurt your feelings. So please don't leave any more messages."
He waited while silence was played. Maybe she was pausing for effect. Now would come a chuckle or a low honey-throated laugh, and she would say, "However, I don't like to disappoint my public. The run-offs are in your room."
The silence stretched out. He turned off the machine and went to the dining room for breakfast.
Siesta time at work was from 14:40 to 14:45. He lay down on the bunk and pressed the button. Within a minute he was asleep. He did dream of Jennie this time; she was a white shimmering figure solidifying out of the darkness and floating toward him. She was even more beautiful than she had been in her stoner.
The shooting ran overtime that afternoon so that he got home just in time for supper. Even the studio would not dare keep a man past his supper hour, especially since the studio was authorized to serve food only at noon.
He had time to look at Jennie for a minute before Mrs. Cuthmar's voice screeched over the intercom. As he walked down the hall, he thought, "I'm getting barnacled on her. It's ridiculous. I'm a grown man. Maybe -- maybe I should see a psycher."
Sure, make your petition, and wait until a psycher has time for you. Say about three hundred days from now, if you are lucky. And if the psycher doesn't work out for you, then petition for another, and wait six hundred days.
Petition. He slowed down. Petition. What about a request, not to see a psycher, but to move? Why not? What did he have to lose? It would probably be turned down, but he could at least try.
Even obtaining a form for the request was not easy. He spent two nonwork days standing in line at the Center City Bureau before he got the proper forms. The first time, he was handed the wrong form and had to start all over again. There was no line set aside for those who wanted to change their days. There were not enough who wished to do this to justify such a line. So he had to queue up before the Miscellaneous Office counter of the Mobility Section of the Vital Exchange Department of the Interchange and Cross Transfer Bureau. None of these titles had anything to do with emigration to another day.
When he got his form the second time, he refused to move from the office window until he had checked the number of the form and asked the clerk to double-check. He ignored the cries and the mutterings behind him. Then he went to one side of the vast room and stood in line before the punch machines. After two hours, he got to sit down at a small rolltop desk-shaped machine, above which was a large screen. He inserted the form into the slot, looked at the projection of the form, and punched buttons to mark the proper spaces opposite the proper questions. After that, all he had to do was to drop the form into a slot and hope it did not get lost. Or hope he would not have to go through the same procedure because he had improperly punched the form.
That evening, he put his head against the hard metal and murmured to the rigid face behind the door, "I must really love you to go through all this. And you don't even know it. And, worse, if you did, you might not care one bit."
To prove to himself that he had kept his gray stuff, he went out with Mabel that evening to a party given by Sol Voremwolf, a producer. Voremwolf had just passed a civil service examination giving him an A-13 rating. This meant that, in time, with some luck and the proper pull, he would become an executive vice-president of the studio.
The party was a qualified success. Tom and Mabel returned about half an hour before stoner time. Tom had managed to refrain from too many blowminds and liquor, so he was not tempted by Mabel. Even so, he knew that when he became unstonered, he would be half-loaded and he'd have to take some dreadful counter-actives. He would look and feel like hell at work, since he had missed his sleep.
He put Mabel off with an excuse, and went down to the stoner room ahead of the others. Not that that would do him any good if he wanted to get stonered early. The stoners only activated within narrow time limits.
He leaned against the cylinder and patted the door. "I tried not to think about you all evening. I wanted to be fair to Mabel, it's not fair to go out with her and think about you all the time." All's fair in love --
He left another message for her, then wiped it out. What was the use? Besides, he knew that his speech was a little thick. He wanted to appear at his best for her.
Why should he? What did she care for him?
The answer was, he did care, and there was no reason or logic connected with it. He loved this forbidden, untouchable, far-away-in-time, yet-so-near woman.
Mabel had come in silently. She said, "You're sick!"
Tom jumped away. Now why had he done that? He had nothing to be ashamed of. Then why was he so angry with her? His embarrassment was understandable but his anger was not.
Mabel laughed at him, and he was glad. Now he could snarl at her. He did so, and she turned away and walked out. But she was back in a few minutes with the others. It would soon be midnight.
By then he was standing inside the cylinder. A few seconds later, he left it, pushed Jennie's backward on its wheels, and pushed his around so that it faced hers. He went back in, pressed the button, and stood there. The double doors only slightly distorted his view. But she seemed even more removed in distance, in time, and in unattainability.
Three days later, well into winter, he received a letter. The box inside the entrance hall buzzed just as he entered the front door. He went back and waited until the letter was printed and had dropped out from the slot. It was the reply to his request to move to Wednesday.
Denied. Reason: he had no reasonable reason to move.
That was true. But he could not give his real motive. It would have been even less impressive than the one he had given. He had punched the box opposite No. 12. REASON: TO GET INTO AN ENVIRONMENT WHERE MY TALENTS WILL BE MORE LIKELY TO BE ENCOURAGED.
He cursed and he raged. It was his human, his civil right to move into any day he pleased. That is, it should be his right. What if a move did cause much effort? What if it required a transfer of his I.D. and all the records connected with him from the moment of his birth? What if --?
He could rage all he wanted to, but it would not change a thing. He was stuck in the world of Tuesday.
Not yet, he muttered. Not yet. Fortunately, there is no limit to the number of requests I can make in my own day. I'll send out another. They think they can wear me out, huh? Well, I'll wear them out. Man against the machine. Man against the system. Man against the bureaucracy and the hard cold rules.
Winter's twenty days had sped by. Spring's eight days rocketed by. It was summer again. On the second day of the twelve days of summer, he received a reply to his second request.
It was neither a denial nor an acceptance. It stated that if he thought he would be better off psychologically in Wednesday because his astrologer said so, then he would have to get a psycher's critique of the astrologer's analysis. Tom Pym jumped into the air and clicked his sandaled heels together. Thank God that he lived in an age that did not classify astrologers as charlatans! The people -- the masses -- had protested that astrology was a necessity and that it should be legalized and honored. So laws were passed, and because of that, Tom Pym had a chance.
He went down to the stoner room and kissed the door of the cylinder and told Jennie Marlowe the good news. She did not respond, though he thought he saw her eyes brighten just a little. That was, of course, only his imagination, but he liked his imagination.
Getting a psycher for a consultation and getting through the three sessions took another year, another forty-eight days. Doctor Sigmund Traurig was a friend of Doctor Stelhela, the astrologer, and so that made things easier for Tom.
"I've studied Doctor Stelhela's chart carefully and analyzed carefully your obsession for this woman," he said. "I agree with Doctor Stelhela that you will always be unhappy in Tuesday, but I don't quite agree with him that you will be happier in Wednesday. However, you have this thing going for this Miss Marlowe, so I think you should go to Wednesday. But only if you sign papers agreeing to see a psycher there for extended therapy."
Only later did Tom Pym realize that Doctor Traurig might have wanted to get rid of him because he had too many patients. But that was an uncharitable thought.
He had to wait while the proper papers were transmitted to Wednesday's authorities. His battle was only half-won. The other officials could turn him down. And if he did get to his goal, then what? She could reject him without giving him a second chance.
It was unthinkable, but she could.
He caressed the door and then pressed his lips against it.
"Pygmalion could at least touch Galatea," he said. "Surely, the gods -- the big dumb bureaucrats -- will take pity on me, who can't even touch you. Surely."
The psycher had said that he was incapable of a true and lasting bond with a woman, as so many men were in this world of easy-come-easy-go liaisons. He had fallen in love with Jennie Marlowe for several reasons. She may have resembled somebody he had loved when he was very young. His mother, perhaps? No? Well, never mind. He would find out in Wednesday -- perhaps. The deep, the important, truth was that he loved Miss Marlowe because she could never reject him, kick him out, or become tiresome, complain, weep, yell, insult, and so forth. He loved her because she was unattainable and silent.
"I love her as Achilles must have loved Helen when he saw her on top of the walls of Troy," Tom said.
"I wasn't aware that Achilles was ever in love with Helen of Troy," Doctor Traurig said drily.
"Homer never said so, but I know that he must have been! Who could see her and not love her?"
"How the hell would I know? I never saw her! If I had suspected these delusions would intensify --"
"I am a poet!" Tom said.
"Overimaginative, you mean! Hmmm. She must be a douser! I don't have anything particular to do this evening. I'll tell you what -- my curiosity is aroused -- I'll come down to your place tonight and take a look at this fabulous beauty, your Helen of Troy."
Doctor Traurig appeared immediately after supper, and Tom Pym ushered him down the hall and into the stoner room at the rear of the big house as if he were a guide conducting a famous critic to a just-discovered Rembrandt.
The doctor stood for a long time in front of the cylinder. He hmmmed several times and checked her vital-data plate several times. Then he turned and said, "I see what you mean, Mr. Pym. Very well. I'll give the go-ahead."
"Ain't she something?" Tom said on the porch. "She's out of this world, literally and figuratively, of course."
"Very beautiful. But I believe that you are facing a great disappointment, perhaps heartbreak, perhaps, who knows, even madness, much as I hate to use that unscientific term."
"I'll take the chance," Tom said. "I know I sound nuts, but where would we be if it weren't for nuts? Look at the man who invented the wheel, at Columbus, at James Watt, at the Wright brothers, at Pasteur, you name them."
"You can scarcely compare these pioneers of science with their passion for truth with you and your desire to marry a woman. But, as I have observed, she is strikingly beautiful. Still, that makes me exceedingly cautious. Why isn't she married? What's wrong with her?"
"For all I know, she may have been married a dozen times!" Tom said. "The point is, she isn't now! Maybe she's disappointed and she's sworn to wait until the right man comes along. Maybe --"
"There's no maybe about it, you're neurotic," Traurig said. "But I actually believe that it would be more dangerous for you not to go to Wednesday than it would be to go."
"Then you'll say yes!" Tom said, grabbing the doctor's hand and shaking it.
"Perhaps. I have some doubts."
The doctor had a faraway look. Tom laughed and released the hand and slapped the doctor on the shoulder. "Admit it! You were really struck by her! You'd have to be dead not to!"
"She's all right," the doctor said. "But you must think this over. If you do go there and she turns you down, you might go off the deep end, much as I hate to use such a poetical term."
"No, I won't. I wouldn't be a bit the worse off. Better off, in fact. I'll at least get to see her in the flesh."
Spring and summer zipped by. Then, a morning he would never forget, the letter of acceptance. With it, instructions on how to get to Wednesday. These were simple enough. He was to make sure that the technicians came to his stoner sometime during the day and readjusted the timer within the base. He could not figure out why he could not just stay out of the stoner and let Wednesday catch up to him, but by now he was past trying to fathom the bureaucratic mind.
He did not intend to tell anyone at the house, mainly because of Mabel. But Mabel found out from someone at the studio. She wept when she saw him at supper time, and she ran upstairs to her room. He felt badly, but he did not follow to console her.
That evening, his heart beating hard, he opened the door to his stoner. The others had found out by then; he had been unable to keep the business to himself. Actually, he was glad that he had told them. They seemed happy for him, and they brought in drinks and had many rounds of toasts. Finally, Mabel came downstairs, wiping her eyes, and she said she wished him luck, too. She had known that he was not really in love with her. But she did wish someone would fall in love with her just by looking inside her stoner.
When she found out that he had gone to see Doctor Traurig, she said, "He's a very influential man. Sol Voremwolf had him for his analyst. He says he's even got influence on other days. He edits the Psyche Crosscurrents, you know, one of the few periodicals read by other people."
Other, of course, meant those who lived in Wednesdays through Mondays.
Tom said he was glad he had gotten Traurig. Perhaps he had used his influence to get the Wednesday authorities to push through his request so swiftly. The walls between the worlds were seldom broken, but it was suspected that the very influential did it when they pleased.
Now, quivering, he stood before Jennie's cylinder again. The last time, he thought, that I'll see her stonered. Next time, she'll be warm, colorful, touchable flesh.
"Ave atque vale!" he said aloud. The others cheered. Mabel said, "How corny!" They thought he was addressing them, and perhaps he had included them.
He stepped inside the cylinder, closed the door, and pressed the button. He would keep his eyes open, so that --
And today was Wednesday. Though the view was exactly the same, it was like being on Mars.
He pushed open the door and stepped out. The seven people had faces he knew and names he had read on their plates. But he did not know them.
He started to say hello, and then he stopped.
Jennie Marlowe's cylinder was gone.
He seized the nearest man by the arm.
"Where's Jennie Marlowe?"
"Let go. You're hurting me. She's gone. To Tuesday."
"Tuesday! Tuesday?"
"Sure. She'd been trying to get out of here for a long time. She had something about this day being unlucky for her. She was unhappy, that's for sure. Just two days ago, she said her application had finally been accepted. Apparently, some Tuesday psycher had used his influence. He came down and saw her in her stoner and that was it, brother."
The walls and the people and the stoners seemed to be distorted. Time was bending itself this way and that. He wasn't in Wednesday; he wasn't in Tuesday. He wasn't in any day. He was stuck inside himself at some crazy date that should never have existed.
"She can't do that!"
"Oh, no! She just did that!"
"But -- you can't transfer more than once!"
"That's her problem."
It was his, too.
"I should never have brought him down to look at her!" Tom said. "The swine! The unethical swine!"
Tom Pym stood there for a long time, and then he went into the kitchen. It was the same environment, if you discounted the people. Later, he went to the studio and got a part in a situation play which was, really, just like all those in Tuesday. He watched the newscaster that night. The President of the U.S.A. had a different name and face, but the words of his speech could have been those of Tuesday's President. He was introduced to a secretary of a producer; her name wasn't Mabel, but it might as well have been.
The difference here was that Jennie was gone, and oh, what a world of difference it made to him.
-- End --

The God of Tarzan

2009-02-23T15:39:00.000-08:00

This time its "The God of Tarzan" by Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Comments and requests would be greatly appreciated.

AMONG THE BOOKS of his dead father in the little cabin by the land-locked harbor, Tarzan of the Apes found many things to puzzle his young head. By much labor and through the medium of infinite patience as well, he had, without assistance, discovered the purpose of the little bugs which ran riot upon the printed pages. He had learned that in the many combinations in which he found them they spoke in a silent language, spoke in a strange tongue, spoke of wonderful things which a little ape-boy could not by any chance fully understand, arousing his curiosity, stimulating his imagination and filling his soul with a mighty longing for further knowledge.
A dictionary had proven itself a wonderful storehouse of information, when, after several years of tireless endeavor, he had solved the mystery of its purpose and the manner of its use. He had learned to make a species of game out of it, following up the spoor of a new thought through the mazes of the many definitions which each new word required him to consult. It was like following a quarry through the jungle-- it was hunting, and Tarzan of the Apes was an indefatigable huntsman.
There were, of course, certain words which aroused his curiosity to a greater extent than others, words which, for one reason or another, excited his imagination. There was one, for example, the meaning of which was rather difficult to grasp. It was the word GOD. Tarzan first had been attracted to it by the fact that it was very short and that it commenced with a larger g-bug than those about it--a male g-bug it was to Tarzan, the lower-case letters being females. Another fact which attracted him to this word was the number of he-bugs which figured in its definition--Supreme Deity, Creator or Upholder of the Universe. This must be a very important word indeed, he would have to look into it, and he did, though it still baffled him after many months of thought and study.
However, Tarzan counted no time wasted which he devoted to these strange hunting expeditions into the game preserves of knowledge, for each word and each definition led on and on into strange places, into new worlds where, with increasing frequency, he met old, familiar faces. And always he added to his store of knowledge.
But of the meaning of GOD he was yet in doubt. Once he thought he had grasped it--that God was a mighty chieftain, king of all the Mangani. He was not quite sure, however, since that would mean that God was mightier than Tarzan-- a point which Tarzan of the Apes, who acknowledged no equal in the jungle, was loath to concede.
But in all the books he had there was no picture of God, though he found much to confirm his belief that God was a great, an all-powerful individual. He saw pictures of places where God was worshiped; but never any sign of God. Finally he began to wonder if God were not of a different form than he, and at last he determined to set out in search of Him.
He commenced by questioning Mumga, who was very old and had seen many strange things in her long life; but Mumga, being an ape, had a faculty for recalling the trivial. That time when Gunto mistook a sting-bug for an edible beetle had made more impression upon Mumga than all the innumerable manifestations of the greatness of God which she had witnessed, and which, of course, she had not understood.
Numgo, overhearing Tarzan's questions, managed to wrest his attention long enough from the diversion of flea hunting to advance the theory that the power which made the lightning and the rain and the thunder came from Goro, the moon. He knew this, he said, because the Dum-Dum always was danced in the light of Goro. This reasoning, though entirely satisfactory to Numgo and Mumga, failed fully to convince Tarzan. However, it gave him a basis for further investigation along a new line. He would investigate the moon.
That night he clambered to the loftiest pinnacle of the tallest jungle giant. The moon was full, a great, glorious, equatorial moon. The ape-man, upright upon a slender, swaying limb, raised his bronzed face to the silver orb. Now that he had clambered to the highest point within his reach, he discovered, to his surprise, that Goro was as far away as when he viewed him from the ground. He thought that Goro was attempting to elude him.
"Come, Goro!" he cried, "Tarzan of the Apes will not harm you!" But still the moon held aloof.
"Tell me," he continued, "if you be the great king who sends Ara, the lightning; who makes the great noise and the mighty winds, and sends the waters down upon the jungle people when the days are dark and it is cold. Tell me, Goro, are you God?"
Of course he did not pronounce God as you or I would pronounce His name, for Tarzan knew naught of the spoken language of his English forbears; but he had a name of his own invention for each of the little bugs which constituted the alphabet. Unlike the apes he was not satisfied merely to have a mental picture of the things he knew, he must have a word descriptive of each. In reading he grasped a word in its entirety; but when he spoke the words he had learned from the books of his father, he pronounced each according to the names he had given the various little bugs which occurred in it, usually giving the gender prefix for each.
Thus it was an imposing word which Tarzan made of GOD. The masculine prefix of the apes is BU, the feminine MU; g Tarzan had named LA, o he pronounced TU, and d was MO. So the word God evolved itself into BULAMUTUMUMO, or, in English, he-g-she-o-she-d.
Similarly he had arrived at a strange and wonderful spelling of his own name. Tarzan is derived from the two ape words TAR and ZAN, meaning white skin. It was given him by his foster mother, Kala, the great she-ape. When Tarzan first put it into the written language of his own people he had not yet chanced upon either WHITE or SKIN in the dictionary; but in a primer he had seen the picture of a little white boy and so he wrote his name BUMUDE-MUTOMURO, or he-boy.
To follow Tarzan's strange system of spelling would be laborious as well as futile, and so we shall in the future, as we have in the past, adhere to the more familiar forms of our grammar school copybooks. It would tire you to remember that DO meant b, TU o, and RO y, and that to say he-boy you must prefix the ape masculine gender sound BU before the entire word and the feminine gender sound MU before each of the lower-case letters which go to make up boy--it would tire you and it would bring me to the nineteenth hole several strokes under par.
And so Tarzan harangued the moon, and when Goro did not reply, Tarzan of the Apes waxed wroth. He swelled his giant chest and bared his fighting fangs, and hurled into the teeth of the dead satellite the challenge of the bull ape.
"You are not Bulamutumumo," he cried. "You are not king of the jungle folk. You are not so great as Tarzan, mighty fighter, mighty hunter. None there is so great as Tarzan. If there be a Bulamutumumo, Tarzan can kill him. Come down, Goro, great coward, and fight with Tarzan. Tarzan will kill you. I am Tarzan, the killer."
But the moon made no answer to the boasting of the ape-man, and when a cloud came and obscured her face, Tarzan thought that Goro was indeed afraid, and was hiding from him, so he came down out of the trees and awoke Numgo and told him how great was Tarzan--how he had frightened Goro out of the sky and made him tremble. Tarzan spoke of the moon as HE, for all things large or awe inspiring are male to the ape folk.
Numgo was not much impressed; but he was very sleepy, so he told Tarzan to go away and leave his betters alone.
"But where shall I find God?" insisted Tarzan. "You are very old; if there is a God you must have seen Him. What does He look like? Where does He live?"
"I am God," replied Numgo. "Now sleep and disturb me no more."
Tarzan looked at Numgo steadily for several minutes, his shapely head sank just a trifle between his great shoulders, his square chin shot forward and his short upper lip drew back, exposing his white teeth. Then, with a low growl he leaped upon the ape and buried his fangs in the other's hairy shoulder, clutching the great neck in his mighty fingers. Twice he shook the old ape, then he released his tooth-hold.
"Are you God?" he demanded.
"No," wailed Numgo. "I am only a poor, old ape. Leave me alone. Go ask the Gomangani where God is. They are hairless like yourself and very wise, too. They should know."
Tarzan released Numgo and turned away. The suggestion that he consult the blacks appealed to him, and though his relations with the people of Mbonga, the chief, were the antithesis of friendly, he could at least spy upon his hated enemies and discover if they had intercourse with God.
So it was that Tarzan set forth through the trees toward the village of the blacks, all excitement at the prospect of discovering the Supreme Being, the Creator of all things. As he traveled he reviewed, mentally, his armament--the condition of his hunting knife, the number of his arrows, the newness of the gut which strung his bow--he hefted the war spear which had once been the pride of some black warrior of Mbonga's tribe.
If he met God, Tarzan would be prepared. One could never tell whether a grass rope, a war spear, or a poisoned arrow would be most efficacious against an unfamiliar foe. Tarzan of the Apes was quite content--if God wished to fight, the ape-man had no doubt as to the outcome of the struggle. There were many questions Tarzan wished to put to the Creator of the Universe and so he hoped that God would not prove a belligerent God; but his experience of life and the ways of living things had taught him that any creature with the means for offense and defense was quite likely to provoke attack if in the proper mood.
It was dark when Tarzan came to the village of Mbonga. As silently as the silent shadows of the night he sought his accustomed place among the branches of the great tree which overhung the palisade. Below him, in the village street, he saw men and women. The men were hideously painted--more hideously than usual. Among them moved a weird and grotesque figure, a tall figure that went upon the two legs of a man and yet had the head of a buffalo. A tail dangled to his ankles behind him, and in one hand he carried a zebra's tail while the other clutched a bunch of small arrows.
Tarzan was electrified. Could it be that chance had given him thus early an opportunity to look upon God? Surely this thing was neither man nor beast, so what could it be then other than the Creator of the Universe! The ape-man watched the every move of the strange creature. He saw the black men and women fall back at its approach as though they stood in terror of its mysterious powers.
Presently he discovered that the deity was speaking and that all listened in silence to his words. Tarzan was sure that none other than God could inspire such awe in the hearts of the Gomangani, or stop their mouths so effectually without recourse to arrows or spears. Tarzan had come to look with contempt upon the blacks, principally because of their garrulity. The small apes talked a great deal and ran away from an enemy. The big, old bulls of Kerchak talked but little and fought upon the slightest provocation. Numa, the lion, was not given to loquacity, yet of all the jungle folk there were few who fought more often than he.
Tarzan witnessed strange things that night, none of which he understood, and, perhaps because they were strange, he thought that they must have to do with the God he could not understand. He saw three youths receive their first war spears in a weird ceremony which the grotesque witch-doctor strove successfully to render uncanny and awesome.
Hugely interested, he watched the slashing of the three brown arms and the exchange of blood with Mbonga, the chief, in the rites of the ceremony of blood brotherhood. He saw the zebra's tail dipped into a caldron of water above which the witch-doctor had made magical passes the while he danced and leaped about it, and he saw the breasts and foreheads of each of the three novitiates sprinkled with the charmed liquid. Could the ape-man have known the purpose of this act, that it was intended to render the recipient invulnerable to the attacks of his enemies and fearless in the face of any danger, he would doubtless have leaped into the village street and appropriated the zebra's tail and a portion of the contents of the caldron.
But he did not know, and so he only wondered, not alone at what he saw but at the strange sensations which played up and down his naked spine, sensations induced, doubtless, by the same hypnotic influence which held the black spectators in tense awe upon the verge of a hysteric upheaval.
The longer Tarzan watched, the more convinced he became that his eyes were upon God, and with the conviction came determination to have word with the deity. With Tarzan of the Apes, to think was to act.
The people of Mbonga were keyed to the highest pitch of hysterical excitement. They needed little to release the accumulated pressure of static nerve force which the terrorizing mummery of the witch-doctor had induced.
A lion roared, suddenly and loud, close without the palisade. The blacks started nervously, dropping into utter silence as they listened for a repetition of that all-too-familiar and always terrorizing voice. Even the witch-doctor paused in the midst of an intricate step, remaining momentarily rigid and statuesque as he plumbed his cunning mind for a suggestion as how best he might take advantage of the condition of his audience and the timely interruption.
Already the evening had been vastly profitable to him. There would be three goats for the initiation of the three youths into full-fledged warriorship, and besides these he had received several gifts of grain and beads, together with a piece of copper wire from admiring and terrified members of his audience.
Numa's roar still reverberated along taut nerves when a woman's laugh, shrill and piercing, shattered the silence of the village. It was this moment that Tarzan chose to drop lightly from his tree into the village street. Fearless among his blood enemies he stood, taller by a full head than many of Mbonga's warriors, straight as their straightest arrow, muscled like Numa, the lion.
For a moment Tarzan stood looking straight at the witch-doctor. Every eye was upon him, yet no one had moved-- a paralysis of terror held them, to be broken a moment later as the ape-man, with a toss of head, stepped straight toward the hideous figure beneath the buffalo head.
Then the nerves of the blacks could stand no more. For months the terror of the strange, white, jungle god had been upon them. Their arrows had been stolen from the very center of the village; their warriors had been silently slain upon the jungle trails and their dead bodies dropped mysteriously and by night into the village street as from the heavens above.
One or two there were who had glimpsed the strange figure of the new demon and it was from their oft-repeated descriptions that the entire village now recognized Tarzan as the author of many of their ills. Upon another occasion and by daylight, the warriors would doubtless have leaped to attack him, but at night, and this night of all others, when they were wrought to such a pitch of nervous dread by the uncanny artistry of their witch-doctor, they were helpless with terror. As one man they turned and fled, scattering for their huts, as Tarzan advanced. For a moment one and one only held his ground. It was the witch-doctor. More than half self-hypnotized into a belief in his own charlatanry he faced this new demon who threatened to undermine his ancient and lucrative profession.
"Are you God?" asked Tarzan.
The witch-doctor, having no idea of the meaning of the other's words, danced a few strange steps, leaped high in the air, turning completely around and alighting in a stooping posture with feet far outspread and head thrust out toward the ape-man. Thus he remained for an instant before he uttered a loud "Boo!" which was evidently intended to frighten Tarzan away; but in reality had no such effect.
Tarzan did not pause. He had set out to approach and examine God and nothing upon earth might now stay his feet. Seeing that his antics had no potency with the visitor, the witch-doctor tried some new medicine. Spitting upon the zebra's tail, which he still clutched in one hand, he made circles above it with the arrows in the other hand, meanwhile backing cautiously away from Tarzan and speaking confidentially to the bushy end of the tail.
This medicine must be short medicine, however, for the creature, god or demon, was steadily closing up the distance which had separated them. The circles therefore were few and rapid, and when they were completed, the witch-doctor struck an attitude which was intended to be awe inspiring and waving the zebra's tail before him, drew an imaginary line between himself and Tarzan.
"Beyond this line you cannot pass, for my medicine is strong medicine," he cried. "Stop, or you will fall dead as your foot touches this spot. My mother was a voodoo, my father was a snake; I live upon lions' hearts and the entrails of the panther; I eat young babies for breakfast and the demons of the jungle are my slaves. I am the most powerful witch-doctor in the world; I fear nothing, for I cannot die. I--" But he got no further; instead he turned and fled as Tarzan of the Apes crossed the magical dead line and still lived.
As the witch-doctor ran, Tarzan almost lost his temper. This was no way for God to act, at least not in accordance with the conception Tarzan had come to have of God.
"Come back!" he cried. "Come back, God, I will not harm you." But the witch-doctor was in full retreat by this time, stepping high as he leaped over cooking pots and the smoldering embers of small fires that had burned before the huts of villagers. Straight for his own hut ran the witch-doctor, terror-spurred to unwonted speed; but futile was his effort--the ape-man bore down upon him with the speed of Bara, the deer.
Just at the entrance to his hut the witch-doctor was overhauled. A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder to drag him back. It seized upon a portion of the buffalo hide, dragging the disguise from him. It was a naked black man that Tarzan saw dodge into the darkness of the hut's interior.
So this was what he had thought was God! Tarzan's lip curled in an angry snarl as he leaped into the hut after the terror-stricken witch-doctor. In the blackness within he found the man huddled at the far side and dragged him forth into the comparative lightness of the moonlit night.
The witch-doctor bit and scratched in an attempt to escape; but a few cuffs across the head brought him to a better realization of the futility of resistance. Beneath the moon Tarzan held the cringing figure upon its shaking feet.
"So you are God!" he cried. "If you be God, then Tarzan is greater than God," and so the ape-man thought. "I am Tarzan," he shouted into the ear of the black. "In all the jungle, or above it, or upon the running waters, or the sleeping waters, or upon the big water, or the little water, there is none so great as Tarzan. Tarzan is greater than the Mangani; he is greater than the Gomangani. With his own hands he has slain Numa, the lion, and Sheeta, the panther; there is none so great as Tarzan. Tarzan is greater than God. See!" and with a sudden wrench he twisted the black's neck until the fellow shrieked in pain and then slumped to the earth in a swoon.
Placing his foot upon the neck of the fallen witch-doctor, the ape-man raised his face to the moon and uttered the long, shrill scream of the victorious bull ape. Then he stooped and snatched the zebra's tail from the nerveless fingers of the unconscious man and without a backward glance retraced his footsteps across the village.
From several hut doorways frightened eyes watched him. Mbonga, the chief, was one of those who had seen what passed before the hut of the witch-doctor. Mbonga was greatly concerned. Wise old patriarch that he was, he never had more than half believed in witch-doctors, at least not since greater wisdom had come with age; but as a chief he was well convinced of the power of the witch-doctor as an arm of government, and often it was that Mbonga used the superstitious fears of his people to his own ends through the medium of the medicine-man.
Mbonga and the witch-doctor had worked together and divided the spoils, and now the "face" of the witch-doctor would be lost forever if any saw what Mbonga had seen; nor would this generation again have as much faith in any future witch-doctor.
Mbonga must do something to counteract the evil influence of the forest demon's victory over the witch-doctor. He raised his heavy spear and crept silently from his hut in the wake of the retreating ape-man. Down the village street walked Tarzan, as unconcerned and as deliberate as though only the friendly apes of Kerchak surrounded him instead of a village full of armed enemies.
Seeming only was the indifference of Tarzan, for alert and watchful was every well-trained sense. Mbonga, wily stalker of keen-eared jungle creatures, moved now in utter silence. Not even Bara, the deer, with his great ears could have guessed from any sound that Mbonga was near; but the black was not stalking Bara; he was stalking man, and so he sought only to avoid noise.
Closer and closer to the slowly moving ape-man he came. Now he raised his war spear, throwing his spear-hand far back above his right shoulder. Once and for all would Mbonga, the chief, rid himself and his people of the menace of this terrifying enemy. He would make no poor cast; he would take pains, and he would hurl his weapon with such great force as would finish the demon forever.
But Mbonga, sure as he thought himself, erred in his calculations. He might believe that he was stalking a man-- he did not know, however, that it was a man with the delicate sense perception of the lower orders. Tarzan, when he had turned his back upon his enemies, had noted what Mbonga never would have thought of considering in the hunting of man--the wind. It was blowing in the same direction that Tarzan was proceeding, carrying to his delicate nostrils the odors which arose behind him. Thus it was that Tarzan knew that he was being followed, for even among the many stenches of an African village, the ape-man's uncanny faculty was equal to the task of differentiating one stench from another and locating with remarkable precision the source from whence it came.
He knew that a man was following him and coming closer, and his judgment warned him of the purpose of the stalker. When Mbonga, therefore, came within spear range of the ape-man, the latter suddenly wheeled upon him, so suddenly that the poised spear was shot a fraction of a second before Mbonga had intended. It went a trifle high and Tarzan stooped to let it pass over his head; then he sprang toward the chief. But Mbonga did not wait to receive him. Instead, he turned and fled for the dark doorway of the nearest hut, calling as he went for his warriors to fall upon the stranger and slay him.
Well indeed might Mbonga scream for help, for Tarzan, young and fleet-footed, covered the distance between them in great leaps, at the speed of a charging lion. He was growling, too, not at all unlike Numa himself. Mbonga heard and his blood ran cold. He could feel the wool stiffen upon his pate and a prickly chill run up his spine, as though Death had come and run his cold finger along Mbonga's back.
Others heard, too, and saw, from the darkness of their huts--bold warriors, hideously painted, grasping heavy war spears in nerveless fingers. Against Numa, the lion, they would have charged fearlessly. Against many times their own number of black warriors would they have raced to the protection of their chief; but this weird jungle demon filled them with terror. There was nothing human in the bestial growls that rumbled up from his deep chest; there was nothing human in the bared fangs, or the catlike leaps.
Mbonga's warriors were terrified--too terrified to leave the seeming security of their huts while they watched the beast-man spring full upon the back of their old chieftain.
Mbonga went down with a scream of terror. He was too frightened even to attempt to defend himself. He just lay beneath his antagonist in a paralysis of fear, screaming at the top of his lungs. Tarzan half rose and kneeled above the black. He turned Mbonga over and looked him in the face, exposing the man's throat, then he drew his long, keen knife, the knife that John Clayton, Lord Greystoke, had brought from England many years before. He raised it close above Mbonga's neck. The old black whimpered with terror. He pleaded for his life in a tongue which Tarzan could not understand.
For the first time the ape-man had a close view of the chief. He saw an old man, a very old man with scrawny neck and wrinkled face--a dried, parchment-like face which resembled some of the little monkeys Tarzan knew so well. He saw the terror in the man's eyes--never before had Tarzan seen such terror in the eyes of any animal, or such a piteous appeal for mercy upon the face of any creature.
Something stayed the ape-man's hand for an instant. He wondered why it was that he hesitated to make the kill; never before had he thus delayed. The old man seemed to wither and shrink to a bag of puny bones beneath his eyes. So weak and helpless and terror-stricken he appeared that the ape-man was filled with a great contempt; but another sensation also claimed him--something new to Tarzan of the Apes in relation to an enemy. It was pity--pity for a poor, frightened, old man.
Tarzan rose and turned away, leaving Mbonga, the chief, unharmed.
With head held high the ape-man walked through the village, swung himself into the branches of the tree which overhung the palisade and disappeared from the sight of the villagers.
All the way back to the stamping ground of the apes, Tarzan sought for an explanation of the strange power which had stayed his hand and prevented him from slaying Mbonga. It was as though someone greater than he had commanded him to spare the life of the old man. Tarzan could not understand, for he could conceive of nothing, or no one, with the authority to dictate to him what he should do, or what he should refrain from doing.
It was late when Tarzan sought a swaying couch among the trees beneath which slept the apes of Kerchak, and he was still absorbed in the solution of his strange problem when he fell asleep.
The sun was well up in the heavens when he awoke. The apes were astir in search of food. Tarzan watched them lazily from above as they scratched in the rotting loam for bugs and beetles and grubworms, or sought among the branches of the trees for eggs and young birds, or luscious caterpillars.
An orchid, dangling close beside his head, opened slowly, unfolding its delicate petals to the warmth and light of the sun which but recently had penetrated to its shady retreat. A thousand times had Tarzan of the Apes witnessed the beauteous miracle; but now it aroused a keener interest, for the ape-man was just commencing to ask himself questions about all the myriad wonders which heretofore he had but taken for granted.
What made the flower open? What made it grow from a tiny bud to a full-blown bloom? Why was it at all? Why was he? Where did Numa, the lion, come from? Who planted the first tree? How did Goro get way up into the darkness of the night sky to cast his welcome light upon the fearsome nocturnal jungle? And the sun! Did the sun merely happen there?
Why were all the peoples of the jungle not trees? Why were the trees not something else? Why was Tarzan different from Taug, and Taug different from Bara, the deer, and Bara different from Sheeta, the panther, and why was not Sheeta like Buto, the rhinoceros? Where and how, anyway, did they all come from--the trees, the flowers, the insects, the countless creatures of the jungle?
Quite unexpectedly an idea popped into Tarzan's head. In following out the many ramifications of the dictionary definition of GOD he had come upon the word CREATE-- "to cause to come into existence; to form out of nothing."
Tarzan almost had arrived at something tangible when a distant wail startled him from his preoccupation into sensibility of the present and the real. The wail came from the jungle at some little distance from Tarzan's swaying couch. It was the wail of a tiny balu. Tarzan recognized it at once as the voice of Gazan, Teeka's baby. They had called it Gazan because its soft, baby hair had been unusually red, and GAZAN in the language of the great apes, means red skin.
The wail was immediately followed by a real scream of terror from the small lungs. Tarzan was electrified into instant action. Like an arrow from a bow he shot through the trees in the direction of the sound. Ahead of him he heard the savage snarling of an adult she-ape. It was Teeka to the rescue. The danger must be very real. Tarzan could tell that by the note of rage mingled with fear in the voice of the she.
Running along bending limbs, swinging from one tree to another, the ape-man raced through the middle terraces toward the sounds which now had risen in volume to deafening proportions. From all directions the apes of Kerchak were hurrying in response to the appeal in the tones of the balu and its mother, and as they came, their roars reverberated through the forest.
But Tarzan, swifter than his heavy fellows, distanced them all. It was he who was first upon the scene. What he saw sent a cold chill through his giant frame, for the enemy was the most hated and loathed of all the jungle creatures.
Twined in a great tree was Histah, the snake--huge, ponderous, slimy--and in the folds of its deadly embrace was Teeka's little balu, Gazan. Nothing in the jungle inspired within the breast of Tarzan so near a semblance to fear as did the hideous Histah. The apes, too, loathed the terrifying reptile and feared him even more than they did Sheeta, the panther, or Numa, the lion. Of all their enemies there was none they gave a wider berth than they gave Histah, the snake.
Tarzan knew that Teeka was peculiarly fearful of this silent, repulsive foe, and as the scene broke upon his vision, it was the action of Teeka which filled him with the greatest wonder, for at the moment that he saw her, the she-ape leaped upon the glistening body of the snake, and as the mighty folds encircled her as well as her offspring, she made no effort to escape, but instead grasped the writhing body in a futile effort to tear it from her screaming balu.
Tarzan knew all too well how deep-rooted was Teeka's terror of Histah. He scarce could believe the testimony of his own eyes then, when they told him that she had voluntarily rushed into that deadly embrace. Nor was Teeka's innate dread of the monster much greater than Tarzan's own. Never, willingly, had he touched a snake. Why, he could not say, for he would admit fear of nothing; nor was it fear, but rather an inherent repulsion bequeathed to him by many generations of civilized ancestors, and back of them, perhaps, by countless myriads of such as Teeka, in the breasts of each of which had lurked the same nameless terror of the slimy reptile.
Yet Tarzan did not hesitate more than had Teeka, but leaped upon Histah with all the speed and impetuosity that he would have shown had he been springing upon Bara, the deer, to make a kill for food. Thus beset the snake writhed and twisted horribly; but not for an instant did it loose its hold upon any of its intended victims, for it had included the ape-man in its cold embrace the minute that he had fallen upon it.
Still clinging to the tree, the mighty reptile held the three as though they had been without weight, the while it sought to crush the life from them. Tarzan had drawn his knife and this he now plunged rapidly into the body of the enemy; but the encircling folds promised to sap his life before he had inflicted a death wound upon the snake. Yet on he fought, nor once did he seek to escape the horrid death that confronted him--his sole aim was to slay Histah and thus free Teeka and her balu.
The great, wide-gaping jaws of the snake turned and hovered above him. The elastic maw, which could accommodate a rabbit or a horned buck with equal facility, yawned for him; but Histah, in turning his attention upon the ape-man, brought his head within reach of Tarzan's blade. Instantly a brown hand leaped forth and seized the mottled neck, and another drove the heavy hunting knife to the hilt into the little brain.
Convulsively Histah shuddered and relaxed, tensed and relaxed again, whipping and striking with his great body; but no longer sentient or sensible. Histah was dead, but in his death throes he might easily dispatch a dozen apes or men.
Quickly Tarzan seized Teeka and dragged her from the loosened embrace, dropping her to the ground beneath, then he extricated the balu and tossed it to its mother. Still Histah whipped about, clinging to the ape-man; but after a dozen efforts Tarzan succeeded in wriggling free and leaping to the ground out of range of the mighty battering of the dying snake.
A circle of apes surrounded the scene of the battle; but the moment that Tarzan broke safely from the enemy they turned silently away to resume their interrupted feeding, and Teeka turned with them, apparently forgetful of all but her balu and the fact that when the interruption had occurred she just had discovered an ingeniously hidden nest containing three perfectly good eggs.
Tarzan, equally indifferent to a battle that was over, merely cast a parting glance at the still writhing body of Histah and wandered off toward the little pool which served to water the tribe at this point. Strangely, he did not give the victory cry over the vanquished Histah. Why, he could not have told you, other than that to him Histah was not an animal. He differed in some peculiar way from the other denizens of the jungle. Tarzan only knew that he hated him.
At the pool Tarzan drank his fill and lay stretched upon the soft grass beneath the shade of a tree. His mind reverted to the battle with Histah, the snake. It seemed strange to him that Teeka should have placed herself within the folds of the horrid monster. Why had she done it? Why, indeed, had he? Teeka did not belong to him, nor did Teeka's balu. They were both Taug's. Why then had he done this thing? Histah was not food for him when he was dead. There seemed to Tarzan, now that he gave the matter thought, no reason in the world why he should have done the thing he did, and presently it occurred to him that he had acted almost involuntarily, just as he had acted when he had released the old Gomangani the previous evening.
What made him do such things? Somebody more powerful than he must force him to act at times. "All-powerful," thought Tarzan. "The little bugs say that God is all-powerful. It must be that God made me do these things, for I never did them by myself. It was God who made Teeka rush upon Histah. Teeka would never go near Histah of her own volition. It was God who held my knife from the throat of the old Gomangani. God accomplishes strange things for he is 'all-powerful.' I cannot see Him; but I know that it must be God who does these things. No Mangani, no Gomangani, no Tarmangani could do them."
And the flowers--who made them grow? Ah, now it was all explained--the flowers, the trees, the moon, the sun, himself, every living creature in the jungle--they were all made by God out of nothing.
And what was God? What did God look like? Of that he had no conception; but he was sure that everything that was good came from God. His good act in refraining from slaying the poor, defenseless old Gomangani; Teeka's love that had hurled her into the embrace of death; his own loyalty to Teeka which had jeopardized his life that she might live. The flowers and the trees were good and beautiful. God had made them. He made the other creatures, too, that each might have food upon which to live. He had made Sheeta, the panther, with his beautiful coat; and Numa, the lion, with his noble head and his shaggy mane. He had made Bara, the deer, lovely and graceful.
Yes, Tarzan had found God, and he spent the whole day in attributing to Him all of the good and beautiful things of nature; but there was one thing which troubled him. He could not quite reconcile it to his conception of his new-found God.
Who made Histah, the snake?

Quick- Trigger Teacher

2009-02-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

This time its: "Quick-Trigger Teacher" by Vernon Shuffett, Jr, and Reuben Craig.
Comments and requests would be greatly appreciated.

I WALKED eagerly up the single flight of stairs. Professor Will Pentley had an apartment on the second floor. He had invited me this afternoon. It was three o’clock on the dot when I knocked on his door.
It opened promptly. Professor Pentley said, "Oh, it’s you, Joe. Come right in." Joe Humphrey—that’s my name.
Going through the door, I looked around me. The first things I noticed were guns. Guns hanging on the walls, standing in the corners, lying on the dresser. Old guns, new guns, good ones, bad ones and indifferent. You’ve guessed it. Pentley, in his spare time, was a gun collector.
That, in fact, was why I was here. For I liked guns, too, even though I knew practically nothing about them. I was a student at a Southern teachers’ college, where Pentley was head of the History and Social Science Department. When the prof had mentioned guns in a lecture, I had become interested. The result had been this invitation to look over his collection.
Pentley ushered me into the living room, which was also more or less cluttered with guns. Pentley was something of a character himself. Short and skinny, but he had a big red face and a pronounced paunch.
"As I told you," he began in his quiet, unobtrusive voice, "I concentrate mostly on scarce models of the old West. Take, for instance, this six-shot revolver here. It’s a single-action, .45 caliber Colt, called the Peacemaker. It was introduced about 1873, this 5-½ inch artillery model. It’s the only gun up here that I keep loaded. Then, over here is a—"
The jangle of the telephone interrupted him. Frowning, he walked over and picked up the receiver. I inspected a flintlock rifle while he talked.
I wondered at a harmless old guy like Pentley making guns his hobby. He’d spent a small fortune on them. I sighed. I decided if I ever made enough money teaching, I’d have a collection like this, too.
When Pentley hung up, he crossed the room slowly. "A man wants to see me on business," he said regretfully. "He said it was about a magazine article of mine. I’m sorry, but I guess our little lecture will have to be postponed. Stick around a while in the lobby. Maybe it won’t take too long to finish my business."
"Okay," I nodded. "By the way, do you have a copy of one of your articles? I’d like to read it while I’m waiting."
"Let me see," Pentley grunted. "I think I have one here. Oh, yes, here by the radio. It’s my very latest article. The name is How Guns Saved City Hall."
I licked my chops mentally. "Sounds interesting. Thanks a lot, Professor. I’ll be back up after a while."
Pentley said, "Very well," and showed me to the door.
OING downstairs, I found a comfortable chair in the lobby. Just as I had gotten my magazine unfolded, a stranger sat down beside me. I paid no attention to him till he started looking over my shoulder.
I turned, stared at him. He gave a start.
"Oh, excuse me," he said quickly. "I didn’t realize what I was doing. My name is Gregg. So you like Pentley’s pieces, too, do you? I read every one I see. He knows his stuff."
"I know him personally," I said, setting aside the magazine. Here was a chance to blow off steam about my relations with Pentley. I was too young and inexperienced to know better. I went on:
"The prof lives right here in the Luckie. On the second floor. I’m going up in a few minutes to look at his gun collection."
Gregg looked me over with increased respect. "It’s wonderful to know interesting people like
that," he sighed. "You’re very fortunate. What kind of a fellow is this Professor Pentley, anyway?"
"Not at all like you’d suspect," I assured him. "He’s just a gentle, kindly old soul. He abhors violence and bloodshed. Funny that he’d pick a subject like guns for a hobby, isn’t it?"
"Very queer. Seems as though he’d be scared at night, surrounded by all those guns."
I laughed. "Oh, he doesn’t keep them loaded, of course. None except one revolver. It’s an old model Colt which he keeps on his piano."
"Then you’ve been up before?" Gregg asked with raised eyebrows.
"Just once, for a few minutes," I replied. "He only had time to show me that Colt when the telephone rang. Pentley had to see someone on business."
Gregg pulled out his watch, looked at it. "That reminds me," he said, rising. "I have to keep an appointment myself. Well, it’s been nice meeting you Mr.—er—ah—"
"Humphrey," I finished for him. "Joe Humphrey. Glad to know you, too, Mr. Gregg."
There goes a nice guy, I thought, as he crossed the lobby. I watched as his slim, well-dressed form disappeared from sight. Rather hard-eyed, and I didn’t like the way his hair was slicked back, but all in all a very nice guy. That’s what I was telling myself as I picked up my magazine again.
Will Pentley had made more money writing articles about guns than teaching school. He usually connected a certain type of gun with a past historical event. That was the case in How Guns Saved City Hall. The subhead read, "—And Without a Shot Being Fired!"
This one was the best by Pentley that I had read yet. It was a factual account of the days when Perryville was little more than a meeting hall and general store. Pentley had delved into some obscure records somewhere and read about Perryville’s biggest Indian raid.
The redskins had succeeded in leveling the store. All the citizens that remained alive were surrounded in the city meeting hall. In this square-walled massive building, they prepared to make a last stand.
Numerically, the defenders of the town were stronger than the Indians. And they had the advantage of positions. But there was a joker in the pack.
The men were armed almost exclusively with Colt Walkers. A five-shot revolver weighing four pounds, nine ounces, and 15-½ inches long, these formidable weapons, however, were of the cap and ball type. The cap was necessary to set off the powder, which in turn expelled the missile. And some traitor among them, dying from an Indian bullet, had crawled away with all the caps!
Making the best of a bad situation, the men threw their nearly useless Walkers into the basement. They armed themselves with whatever weapons they could find, and waited for the attack.
Meanwhile, the wily redskins had stumbled onto something. In the basement of the general store was the entrance to an underground passage. The defenders had forgotten about this passage, which led straight to the city hall. The Indians could easily have overcome the whites in a frontal attack, but they didn’t know about the caps being stolen. Therefore they launched a surprise attack—through the passage!
The end of Pentley’s piece packed a real punch. The Indians had come across all those heavy guns in the meeting hall basement. Imagine how they reasoned! If the palefaces had all these weapons to have to fight with! The Indians gave up the attack and went back.
HAT was the article. It was good, but something in it dissatisfied me. I couldn’t make up my mind what it was.
Then it struck me suddenly with the force of a bombshell. I jumped up from my seat, headed grimly for a telephone booth. Stepping inside, I closed the door and inserted a nickel. I dialed the old city hall museum.
I asked, "Is this the city headquarters for war bond sales?"
I was pretty sure it was, but I had to know.
A feminine voice answered, "Yes. Do you want to buy a bond?"
"Sure," I told her. "Only I don’t have time right now. Thanks a lot." I hung up and mopped my brow feverishly. So far my hunch was working.
You see how I figured it, don’t you? It worked out that Pentley was one of the few men, probably the only one, who knew where that old underground passage was located. Some store had been built in place of the general store, but which one was it? Find out from Pentley, the crook reasons. Then, after bumping the old professor off, pull a nice clean robbery of the war bond money.

The building itself would be guarded, of course—from the outside. But not from the basement, where the long unused passage led!
I strode rapidly across the lobby. The fear was growing in me that Gregg had already struck. Wasn’t Gregg the logical person to suspect? He had smoothly and efficiently gotten information from me concerning Pentley’s guns. And undoubtedly he was making for the prof’s room when he left me!
Accordingly I took the steps three at a time. I knocked breathlessly at Pentley’s door. It seemed an age before it was opened.
Pentley stood there, looking completely at ease. "Come in, Joe," he invited. "We can continue with our interrupted discussion now."
So I had been wrong! I breathed a sigh of relief, followed Pentley inside. When I sheepishly told him about my fantastic theory, he laughed heartily. As though anyone would commit violence in his home! Unthinkable.
We started looking at guns again. Pentley remarked, "Now, here are two interesting guns lying side by side. The Texas Paterson .40 caliber model on the right, Wells Fargo .34 caliber on the left. The Paterson was introduced about 1836, and helped Texas win its independence from Mexico."
I was tremendously interested, yet for some reason my attention was wandering. Something was wrong . . .
Pentley said, "Want me to tell you something about the Wells Fargo model? You know how important the express company was in opening up new frontiers. Well, they wanted good guns for their guards and riders. Notice the points of this gun, then called the Baby Dragoon. It’s light, .31 caliber, five-shot. No ramrod. The octagonal barrel—"
With a gesture, I interrupted him. I had discovered what was wrong. I pointed mutely at the piano. The Colt Peacemaker was gone from its place!
I didn’t have time to ask for an explanation. Gregg, his little dark eyes shining, stepped from concealment. He said purringly:
"My young friend from the lobby has sharp eyes."
In Gregg’s right hand was the Peacemaker, the only gun Pentley kept loaded! I could have cried like a child. Pentley shrugged. He had done his part in trying to keep me from suspecting Gregg’s presence.
"I’m giving you one last chance, Professor," Gregg purred. "Either tell me the secret of the passage, or I shoot you and the boy. I’ll do it with your own gun. The police will call it murder-suicide. I won’t be suspected a moment. I mean what I say, Professor. What’s your answer?"
Pentley shook his head, smiling regretfully.
Gregg’s face underwent a swift change. It twisted into rage and hatred. He jerked the gun up, cursing. I saw his trigger finger tighten, then go white with the pressure he exerted. Nothing happened. Again he winced with the pressure, with no success.
He laid the Peacemaker down in disgust. "I’ll use my own gun," he snarled.
As he reached inside his coat, Pentley picked up the Peacemaker. I asked myself what he hoped to gain by that. The old gun wouldn’t work. But it did!
Just as Gregg got his automatic out, Pentley’s Colt exploded. Gregg clutched at his shoulder and went down!
After the smoke had cleared up and police had taken Gregg away, I asked Pentley:
"Why did the gun shoot for you when it wouldn’t for Gregg?"
"Simple," he chuckled. "Remember, I told you the Peacemaker was a single-action revolver? Well, that meant it had to be cocked. Gregg didn’t know that; I did. I simply pulled the hammer back and let him have it."
The professor sighed reminiscently. "You know," he confessed, "I never realized before today the thrill one could get out of spilling human blood. I wonder if I might try it again sometime."
I reached for my hat. "So long, Professor," I said. "I’d feel safer if we postpone our gun inspection until tomorrow. You’re in the wrong mood today!"

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle: Killers Kraal part four (of 4)

2009-02-21T19:49:00.000-08:00

Sorry about the long wait between installments, I've been doing a lot of things away from the computer (trips with my family, Chemistry Tests, English tests & essays, etc) hopefully now I can go back to updating everyday so you guys can get your pulp fix in an almost pulp free world.
Comments and Requests would be greatly appreciated.

VII
THE CHAMBER into which Sibitane conducted Sheena was at the back the tower. Round air-holes, no bigger than her clenched fist, pierced the thick stone walls. The air was dead and musty. The last of the sunlight filtered through the matting-chinks which screened off an alcove where there was a skin-covered bed. Small rat voices squeaked. A snake hissed in the shadows, and then darted across the floor, a flash of black and orange in the sifted sunlight, and vanished into a gap between the crudely-fitted, stone blocks of the wall.
After Sibitane had gone the Jungle Queen stood in the center of the floor, her attitude tense, expectant. For some time she stood thus, and then the great drum boomed. Crashes of sound flooded into all the empty spaces. The old tower shook to the pulsing rhythm, so that dust and flaked mud fell from the roof above. Sheena stood with her hands tightly pressed to her ears while the drum hurled its message far into the deep silence of the jungle.
Then silence, and the faint tack-tack of a drum answering the call, or relaying the Galagi's commands, she could not tell. And it did not matter. She knew that the message would reach the Kalundas Sibitane had left with Rick and Ekoti. Also she knew that if the Kalunda party trekked night and day Rick would be at Massumba before the moon was full. And all this because, in an unguarded moment, the prying, shrewd eyes of the old hag Neda had divined a truth that she had tried to hide, even from herself.
Far into the night she paced the floor of her chamber like a caged lioness, At one moment she was telling herself that she was not answerable for whatever might happen to Rick. There wae no end to his folly, and this was the fruit of it. And in the next old Neda's voice echoed hollowly in her ears; "—spy for the Portuguesa!" And the fear that was in her came up into her throat and made her gulp for air.
At last, utterly worn out, she flung herself on the slatted bed, and slept until a bright-eyed Kalunda girl awakened her.
Sunlight was striking through the vent-holes of the tower room and lay on the floor like bright discs of copper. Sheena threw aside her skin coverings and stood up, sweeping the golden veil of her hair from her face. The Kalunda girl, a mere child, stared for a moment in breathless amazment, and then took to her heels in sudden panic as the Jungle Queen smiled and took a step toward her.
The girl had placed a gourd of milk and some bananas on a mat in the outer room. As Sheena sat on her heels Chim came begging for his share of the meal. She was drinking the milk when Sibitane appeared in the doorway and salaamed.
"If it pleases you," he said diffidently, "Neda, the Queen-Mother, will speak with you now, Mateyenda."
"It pleases me," said Sheena with a faint smile, and rose to follow him. In all these high-sounding titles, in all this outward show of respect, there was hollow mockery, she thought. And yet something strange and sad was brought to life. Something that was loathsome and evil too. Something belonging to the dead, like Neda.
She followed the induna along a dark passage which ended in a narrow flight of steps.
"They lead to the top of the tower," Sibitane told her, stepping aside to allow her to pass. "I will tell the Queen-Mother that you await her there."
Sheena went up, and the first thing she saw, as her head came above the level of the stone floor, was the great drum of Yamo Galagi. The tower-top was open to the glare of the sun. A low wall of stone enclosed the square space in the center of which stood the drum under a peaked, thatch roof supported by four poles. It captured the Jungle Queen's attention at first sight, and she glided across the flat roof to examine it more closely.
It was a hollow log, trimmed to an oval shape, its ends plugged with softer wood. The slot measured about the span of a hand at the wide end, and tapered to a mere slit at the narrow end. It was the difference in the thickness of lips of the cleft along the length of the drum which gave the drummer his two notes—the thick lip which was the man-voice and the thin lip which was the woman-voice. Except for size and the weird carvings that covered its cracked surfaces, It was not unlike the big wardrums she had seen in the Abama villages.
Idly she wondered what the witch doctors would think if she made it speak her nadan, her drum name, and then sent a message booming and crashing over the jungle. On a sudden impulse she put her hand into the slot, feeling for the drum sticks, but only to drop them back quickly at the sound of Neda's cackling laugh. She turned to see the old woman hobbling toward her, supported by Sibitane and her stick.
"Beware, Mateyenda!" Neda warned her. "Only those of the blood-royal may beat Galagi's drum, and there is not a drop of that under your white skin!"
There was a challenge in the old woman's eyes, and Sheena's expression became thoughtful. Did the old hag really believe that her hand would shrivel if she, a white woman, took up the sticks?
It might he so. Despite their frauds most witch doctors believed in their own magical powers. And then an idea flashed into her mind, and her eyes narrowed as she let her thought fondle it.
Sibitane retired to a respectful distance, and old Neda sat on the stool he had placed in the shade of the thatch for her.
“Beat the drum if you dare, Foster-daughter-of-Ebid Ela!" Neda challenged her.
"It is not in my mind to beat it," said Sheena absently.
"That is well for you!" the old woman said with her dry chuckle. "But I have come to speak of another thing. We have caught the Portuguesa spy. The drums say that he will be here on the morning of the full moon."
Sheena shrugged and said: "It is foolish to bring him here. He has many friends at the coast, and if harm comes to him they will soon know it. It is nothing to me, but you make much trouble for yourself, I think."
Neda kept her strange eyes fastened on the Jungle Queen's face, and went on as if she had not heard Sheena's words: "When I was young the enemies of my husband were brought up to this tower after the witch doctors had smelt them out. See-yonder?" She pointed with her stick. And Sheena, looking in the direction indicated, saw a long tree trunk, freshly trimmed, balanced on the stone parapet Its butt-end was lashed to rusty, iron staples sunk into the stone roof, and there was a long coil of rattan rope beside it.
"In the old days," Neda went on with her eyes still fastened on Sheena's face, "those who dared to disobey Yamo Galagi were lowered down to the wild dogs from a pole like that. I saw many die that way. But never one of them quickly, because the rope held them at half their own height above the rocks, and the dogs must leap up to tear at their flesh. Oh yes, at sunrise many still lived, but with little flesh on their legs."
The color had left the Jungle Queen's face. The old woman laughed and went on: "The young Bwana is very strong, Sibitane says. He will live for a long time, I think. Yes, he will die of old age—if the Mateyenda sees in my son a true Galagi."
Sheena experienced the faint sense of nausea that always comes with the sudden fulfillment of fear, however much expected. Her leg muscles tensed as her impulsive energy prompted her to spring and sink her knife into her tormentor's throat. But killing Neda would not save Rick's life, nor the Abamas from slavery. And there was another way. There was always a way.
"What do you say now, Mateyenda?" the old woman's voice broke in on her thoughts.
"When the moon is full we will speak of this thing again," Sheena answered with deceptive calm.
The old woman's eyes struck at her venonously, but she only nodded her head and said: "Good! Talk to the Bwana about it when he comes. We would be your friends. We do not deny your right, and if harm come to your white Bwana it will be by your own hand. Think of this, Mateyenda. There is no hope for him if you speak against my son."
Sheena's smile was enigmatical. "Never say of the ajap tree in fruit that it bears nothing but leaves," she murmured, and then turned away and went down the steps.
Down on the terrace Sheena paused to look over the veldt. One group of Abama warriors was already camped in the shadow of Massumba. There was no wind, and the smoke of their cooking-fires rose straight up in the air,spoiling the view of the caravan road. But through the haze she could see the flash of sunlight on metal, and that told her that another band would soon swell the numbers in the camp below the walls.
Frowning, she went to her chamber and sat on the bed to think out the details of the daring plan that had flashed into her mind up on the tower roof. As it came clearer, she contemplated it with a kind of shudder of the mind. She wondered what Rick would think of it, and instantly decided that she would tell him nothing. He would know soon enough, and have good reason to call her she-devil after moonrise tomorrow night.
It was late afternoon, and the ghost of a full moon hung over the veldt, when Sibitane came to tell Sheena that Rick and Ekoti had arrived at Massumba.
"If it please you, I will take you to them now, Mateyenda," he said in his diffident way.
She followed him out onto the terrace. At her first look around she saw that the big drum had been carried down from the tower, and now stood on a platform of logs a short distance back from the head of the steps where it would be in plain view of the Abamas when they assembled in the great square. A faint smile of satisfaction came to the Jungle Queen's lips as she followed the induna across the terrace to the opposite side of the tower. Two of the Black Shields leaned on their spears before an open doorway. Sibitane stepped aside, salaamed, and Sheena walked into a chamber exactly like her own.
Ekoti was hunkered over the remains of a meal, and Rick came through the curtained alcove as the Abama chief spoke her name. He greeted her with a quizzical smile and said:
"We were to meet at the Abama village but it would seem that you changed your mind."
"I did not change my mind," she told coldly. "And speak Swahili. These walls have ears."
His left eyebrow quirked up. "We're in some kind of trouble, eh?" But he did not seem to be very worried about it, and that annoyed her and she said sharply:
"If you stay in this country you will always make trouble for yourself—and your friends."
"Well, I can handle my own trouble," he retorted.
"Ah, you think so?" Her tone was caustic, and she went on: "That is good, and I must tell you about this trouble so that you can deal with it quickly." Then she sat on her heels and gave him a clear and concise account of all that had happened, omitting only the details of her last talk with Neda. It left him only partly aware of his danger, but she could not tell him more of herself than she deemed it good for him to know. When she had finished he looked up at the roof, whistled softly, and then fumbled in his pockets for his pipe and tobacco. Ekoti's face was set in a black scowl, and presently he gave tongue to the question uppermost in his mind:
"Will you do as this witch-woman says, Sheena? Will you make this dog of a Kalunda chief of all the Abamas?"
"I will not betray the Abamas," Sheena answered and gave Rick a keen took. But if he felt fear, it did not show on his face. He merely nodded his head in approval, and went on stuffing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. She liked his calmness, and thought that his beard, black and curling now, improved his looks, gave him a graver aspect and emphasized his virility. She smiled and added as an afterthought: "And I will not betray my friend."
He glanced up quickly, frowned, then: "You did your best to keep me out of this mess. I'll have to take my chances from now on. I'll have a talk with the Galagi. Maybe I can convince him—"
"If you do so, you will make trouble for me," Sheena interposed hastily. "I ask you to talk with no one, and not to leave this room before moonrise. Promise that you will do this—for me."
His slow smile came and went "Lady,"' he said, "you'll never have to ask me for anything twice. But you have something on your mind. What is it?"
She threw a significant glance at the open door, and shook her head. Then she held out her hand and said: "Give me a little of your tobacco."
Perplexity was on his face as she transfered some of the tobacco from the pouch to the bag attached to her leaopard skin shorts. She ignored the question in his eyes and turned to the Abama chief.
"The swelling has gone from your leg," she observed.
Ekoti grinned, stretched out his leg and flexed powerful calf muscles. "There is great magic in Bwana's little bottles, Sheena," he said. "Always when our people are bitten by the sheep-killer they die. It would be a good thing if Bwana lived at my village for awhile and taught you his magic."
She darted a sidelong look in Rick's direction. So, she thought, he has won Ekoti over to his way of thinking. His face showed only impassive innocence, but, behind his beard, she knew that he was smiling smugly, very pleased with his cleverness. She ignored Ekoti's suggestion and said:
"At moonrise the Galagi will beat his drum, and show himself to the Abamas. Remember, until then, you have promised to talk with no one. I go now."
"One moment!" Rick stepped into her path quickly. "I don't know what is in your mind, Sheena," he went on gravely. "But whatever it is, it may not work out as you think. Back on the trail I called you she-devil, and before you go it is in my heart to say that I am sorry for it."
She gave him a long, steady look, then: "If you did know what was in my mind you would not be sorry, I think. You do not know me well yet, Rick Thorne." And with that and a faint smile she left him.
Back in her own chamber the Jungle Queen took the tobacco from the dacca bag, and with a wry mouth chewed it into a moist wad. Then she took some of the milk she had saved in the gourd and placed it close to the gap between the stones into which she had seen the orange-colored snake disappear. Then she moved back several feet and sat on her heels, to wait. Chim bounced from the bed to her side. He pulled her hair and ran to the door; but when she did not follow he jumped up and down, scolding her.
"Quiet, little one!" she told him. "I know you do not like this place. We will go soon. Quiet now!"
Chim grimaced at her, and went to sulk on the bed. Minutes passed, and then the snake came out of its hole and slid slowly toward the milk. Sheena pursed her lips and began to whistle softly—three, high pitched notes repeated again and again. Presently, the snake lifted its arrow-shaped head, its forked and quivering tongue darting in and out of its mouth. Soon it was swaying like a reed in the wind to the rhythm of the peculiar notes and Sheena cautiously approached it. Then with feline efficiency her hand shot out to grasp the serpent by the back of the neck, and as quick as a flash she spat tobacco-juice into its hissing mouth.
It was an old trick that Ebid Ela had taught her, and one which, when performed by a skilled witch doctor, never failed to fill his audience with awe; for the effect of the nicotine was almost instantaneous, the snake's muscles knotted into lumps and the creature became rigid. Whereupon the witch doctor declared that he had changed it into a stick. And then after a time, to the complete and utter amazment of the spectators, he would rub the snake between the palms of his hands, restoring it to a state of infuriated and deadly animation.
There was a cold light in the Jungle Queen's blue eyes as she carried the paralyzed snake to her bed and covered it with one of the skins. Truly she was a she-devil, she thought. But guile must be matched by guile, and evil fought with evil.
For the rest of the day she sat on the bed in moody silence. She did not speak when the Kalunda girl brought in her evening meal, and she did not touch the food.
Once she got up to squeeze a little more tobacco juice into the snake's mouth when it showed signs of recovering from its topor.
When Sibitane came for her she lifted the skin from the bed and threw it about her shoulders like a native kroos. No sign of the inward tension she felt showed on her face as she followed the induna out onto the terrace.
A big, cold moon had climbed out of the veldt. It flooded the great square with an abundance of light and winked on the spear heads of the Black Shields who stood shield to shield, rank above rank, on the stairway before the tower. Their spears made a bristling barrier holding back the excited Abamas crowded into the compound, and now pressing forward to get a better view of the king-making ceremony.
A great shout went up as Sheena glided across the terrace and came to a stand close to the drum. Soon Rick and Ekoti came out, escorted by Sibitane and a half-dozen Kalunda guards. The induna halted them on the opposite side of the terrace, and then stood, as straight and stiff as a spear-shaft, looking toward the main entrance of the tower.
Silence came as the Galagi stepped out into the moonlight, a splendid figure in his feathered headdress and beaded robes. He was closely followed by Neda, looking like a ghost in her gauzy, white veil. Her eyes sought and found Sheena, and she came bobbling over to the drum. Leaning on her stick she looked up into the Jungle Queen's face, and said in a sibilant whisper:
"The time has come, Mateyenda, for you to say whether the young Bwana lives or dies. Look upon him, Foster-daughter-of-Ebid Ela! Aie, aie, he is tall and handsome. Kill him and his face will haunt you forever!"
Looking down into the old hag's eyes, Sheena thought that she never had seen a face more evil, or ever had set herself against a spirit more unyielding. The strange eyes seemed to be possessed of a quality of resistance that made it useless to oppose, and for the first time doubt struck at her resolution. She shivered as if chilled by the night air, and under her skin cloak she appeared to rub her arms. Watching her closely, old Neda said with her dry chuckle:
"In the arms of the one who stands yonder you would not he cold, Mateyenda."
The Jungle Queen's eyes caught and reflected the moonlight in a cold, blue flame.
"You smell of death, old witch!" she flashed. "Stand back from me!" She made a quick movement as if to strike, and the old woman stepped back with amazing agility.
And just then the Galagi raised both hands above his head. His commanding figure held the attention of all, and when silence came he sent his voice far over the heads of the crowd in the square:

VIII
“M
Y CHILDREN, I have called you to Massumba at this holy time so that you might look upon the face of your king. I am the Galagi, the son of the Elephant, the Earth-Shaker. The Son of Yamo Galagi who made you great in war and rich in cattle and slaves. His spirit is mine. His voice is in this drum. You have heard it, and the witch doctors have told you that these things are so. Yet among you there may be those who cannot believe their ears. But no man is so foolish as not to believe his own eyes. So tonight, in the presence of all, I will make the drum speak the fetish-code of the Galagi." He paused to give his words time to sink in, and then went on:
"It is well known that the Galagi put a curse upon his drum. Also it is well known that only he in whose body dwells the spirit of Yamo Galagi may beat this drum and live. If there be one among you who doubts this, let him come forward and beat the drum!"
A murmur like the wind in tall reeds arose from the massed Abamas. But no man moved or lifted his voice to answer the old challenge of the Lunda king. And then Sheena threw her cloak across the drum and glided to the Galagi's side. Her voice rang out, clear and distinct:
"Abama warriors, he speaks the truth! It is as he says, no one but one worthy to command you may beat this drum. I have travelled far to counsel you about this thing. Hear my council, then: If this man who stands before you beats the drum and no harm comes to him, salute him as your king. Now, let the Galagi beat his drum!"
Old Neda sidled up to her son. "Ho, ho!" she cackled. "Did I not say she would do it! This is your hour, my son. Beat the drum—beat it, I say!"
Sheena kept moving back in the direction of Rick and Ekoti. She paused, and her lips tightened, as the Galagi threw aside her cloak and reached into the drum for the sticks. In the next instant he let out a shriek, and staggered back staring at the back of his hand.
All eyes were fastened upon him, and in awe-struck silence all watched him sink to his knees, moaning in his fear. Sibitane, the guards, Rick and Ekoti—all stood like men suddenly turned to stone. And then Neda's scream rang out, shrill and piercing. The square was filled with a sudden commotion, and calamity was on the loose.
Sheena was close to Rick now, and like a flash of light she hurled herself at Sibitane. The unexpectenness of her attack sent the induna reeling back to collide with one of his men, and then Rick and Ekoti awoke from their trance. Rick felled one of the guards with a terrific punch. Ekoti smashed down another and, snatching the spear from the man's hand as he fell, gave tongue to the Abama war-cry and plunged it into the breast of a third. And now old Neda was pointing to the ground and shrieking:
"It was a snake—see, see! A trick! Kill her—kill!"
Sibitane and two of his men rushed upon Sheena.
She leaped backwards to avoid the thrust of their spears, tripped over the body of one of the fallen guards, and fell sprawling on her back. She saw Sibitane's spear flash up, and then Rick came charging to hit the induna in the stomach with his lowered head. He recovered quickly, and with the light of battle in his eyes, stood between her and the Kalundas' spears. Barehanded he beat off their first rush, giving her time to regain her feet. As she straightened up Ekoti came roaring into the fray, and the two Kalundas went down under his flashing spear thrusts.
In these moments of shock and confusion the success of the Jungle Queen's carefully worked out plan hung in the balance. None knew better than she the power of imagination working on superstitious fears. At any moment now, panic would scatter the Abamas, leaving Rick and Ekoti to the mercy of Neda and Sibitane's Black Shields.
For an instant she stood irresolute, and then went flashing across the terrace to the drum. An instant later its great voice boomed out her nadan. The effect upon the Abamas was like magic. They saw their golden Mateyenda, knew her danger, and heard the Galagi's drum speak her commands. They answered her call with the Abama war-cry, and then charged the steps. The Black Shields broke under the fury of their onslaught, and the Abamas came roaring up the stairway in a black wave, driving all before them. Neda and her son stood directly in the path of the now panic-stricken Black Shields, and when the tide of battle swept on across the terrace, it left their trampled and broken bodies in its wake.
Driven into a corner with their backs to the tower, the Black Shields threw down their spears and begged for mercy. Ekoti came striding back to where Sheena and Rick stood beside the big drum.
"What is your will with these Kalunda dogs, Sheena?" he asked.
"Let them live," said the Jungle Queen. "We came only to silence this drum, Ekoti. Let a fire he built under it, and then assemble your warriors in the square. I have words for them."
As he went to carry out her orders, her eyes became fixed on some distant object and she said softly:
"It is well for me that you came on this trek, Rick Thorne. But for you Sibitane's spear would have sent me to the Black Kloof." They moved off as two Abamas came to set fire to the drum, and he did not answer until they stood in the shadow of the tower. Then:
"I had some speech with Sibitane after you left us," he said carefully. "I think that, but for you, I would be food for the dogs before long."
Dismay widened the Jungle Queen's eyes, and put a slight stammer into her speech. "You promised—you—what more did he tell you?"
He folded his arms across his chest and looked up at the moon. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all." But the smile was there, provocative, challenging. She asked:
"You will go back to the coast now."
"That is not in my mind," he said complacently. "I will go back to the Abama village with Ekoti and his people."
She looked at him sharply, wondering how much Sibitane had told him. But his face was blank and told her nothing, and before she could pry deeper Ekoti came to tell her that the Abamas were now waiting to hear her words.
The Galagi's drum was burning brightly, crackling and spitting sparks. Sheena came to stand in the light of the flames, and in respectful silence the Abamas waited for her to make her will known.
"Abama warriors," she told them, "you have done well. A great evil grew here at Massumba, but you have rooted it up with your spears. Now, you will go back to your villages in peace. If you be wise, you will tell your women to drive the witch doctors who deceived you from your villages with sticks. Go now, my people, and may the gods who watch over the river-crossing make the homeward trek swift and easy for you. I have spoken!"
There was a moment of absolute quiet, and then the royal salute burst spontaneously from the Abamas:
"Bayete! Bayete!"
Spears flashed upward, and again the thunderous shout of acclaim shook the old wall of Massumba.
The elegant Jungle Queen stood bathed in the ruddy glow of the burning drum, her head lifted her blue eyes alight—a golden Goddess wrapped in a flame of pride.
And seeing her thus, Rick stared and wondered what it was that made him think that this superb creature, who had a thousand spears at her command, would ever stoop from her high place to follow a poor, white hunter to the coast.
THE END

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle: Killers Kraal Part 3 (of 4)

2009-02-21T19:31:00.000-08:00

V
SHE AWOKE with sunlight in her eyes. It came through a mesh of boughs and palm leaves which had been woven into a flimsy shelter without sides. No bounds restricted her first tentative movements, and she sat up. A man stood looking down at her, but the seived sunlight stabbed at her eyes like knife points. She could see nothing clearly, and felt dizzy. There was the sound of voices and movement all around her; and, as her vision cleared, her eyes came to focus on the man.
He was a squat, flat-featured warrior, certainly not a Kobi. His spine was as straight as the spear he held in his hand. He wore a headdress of egrets' feathers and beaded bands crossed his deep chest to support a kind of kilt and a belt with a knife with a long, curved blade thrust into it. Muscles rippled under his black skin as he lifted his hand in salute, and she thought that his eyes held a worried look.
"I know you, Sheena!" he said in a voice that gave a queer, purring sound to the Bantu words.
She did not answer at once, but looked around the camp. At a glance she saw that she was in the same glade where they had camped the night before. Twenty, or more, black, oval shields lay on the grass, long spears thrust into the ground beside them. In the shadows there was the glint of light on copper bangles where their owners—all squat, heavily muscled warriors—squatted and talked in voices over their morning meal. Rick and Ekoti sat by the tree, hemmed in by a half-dozen warriors with spears held at the ready. Her eyes came to rest on Rick, lingered on his face until he looked up and grinned, and then came back to the man before her. The worried look had become more pronounced during her long silence, and he said:
"I am Sibitane, induna of the Black Shields. And I ask pardon for the violence that has been done to you. The man who struck the blow will strike no more."
"Who is your chief?" she asked coldly.
The induna's expression became puzzled.
"Yamo Galagi," he told her.
"What does he want with me?"
Sibitane's puzzlement deepened, and he answered with a question: "Have you not heard my master's drum, Mateyenda?"
"Truly, I have heard it."
"Then it must be known to you, Daughter of Ebid Ela, that Yamo Galagi is re-born, and that the day of his election to the seat of his fathers is at hand. Also, it must be known to you that all hear and obey his drum. All the young men of the Abamas gather at Massumba. Soon their numbers will be as many—"
"This I know," the Jungle Queen interposed with a faint smile. "But I do not know this man who calls himself Yamo Galagi re-born. And I do not believe that the dead are re-born. I think that your master is a great liar, Captain of the Black Shields!"
Sibitane gasped, and shock and horror were stamped on his flat features. He edged back from the Jungle Queen as if he expected to see her blasted On the spot. But as nothing happened he made a slow recovery, gulped and said:
"Aie, it must be that you wish to test my loyalty. Yes, yes, I see that it must be so!" he reassured himself. "The Mateyenda knows that none but those in whose veins the blood-royal flows dare beat Yamo Galagi's drum, or surely their hands would shrivel and become like a dead monkey's hands. But the spirit of Yamo Galagi has taken possession of my master's body. He makes the drum talk and no harm has come to him, as you will soon see, Mateyenda"
Sheena's smile was dangerous. "So," she said, "you have come to take me to Massumba. Perhaps it is in your mind to bind me also, Sibitane?"
"No, no!" protested the induna, and looked shocked again. "It is my master's will that you be treated with all the honor due to the Mateyenda of Lunda."
"To send his servants to attack my camp is a strange way to show honor, Sibitane?"
Inward distress showed on the induna's face. "The fault is mine, Mateyenda. I thought to take you without a fight. But that fool—"
"Why did you come as an enemy in the night?" Sheena demanded.
He spread his hands in a despairing gesture. "Mateyemda," he said, "I am a simple captain of an impi. The Great Ones speak, I obey. I cannot tell what was in my master's mind. I only know that he sent men into your country to bring you to Massumba. But you slew three of them, and when he heard of it he was very angry. Then he sent me." He shook his head. "I hope that you will not make trouble for me because of what that fool—"
And just then the rumble of Yamo Galagi's great drum came quivering over the tree tops. It had been silent for two days, and at its first booming notes the Jungle Queen's poise became tense. Her head was lifted and turned toward the mountains, her hands were tightly clenched at her side and her blue eyes took fire as her pulse beat quickened to the challenge of the drum. It would not be easy to deal with this man who called himself the Galagi re-born. It was a powerful hand that had reached out from those mountains to pluck her out of her own jungles, and it was a cunning brain that had so cleverly combined the traditions of her people and their deep-rooted superstitions. By merely beating a drum he had broken Ekoti's authority, and had given it to the witchdoctors who would now prey upon the fears of her people, like the spiritual buzzards they were! Worse, she herself was now entangled in his subtle web of lies. She must go to Massumba; because as the Abamas saw it, she was the Mateyenda and it was her right and her duty to affirm or deny this new-born Galagi's claim to the kingship of, all the Abama clans.
And what did he want of her? Did he see in her, the foster-daughter of Ebid Ela who had once possessed the king-making power, a useful tool? Oh yes doubtless he thought that he could bend her to his will. Ah, but he would soon learn that between them it was war to the knife and the knife to the hilt!
A sharp command from Sibitane broke in on her racing thoughts. One the Kalunda warriors ran to a small drum which stood near her shelter. As the voice of the big drum died in quivering echos, the induna spoke to the drummer in a dialect unknown to Sheena. And then the hollow voice of the slotted log repeated his words under the measured beat of the drummer's sticks.
When silence came to the glade again Sibitane said: "My master grows impatient, Mateyenda. If it pleases you I will give the order to march."
Sheena's eyes came to rest on Rick and were clouded with thought. "I am eager to look upon the face of your master," she said, after a long pause, "but I do not think that it will please him if a white man sees so many warriors gathered at Massumba. What the young Bwana does not see he cannot tell the Portuguesa."
The induna's eyes jumped, and his hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. "True!" he breathed.
Sheena gave him a dazzling smile. "I have forgotten what happened last night, Sibitane" she said.
A look of infinite relief came to the induna's face. "Mateyenda," he said warmly, "I am your true and faithful servant!"
Again Sheena's eyes came to rest on Rick, and she said: "The Abama chief has been bitten by a snake, and it will be good for him to return to his own village. Make a litter for him, Sibitane, and let six of your warriors go with him. The white Bwana knows nothing, so let him go with Ekoti. But it may be," she added, and a gleam of humor changed her eyes, "that the Bwana will not want to go. If you do not want trouble, seize him quickly and bind him."
"I hear and obey!" Sibitane turned and shouted guttural orders at the men guarding Rick and Ekoti. There was a moment of hesitation then, as one man, they dropped their spears and flung themselves upon Rick.
The attack was so swift and unexpected that Rick was flat on his back and pinned down before he had a chance to strike a blow. Ekoti let out a bellow of surprise and rage and made a grab at a spear one of the guards had dropped. But a sharp word from Sheena checked him, and he flopped back against the tree, his face almost comical in its expression of complete bewilderment. In a matter of minutes Rick was utterly helpless, bound hand and foot. Sheena glided over and stood looking down into his angry eyes.
"You have nothing to fear," she told him. "There is much that you cannot understand. I do this, because I know that you would follow me to your death. So, do not be angry."
"You—you—" His rage choked him, and his face became charged with blood as he strained at his bonds. Then words came crackling from between his white lips. They were strange, harsh-sounding words, but his blazing eyes and vehemence made her feel the sting of them. She knew that she had hurt him deeply, slashed his pride, and was suddenly ashamed. She did not want him to think so badly of her; and, thinking to sooth him, she favored him with the sweetest of her smiles and said softly:
"Perchance we will meet again at the Abama village soon." But her words did not have the desired effect, indeed it only served to increase his rage.
"We'll meet again," he gasped. "And when we do you'll pay for this, and it won't be in peanuts you—you she-devil!"
"She-devil!" she echoed. She felt her own anger rising to match his. "Did I ask you to come back?" she cried passionately. "No, I did not. But I see how it is with you. I am she-devil because you cannot have your way with me. Now, I tell you, if you wait for me at the Abama village, in very truth it will be a she-devil who'll come to meet you there!" And with that she turned and ran swiftly across the glade to where Sibitane was marshalling his men. She went flashing past the induna. He stared after her for a time, then shouted an order and, a moment later, the impi moved out of the glade in compact formation on the heels of the Jungle Queen.
The jungle was windless, sunless and vociferous, its stridence compounded of the rasping of minute insects, the low moan of the meat-hunters and the queer monkey-whinings which came out of the steaming green. This stretch of jungle was the strongest Sheena ever had seen. It would have taken the impi many days to cut a path through it, but for the fact that a herd of elephants was moving in the same general direction. The herd was headed for the mountains where the young bamboo shoots were now succulent and green, and their going was irresistible, the path they trampled through the tangled mass of bamboos and spikey vines as broad and as firm underfoot as a village road.
On the second day of the trek they came out into a scorching glare that was dazzling after the semi-dark of the forest, searing after its coolness. The country they traversed now was flat, but with walls of shattered rock picturing the chaos as it was left after the rending of some bygone upheaval. The land did not heave and roll itself up into foothills as they approached the Buffalo Mountain, for in this weird upland country the mountains grew out of the veldt like gigantic anthills. Soon they were marching through native fields, neglected and irregular gardens with the flowering vine of the calabash trailing everywhere.
Impatient of delay, Sibitane swung his impi wide of a meager-looking village—the only one they had seen so far—but the people came running out with offerings of milk and food. There was much shouting and laughter. And yapping dogs and naked children eager for another glimpse of the strange golden-haired woman and her ape still raced on their flanks long after the village was hiddon by the cloud of dust rising from under the feet of the fast-moving impi.
They were marching in the shadow of the cone-shaped mountains before sundown, and Massumba loomed black against the skyline. One of the cones looked as if it had been sheared off close to the base to form the foundation of the old, Lunda stronghold which huddled on top of it. The caravan road swept around it, but it was overgrown with grass and vines and no longer resounded to the tramp of marching feet. Yet the citadel seemed to be watching for the caravans richly laden with tribute and the spoils of successful war, not knowing that they were no more. The crumbling walls looked grim, life-less—or living only in the mind of the false Yamo Galagi who dreamed of power and glory amid vine-covered ruins.
A spiral path, which slaves had crudely torn from the mass of sandstone, with rocks dropping away in huge, broken steps led steeply up to the walled plateau. At one point there was a refuse dump, and here the rock ledges were white with the guana of carrion birds, and lank, half-starved dogs snarled and fought over the offal of an unclean people and their animals.
And Sheena thought that if there was a place in Africa where stench reached its highest magnitude, the distinction must belong to Massumba, the once proud capital of Lunda.
A broken-down gate gave into a narrow lane between square, thatched houses. People came to stare in the doorways, shouting and pointing. The tumult grew and died in passing, and as they went Sibitane's Impi melted into the cross lanes, each man making his way to his own house. Sheena and the induna were alone when they came out into an open square.
Houses enclosed it, and their flat, contiguous roofs supported crumbling ramparts of sun-baked mud and wattle. At one time the whole extensive area had been covered by a roof, but fire had destroyed; for the stumps of charred pillars made an aisle across to a broad, flight of steps which led up to a wide terrace of stone and a squat, square tower. This Sheena guessed was the high seat of the Galagi, and, as seen from across the compound as the light changed with the angle of the sun and shadowed out its sharp, square lines, its windows locked like eye-sockets, its square doorway like a black maw, and the whole became strongly suggestive of a human skull.
In silence Sibitane led her across the compound and up the steep flight of steps. The cavernous mouth yawned before them, and they stepped into the half-light of the tower's interior. A few paces beyond the entrance Sibitane stopped outside a doorway curtained by a mat of woven grass.
"Wait," he said in a hushed voice, and then, bending almost double, ducked through the curtain. Time passed while from within came the low mutter of voices. At long last Sibitane's arm swept aside the curtain, and Sheena stepped into a chamber fragrant with the scent of burning incense.
A shaft of sunlight streamed in through a high, round window and, bathed in its golden glare, the Galagi sat cross-legged on a kind of dais under the symbol of African royalty—a big umbrella of stripped cloth fringed with red and yellow tassels.

VI
H
E WORE a tight-fitting cap of leopard skin, with a long stem attached to it which sprouted a spray of white feathers like the papyrus reed. His robes, encrusted with bead-work, were voluminous, completely covering his person, but his heavy jowls, loose mouth, and the pudgy hand he raised to check her closer approach suggested a bulky man of middle age. At his feet sat a woman, a very old woman. Her withered features showed darkly under the veil of gauzy white which covered her from head to foot, and her eyes seemed to burn through it as she leaned forward to peer into the Jungle Queen's face. The Galagi was the first to speak:
"By the gods, Sibitane, you did not lie!" he exclaimed in a high-pitched, sibilant voice. And the greedy vitality of his stare made Sheena feel as if something were crawling all over her. His loose mouth twisted into a repulsive smile as he went on: "Mateyenda, when I was first told of your beauty I could not believe the eyes of my servants. Now I cannot believe my own!"
His leer whetted Sheena's hostility. Her smile was frankly contemptuous. "When I first heard that the Galagi was re-born," she retorted, "I did not believe my ears. And now my eyes are witness to the greatness of the lie."
His teeth came together with a sharp click, and his heavy-lidded eyes opened wide to fasten on her face in a cold glare. "Speak such words once again," he said with soft menace, "and I will have the tongue torn from your mouth!"
The Jungle Queen's laugh was soft, taunting. She said: "Soon all the Abama clans will be gathered here, and I wonder what they will do when they call upon their Mateyenda for council—and find that she has no tongue to council them with."
"They will do nothing!" his voice rose to a bellow. "My drum will counsel them, and they will obey!" But his bluster was a little uncertain, his eyes uneasy. And Sheena, seeing the fear in him, was quick to take advantage of it.
"If you dare to harm me," she said calmly, "the war-cry of the Abamas will shout down your drum. It will shake this ruin, and bring the walls down upon your head. Do you think that I would have come here alone, if I did not know this?"
The question, brought a scowl to his face, but before he could answer a black, claw-like hand came from under the bundle of gauze at his feet to touch his knee. He bent his head, and the pair consulted in whispers for some time. Then the old woman spoke, and the sound of her voice was like the crackling of dry leaves underfoot.
"Why do you provoke my son's anger, Mateyenda?" she asked "Why do you deny his birth right?"
The Jungle Queen stood calm and serene, balancing an answer in her mind; then: "Because I see nothing but evil and war in his heart. He would make slaves of the Abamas to rebuild these old walls. He would be a great king, but neither his heart nor his mind is strong enough to rule wisely."
The Galagi's mouth was ugly, his eyes blazing. But before he could give vent to the rage that was in him the old woman's hand touched his knee again, and she said sharply:
"Peace, my son! Leave us—you too, Sibitane."
The son got to his feet, and Sheena saw that his bigness was not the bigness of fat but of strength. He stood glaring at her for a moment, a tic jerking at one corner of his mouth, then without a word he left the chamber by a dcor behind the dais. Sibitane salaamed with cupped hands first to the old woman, then to Sheena, and quickly effaced himself.
As they vanished from sight the old woman uttered a cackling laugh. "Men are fools," she said, "always pawing the dust and bellowing like young bulls when there are women about!" She removed the veil from her head, reveiling, a death's head with skin like ripples of mud in a dry stream bed. Only her eyes seemed to be alive—strange black eyes, bright with intelligence. Looking into them Sheena felt that somewhere she had seen this old hag before.
"Come closer, Mateyenda," the other invited. "We can talk without anger." Then as Sheena came to sit beside her on the dais the old woman lifted a knotted stick which was close at hand and struck the floor with it.
"The earth and I—we are very old!" she said. And Sheena's eyes opened wide with astonishment. The old woman chuckled, well pleased with the effect of her words, then:
“You wonder how I know the favorite saying of Ebid Ela, Mateyenda? Well, it was our mother's before we were born. Oh yes, we were sisters, Ebid Ela and I. Our mother was Mateyenda in the old days, and she lived in this tower and she had many children. But of all who were with us then, dancing up and down in the moonlight or the sunlight, I alone remain. The others long since lie sleeping. Truly, I am Neda, once chief wife of Yamo Galagi, and my son is his son. What do you say now, Foster-daughter-of-Ebid Ela?"
Sheena's smile was frankly unbelieving. She said: "Any Kalunda mother might claim the same for her son."
"True!" the old woman admitted with a toothless grimace that was only remotely related to a smile. "But would such a Woman know the secret burial place of Yamo Galagi? Would her son dare to beat my husband's drum? Would he know the fetish-code which even Ebid Ela did not teach you? Who, I say, but the chief wife of Yamo Galagi would know these things?"
Sheena was silent. There was much food for thought here. Who, indeed would know these things but one born of the royal house of Lunda? The old woman's claims could not be silenced by a simple denial. Not while Galagi's drum shouted them into the ears of all the Abamas. But why had the drum been silent for so long?
"If this thing be so," she asked, "why did you not make it known to the Abamas long since?"
Old Neda spat on the floor, and her eyes came alight with a sudden flame of anger. "Ask that of the Portuguesa!" she hissed. "My son was a mere stripling when his father fell at Sao Salvador. But they feared the blood in his veins, and they hunted us down like wild dogs. For a long time they could not catch us but in the end they captured him and sent him to the coast to work in the mines. I lived in a hut near that place. I was not an old woman then, but when they let my son go I was as you see me now."
"But Galagi had many sons," Sheena said dubiously.
"Ah, true! But they were bad times then. Brother slew brother in the struggle for their father's seat. As I have said, of the royal house of Lunda only my son and I are left. We have heen so long away that we come back to our own country as strangers. Few there are who know us for what we are. But when all the Abamas are gathered here my son will show his face to them, the Galagi's drum will speak for him, and they will know him as the Yamo Galagi re-born. Now, I ask you again, why do you deny my son's right? Is there no pity in your heart for the sister of Ebid Ela?"
Again,the Jungle Queen was silent for a long time. Her clear mind had already grasped the fact that the so called Galagi was a mere tool in his mother's grasping hands, so like vultures' tallons. She saw all the covetous dreams, and all the hate and lust for vengence hidden behind Neda's cunning appeal to her woman's instincts, and she was undeceived. She said coldly:
"I will not deny your son's birth, and when the Abama clans are gathered I will not counsel them to join his impis. I will not do so because I think you will make slave-hunters of them. Also, I know that the Portuguesa will soon hear of your plans. They will send soldiers—"
The old woman's stick struck the floor sharply, and she thrust her face close to Sheena's and hissed: "How will the Portuguesa know? Who will tell—ah, the young white Bwana—he is a spy for the Portuguesa!"
"No!" The Jungle Queen jumped to her feet, swiftly apprehensive. Then realizing that she had betrayed herself, she tried to hide her concern for Rick behind a depreciative smile. But it was transparent, and the old hag demanded:
"What is he then? What is he to you?"
"He is nothing," Sheena shrugged. "I have sent him away—"
"Ah, you think nothing of him then? Ho, ho, but when my son's men attacked him you slew three of them? How is this ?"
"He is a hunter," Sheena countered, quickly. "We gave him permission to hunt ivory in our country. Besides, the Abamas are at peace and will not allow strangers to make war in their country."
"So-o-o!" Her strange eyes seemed to punch into Sheena's brain, and on clean through the back of her skull. And then a gleam of satisfaction came into them, and her cackling laughter filled the chamber.
"You lie, Foster-daughter-of-Ebid Ela!" she said, as soon as she had caught her breath. "I see the young Bwana's image in your heart—ho, ho, it is a good thing to know!" Then she struck the floor with her stick, shouting for Sibitane at the same time. When the induna came in and salaamed, she folded her hands on her stick, rested her chin on them, and considered Sheena with a malevolent glint in her eyes.
"The Mateyenda has traveled far, Sibitane," she said at length, "and she wants to sleep. Conduct her to her chamber." Then as Sheena turned to follow the induna she added: "You will have company to your liking soon, Mateyenda."
As the grass curtain fell rustling behind them the Galagi came from behind the dias. He threw a look full of hate at the still moving curtains and said:
"A knife in the heart, or a little calabar bean in her food would rid us of all this trouble quickly, my mother."
Neda's stick tapped the stone floor impatiently. "She has power over the Abamas, my son. They will obey her and—"
"Obey her!" He spat on the ground, and then struck his chest with his fist. "I am the Galagi. It is I they should obey!"
"True! And you will be a great man soon, my son," she told him soothingly. "But you are a small man now, a king without slaves, and with but one impi to do his bidding. The Abamas were your father's strength and shield, and they will be yours if you are patient and listen to me. We need this white Mateyenda's power to win over the Abama clans, and when that is done they will salute you as their king."
His eyes came aglow, and he seemed to swell visibly. In his mind's eye he saw all the Abama warriors marshalled in the great square—Black Shields and White Shields, white and black plumes tossing in the wind; saw the sun flash on a forest of spears, and heard their thunderous shout of acclaim, the old royal salute. "Bayete! Bayete!" swell and roll across the veldt. For a time he stood transported, and then his face lost its rapt expression and settled into a scowl.
"But she will not do it!" he growled. "She says—"
"No matter what she says," the mother interposed with her dry laugh, "she will do it! Her white skin will betray her. Oh yes, I learned much about white people on the coast. They are like the monkeys, they take only one mate. Let her see the young Bwana. Let her feel the strength of his arms about her, and she will be like wet clay in our hands."
"You are very wise, my mother. And it may be as you say," he conceded dubiously. "But while she lives the power will be hers, and she is young."
"Did I not say that her white skin would betray her? Have you forgotten the taboo of Ebid Ela, my son? In her heart she carries a seed that will grow until it destroys her. She will give up everything for this white Bwana. Beat your drum, my son. Bring him here. Soon she will want to go away with him, and then we will whisper in the ears of the witchdoctors and—"
"Aie, aie!" The light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "Truly, you are wise! It might be well to let them run away together, then we would have no fear of the witch doctors—"
"Fool!" hissed old Neda. "Let them go and they will run to the Portuguesa and tell all they know! I am old, my son, only the wish to lift you to your father's seat has kept me alive. Be guided by me and all will be well. But enough now. All this talk has wearied me. I would rest now, and there is much to be thought of."
"There is not much time," he said frowning. "It wants but three days to the change of moon."
"That is time enough. Beat your drum, my son."

To Be Concluded...

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle: Killers Kraal

2009-02-16T16:56:00.000-08:00

III
SHE FROWNED over the saying. There were many words in Swahili speech that had no meaning for her, because the Abama dialect had no words to match them. "What is 'grace'?" she asked.
He was silent, balancing an answer in his mind. "It is ze minga," he decided. "A thing given, as when the Abama sacrifice for rain, and the rain comes."
"So? But I have given you nothing."
He gave her a long, steady look, then: "I think so. I am thinking of a certain night in the garden of Sleman bin Ali.
"I gave you a knife wound also!" she reminded him sharply. But under his steady gaze she felt the blood rise to her head and pulse in her ears. To hide her confusion she got to her feet, and as she did so a deep-toned voice shouted her name. She turned quickly to see Ekoti come running across the clearing, the tails of his leopard-skin kroos whipping about his black, muscular legs. He came to a stand before her, his great chest heaving as he fetched his breath. As Rick got to his feet the young chief's keen eyes came to focus on him. Stern disapproval was written on his face, and his greeting was coldly formal:
"I know you, Bwana!"
"I know you, Chieftain!" Rick returned.
"I did not think to find you still here," Ekoti said, but looked to Sheena for an answer.
"Kalundas attacked his camp," the Jungle Queen told him. "He was wounded in the fight and could not trek."
"Ah—so!" Ekot looked relieved, then: "I sent Leta to your dwelling place in the forest. She could not find you, and when she came back she said she was sure that the young Bwana had taken—"
"Your wives chatter like parrots!" the Jungle Queen, interposed sharply. "And if you wanted me why are your drums silent?"
Ekoti's eyes became uneasy. He looked up at the sky and then down at the ground. "I came to speak of this thing," he said at last. "Our drums are silent because the witchdoctors say that no drum must talk after sundown now."
"What witchdoctors? Who dares to silence my drums?" Sheena was furious, and Ekoti looked as if he expected the earth to open and swallow him.
"All the witchdoctors say so, Sheena," he rumbled. "Surely you have heard the drum?"
"I have heard it. What more?"
Ekoti looked grave. "There is much more and it is all bad, Sheena. When the drum first spoke the witchdoctors went to a secret meeting place, and when they came to their villages they told the people that the drum was the ghost-voice of Yamo Galagi. It was a great magic, they said, and that all the young warriors must make ready to trek into the Kalunda country."
"So? But you did not let the young men go, Ekoti?"
The chief took his time about answering, and that the worst had yet to come was made plain by his hesitation and the way he shifted from one foot to the other. "I tried to stop them," he said at last. "I called the Elders to council, and it was made taboo for any man to go more than a day's trek beyond his village. But the call of the drum was stronger than our taboo. When it spoke again a few young men stole away when all were sleeping. On the next night a few more. And so it has been every night. Aie truly, it was as if a ghost walked into the villages, touched each man on the shoulder as he lay on his bed, and said: 'Follow me!' Soon there will be no young men left to hunt and watch our cattle, and I have come to ask you what I should do about this thing."
"The witchdoctors lie!" the Jungle Queen flashed at him. "It cannot be the Galagi's drum. It was buried with him and no man knows where."
"It may be that they speak the truth, Sheena." Rick, who had been listening with keen attention, held out his hand.
"So!" she said caustically. "The white Bwana believes in ghosts also!"
"Let me see that knife again," he said quietly. She gave it to him, and he examined the ivory haft with a frown between his eyes. Then he nodded his head with a grunt of satisfaction and said: "Now I know the meaning of these carvings. They tell a story of bygone days. Listen—"
And then be gave her a full account of all he had learned of the Abamas at Benguela. At first Sheena could not understand how he could know so much about her people, never having lived among them. But as he got deeper into the story she was remembering certain things Ebid Ela had told her, so long ago that she had forgotten them until this moment. And once Ekoti, his eyes big with wonderment, broke in: "True, true I have heard the old ones speak of such days. It is said—"
Sheena silenced him with a quick gesture and Rick went on: "See, the carvings tell the story of Yamo Galagi's visit to the Portuguese king. It may be that the man who dropped it got it in trade," he concluded. "But I do not think so. No, the drum calls the Abama warriors to Massumba, I think."
Sheena was silent for a moment, turning it all over in her mind. Her keen brain was quick to grasp the significance of what Rick had told her.
"If this be so," she summed up. "the drum speaks of much evil that is brewing at Massumba. It must be silenced, Ekoti," she added, turning to the chief.
Ekoti looked down at his feet; then: "The Abamas will not help you, Sheena. The witchdoctors have frightened them, and I fear—"
"Have I asked for their help, Ekoti? If you are not afraid of ghosts, we two will go to Massumba—"
"We three," Rick put in quietly. And she turned to look him up and down with an amused smile.
"It will be a hard trek for you," she told him. "There will be no servants to carry Bwana's tent, to fetch his water and to cook his food." She saw a muscle tighten in his jaw; but in a moment his slow smile had relaxed the tension, and he said:
"Anywhere you go, I can follow."
Now, it flashed into her mind that, with the Abamas worked up, excited by the fetish-call of the big drum, she would not be able to get porters to take him to the coast. And there was a meaner thought—it might be well for him to learn that to trek with a safari was one thing, and to trek with Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, quite another thing. Truly, such a trek would put an end, once and for all, to any notion he might have of living in the jungle with her. She laughed softly and said:
"So be it, Bwana. Follow me, then!" She picked up her bow and quiver, gave him a dazzling smile, and then sped across the clearing without a backward glance.
Rick's lips rounded to an oath, and he would have started to run after her had not Ekoti caught his arm.
"You could not catch her, Bwana," the chief told him. "No man could. Always she will be in the trees ahead of. us. You and I, we will follow on the ground, as real people must."
Rick looked up the game trail, into the misty green of which Sheena had already vanished, rubbing the nape of his neck with his hand. He muttered something under his breath which would have made the Jungle Queen's ears burn had she heard it, then he turned to Ekoti and said gravely:
"It will be good to trek with the chief of the Abamas."
"It will be good to trek with the slayer of the Bearded One," Ekoti returned with a flash of white teeth. Then he looked down at Rick's empty holster and asked: "But where is the Father-of-Six?"
"Must be around somewhere," said Rick and started. to look around the clearing for his Colt. Ekoti soon spotted it, gleaming in the the grass where it had been knocked from Rick's hand. He picked it up and gave it to Rick.
"If I had such a gun, and could shoot as quickly and as straight as you do, I would fear no man," he said.
"There is such another in my tent," Rick told him. "When I was at the coast I thought of my friend Ekoti, and I bought the gun for him. I will teach him to shoot with it."
"Truly?" the young chief's eyes bulged.
"Truly," said Rick, and went to his tent to get the gun. But when he came back the Abama chief's face was set in stern lines. He said:
"There is a thing in my mind, Bwana. It will be good to speak of it before I take your gift I know what is in your heart. Sheena's skin is white, your skin is white. It would be good for you to mate with her, you think. It may be so. But I tell you now that if you try to take her to the coast with you this spear will drink your blood!"
For a time black and white, both perfect specimens of their race, looked deeply each into the other's eyes. Rick said:
"The Abama chief speaks plainly as a warrior should. I will speak as plainly. I will take Sheena to the coast with me, but only when she asks me to do so. Meanwhile, I wish to be your friend. Freely, I give you this gun, and I will teach you to shoot with it, even though the first bullet you fire finds my heart."
"Aie!" exclaimed the chief and his dark eyes came alight with a gleam of appreciation. "You are a man, Bwana, a fit mate for Sheena!" Then he added with a deep chuckle, "But if you wait for her to do the asking, as you say you will, I think we will be friends for a long time. Oh yes, we will be too old to fight then!"
"Maybe you're not far out at that!" Rick muttered with a wry grin, and then went to make up his pack.

IV
FROM a projecting point of rock which dominated a broad expanse of tumbled uplands that had known the rack and twist of volcanic convulsion, Sheena watched Rick and Ekoti weaving their way between huge boulders and clumps of thorny mimosa bush. They were deep in the Kalunda country now, but far off still the head of the Buffalo Mountain stood against the sky in lines of vapory blue. In the middle distance there were strange formations of crumbling sandstone, banded with the spectral white of quartz, queer piles designed by the gods in sardonic mood. To the north there was a great fault through which the river wiggled, its banks lined with thickets of thorny bamboo more inpenetrable than any barbed-wire entanglement. Beyond rose the banks of the ever-green jungle, tall resin trees linked by fantastic creepers or spiky rattans.
Only once before had Sheena ventured into this country. In this valley, she knew, lived the dwarf-people, the Kobi, wooly-haired and entirely naked. But they were meat-eaters, man-eaters, who hunted with tiny, poison-tipped arrows. She judged that the young men of the Abama clans, treking for Massumba would swing wide of this stretch of jungle on that account, and this meant that, by following the river, she could be at Massumba at least two marches ahead of them. But it would be necessary for Rick and Ekoti to camp here and build a light raft.
With this settled in her mind, the Jungle Queen's attention was drawn to Rick's battered topee bobbing above a patch of bush, and her eyes were clouded by a troubled look. Though, for the past two days, she had set a hard pace, her attempt to discourage him seemed to hold forth little hope of success. On the contrary, he had clung to her heels with the tenacity of a cheetah on the trail of a wounded buck, showing powers of endurance and a jungle-craft not inferior to her own. His persistence annoyed her, and yet she was not insensible to the high tribute this determined pursuit paid to her womanhood, nor to the faint stirring of pleasure that came with the thought.
"It was cruel to taunt him, little one," she murmured to Chim as he bounded to the rock beside her. "And it was foolish, because I cannot send him back alone now."
As the pair came into plain view she waved to them, indicating the trail she would take down to the river, and then made her way steeply through the pale green of the stunted mimosa. Following a game trail she came to an open sandy patch, glistening with mica in the sun. Here the river rippled over a pebbly bed and curved into the bank to form a large water-hole. Bamboo grew everywhere, their white-ringed, green stems protected by great shields of bark around the base. They arched gracefully over the pool, their leaves quivering in the air and veiling the light. Two elephants stood on the far side, a mother and her calf, flapping their ears and waving trunks and tails to keep off the flies. Here and there great, solid marula trees rose above the tangled mass of greenery. and some of their trunks, at her own height above the ground, were all scratched and furrowed with cruel rents; for these were the trees used by the big jungle cats to stretch their paws and to sharpen their merciless claws after their long sleep through the heat of the day.
The elephants went rumbling into the forest as soon as they got her wind, and black monkeys went running up the opposite bank with their tails straight up in the air as Chim came bounding into the glade, grimacing ferociously and snarling a challenge to all.
"Quiet, little one!" she chided. "You are very brave, I know. But it is bad to frighten such little folk."
She had a fire started, and the shadows were deepening when Rick and Ekoti came into the glade. Rick's face under his black beard, she noted as he eame down the steep bank, was blotchy and swollen with mosquito bites. His knees, exposed by his shorts, were like lumps of raw meat where he had scratched them. His shirt was torn and showed many scars, some fresh and bleeding, where the hook thorns had cruelly torn his flesh. She was conscious of a sudden twinge of remorse. What had made her treat him so badly? Truly, she must he posseseed by Nakoloshi, as the Abamas called the mischievous spirit who crept into the beds of their women and turned them into shrews overnight.
He rested his rifle against a tree, unslung his heavy pack, and turned to face her. Impulsive words, warm and full of contrition shaped themselves in her mind—and there it was again, that slow smile, tormenting, always challenging, always hinting at things that were best forgotten. She swallowed the words with a gulp of air, and merely nodded her head in return to his greeting.
Ekoti was moving down to the water hole to drink. She turned to speak to him, and just as he dropped to his knees she saw what had looked like a black stick suddenly coil and transform itself into hissing death. Even as her warning cry rang out the snake struck and plopped back.
Rick's Colt roared as Ekoti jumped to his feet. The heavy bullet slapped into the snake's coils, but did not kill it. Ekoti's eyes rolled, following the serpent's swift, slithering retreat into the bush, and then he looked down at his leg, and when he lifted his head to look at Sheena his face was that of a man doomed. There was a pleading look in his eyes, and she knew that he was thinking that she had the power, the magic to heal. She stared at him dumbly, her mind refusing to accept what she had seen. It could not happen—not to Ekoti who had been her playmate, her friend for as far back as she could remember. A queer sound came from her constricted throat. And then the Abama chief remembered his manhood. His back stiffened and his jaw snapped shut. Then he said:
"It is good for a warrior to die of a spear thrust. But it does not matter when or how he dies if he dies well." Then he moved to a tree and sat with his back to it, to await the inevitable with the calm dignity and fatalism of his breed.
With a cry of anguish on her lips Sheena snatched up a burning brand, ran across to him, and dropped to her knees. But before she could apply her lips to the two deadly little punctures in Ekoti's leg Rick's hand forced her head back. Anger welled up in her, and she would have struck at him, but he thrust the haft of a knife into her hand and said coolly:
"Heat the blade until it is red."
Then she saw that while she had been standing, helpless, he had unstrapped his pack, and that the box of medicine he always carried was open on the ground beside him. And then she remembered that it was his skill that had saved Aku, Ekoti's uncle, from a gunshot wound.
"Save him," she cried impulsively, "and then ask what you want of me!"
Rick nodded his head absently while he tightened a tourniquet above the affected part. That was a sheep-killer, one of the colubrines, he was thinking. Poison affecting the nerve centers and giving rise to paralysis. Antidote? Antitoxin and adrenalin to stimulate heart action and prevent collapse. Incise to promote bleeding, cauterize—yes it was all clear in his mind. One hundred percent effective in most cases. Further proof of the value of that course he'd taken at Benguela. Damn it, if he had to choose between a loaded rifle and a hypodermic loaded with antitoxin, it would be the hypodermic every time! The minor terrors of the jungle were the most deadly, a man never got a chance to draw a bead on them. Now, a little anesthetic—
While he worked Sheena watched his every move with keen concentration in her blue eyes. Ekoti braced himself as the red-hot knife blade came down on his flesh, and then his jaw sagged open, and he gasped:
"Bwana, my leg is already dead! I feel no more than the prick of a thorn."
"Soon you will wish you did not have a leg, warrior," Rick told him as he finished. "But when it starts to hurt I will make it sleep again."
"Truly, all white people are magicians!" said Ekoti, his voice dropping to the deep tones of absolute conviction.
Sheena followed Rick. to the fire. She watched him carefully cleanse his instruments, and refill the hypodermic from one of the many little bottles in his leather case.
"He will live?" she asked suddenly.
"Never doubt it," he assured her, and sat on his heels to strap his case. "His leg will swell, but in two days he will be able to walk."
There was a long pause, and then she asked almost inaudibly: "What do you want of me?"
Rick looked up at her, and his eyes clung to her surperb figure. Slow and easy—remember? He cautioned himself, and became absorbed in the lashings of his pack. He put his knee to it and jerked the straps tight before he answered: "Nothing—nothing at all."
"So?" murmured the Jungle Queen, and fell silent, a frown on her face.
Night came and the stars burned through the leafy roof overhead. Under his tree Ekoti was sleeping soundly, and Rick was flung out on the ground beside him. The Jungle Queen was more used to spending her nights in the trees, and she felt strangely uneasy, sitting over the fire, listening to the lascivious gruntings and snortings that came out of the forest. In the aisles, between the trees the fireflies wove fantastic patterns until the moon rose and dimmed their dancing, and spread a gauze of silver over the sandy glade. The shadows were in rhythm with the swaying bamboos, and the noise of the river was as insinuating as sleep, shutting out all other sounds. Sheena's golden head sank down to her arms folded across her knees.
She awoke with a start, every sense instantly alert. From the branches of a nearby tree came soft, persistent clucking sounds, and she knew that Chim had seen or sensed some danger. With the fluid, noiseless ease of an animal she rose and began to circle the fire; and like an animal she stood without moving at all, sniffing at the wind. Above the gurgling of the river she could hear no sound; but, borne on a sudden puff of wind, the unctuous scent of sweating bodies was very strong, and she had a fleeting mental picture of little men moving through the darkness all around her.
Her first impulse was to spring for the nearest branch. At any other time she would have been out of danger in an instant high in the protecting arms of the trees. But Instead she hesitated, then moved swiftly to Rick's side. He awoke at the first touch of her, hand, and she whispered:
"The Kobi attack us. Do not stand up. Crawl down to the river. We can cross before they rush upon us."
Rick rolled over onto his belly with a low word of assent. She stepped over his prone body, and just as she bent to touch Ekoti's shoulder a man dropped on her back from out of a tree. The sudden, overwhelming weight of him flattened her out on the ground, and the impact of his bony knee in the small of her back drove the air from her lungs in a gasping cry. Rick's gun exploded close to her ear, and for a moment she was utterly without strength.
She caught her breath in a painful gasp, and then her lithe body writhed and twisted as if in a convulsion, and like a jungle cat she fought with tooth and claw.
The man was on his knees, straddling her body, trying to pin her arms down. He was grunting with exertion, and he was very strong. No dwarf-man. She arched her back, lifting him, and then with a quick twist broke his grip upon her wrists.
He yelped and jerked his body backwards as her crooked fingers raked his face, and in the next moment he was on his back. Instantly steel flashed in the Jungle Queen's hand, and he died without a cry as her knife was driven downward under his left armpit.
She was on her feet in a flash. The glade was full of shouts, and moonbeams winked on brandished weapons. Shadowy figures, locked in combat swayed through a pool of moonlight, Rick was fighting there. And then she saw Ekoti, standing with his back to a tree, beating off the attack of four men with his long, leaf-bladed spear. He saw her and roared out the Abama war cry. She bounded toward him, but even as her knife flashed up in a deadly arc a thrown war-club struck her on the base of the skull. She fell, rolled over onto her back, saw a patch of starlit sky whirl and become a dazzling wheel of light, and nothing more.

To Be Continued...

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle: Killer's Krall Part 1

2009-02-14T16:42:00.000-08:00

SHEENA dropped from the branches of a gigantic, spreading baobab and started to climb the rocky krantz, leaping lightly from boulder to boulder. She was so well balanced that she appeared to flow, without particularized motion, in whatever direction her energy proposed; and she moved with incredible swiftness, her bronzed limbs flashing in the sun, her golden hair streaming behind.
On the top of the hill she unslung her bow and quiver, looking around for a place to rest. She selected a spot where a mimosa grew out of a grassy cleft and, with feline grace, stretched out flat on her belly in the black pool of its shadow. With her chin cupped in her hand she looked toward the first bend in the river.
The jungle was the same, standing dark and endless across the river. The river was the same, sweeping its mass of reddish waters westward toward Sao Vincente and its final tryst with the Father-of-all-Rivers, as her people, the Abamas, called the Congo. Beyond the green expanse of the jungle Tula Mbogo, the Buffalo Mountain, lifted its horned peaks, and a cushion of white clouds made of it a seat for a lazy god. Truly, the jungle and the river were as they must have been for a thousand years. Only people changed, outwardly and inwardly, and these subtle changes made them see things differently, even act foolishly.
It must be so. If it were otherwise she would not be here, daydreaming beside the river. Why, when the drums had told her that Rick Thorne was on the river, had she come so far to meet him? Why had she not remained in her forest sanctuary and sent Ekoti, the Abama chief, to turn him back? Such had been her first impulse but she had not obeyed it. Why not?
Frowning, she communed with herself and soon found an answer less disturbing in its implications. She was here because she knew that he would not turn back at Ekoti's bidding. He was a reckless fool. He might even venture to set foot on the forbidden trail to her sanctuary, and pursue his folly to his death. Oh yes, it was because she felt sorry for him. It was a great pity that one so young and brave should waste his manhood in searching and straining for fruit beyond his reach. Somehow he had to be made to understand that, thought her skin was white, she belonged to the jungle and the Abamas; while he belonged to the mysterious world of white men which she had never seen, and had no wish to see. He must be made to understand that she was not for him. Her kiss was the kiss of death for any man who dared to defy the strong taboo of her foster-mother, Ebid Ela—a taboo made inviolate by a bristling boma of Abama spears.
So, here she was, listening to the drums—a pulsing now near and now far, but always articulate, incredibly accurate. But nothing now, just the gossip of the jungle. She let her mind idle. Her mood changed again, and her thoughts became less definite and merged with the blue haze. Across her line of vision birds flew with tails like a burst of flame; others, over-balanced by huge red beaks, flapped awkwardly from tree to tree. A tall, grey heron stood in the shallows and, when gorged, rose heavily to light on a bough above her head—only to rise again with a squawk of panic as Chim, her pet ape, sleeping on the bough, suddenly awoke to scold the intruder.
As the blue-toned view faded, and the sun melted into the clouds and brought them to a glow, the distance became more intimate, more revealing. She was vaguely aware of the tension building up within her.
It stirred up memories of her last meeting with Rick and suddenly she was re-living it all again, every work, every gesture as if it had happened yesterday. And with the vision came poignant yearnings which half expressed themselves to her awareness, and then were overwhelmed by the strong excitement which had been the core and magic of that hour.
And suddenly she was afraid. For her there was danger in this meeting. He would not listen to her. No! He would look at her with that disconcerting gleam in his eyes. He would smile that slow slow smile, and he would dare—. She would not stay! She would send Ekoti. She sprang to her feet.
And just then the booming notes of a drum broke the silence—"Boom-tack-tack-boom! Tack-tack-boom-tack—"
The Jungle Queen stood tense, listening, her expression changing rapidly from concentrated interest to annoyance, and finally to settle into one of profound puzzlement. She never failed to locate a drum by its tone, but the voice of this one was as elusive as the code was strange to her ears.
"Boom-tack-boom-tack-boom-tack—" The indecipherable message came from everywhere at once—far off, diffused, a rippling cascade of sound seeming to spill out of the clouds immediately above her head, and yet each note distinct.
And then silence, with not a twig or a leaf in motion. For at sundown the wind dies and a moment of absolute quiet comes to the jungle. The reed-buck stands spellbound beside a pool. The cruel claws of the leopard are sheathed, its spring arrested as if by magic. The song of the birds is hushed, and the melody of running water swells like an organ in fortissimo, and a paen rises to the high mountain-seats of pagan gods.
No village drum answered the mysterious call. It was as if the booming notes had filled the jungle with evil tidings, shocking all to awful silence. The effect of all this was so strong that the Jungle Queen stood utterly motionless, her gaze fixed upon the Buffalo Mountain, her sudden impulse to flight forgotten.
Slowly the sky lost its blood-red glow. A thunder-mutter rolled behind the mountains. A cool breeze came sliding down their slopes, and the tall reeds along the river banks whispered and quivered in sudden trepidation.. And it seemed to Sheena, as the area of shadows deepened, that the mountains became phantom shapes whose aspect took on something of aloof secretiveness, and something of menace.
A whimper from Chim broke the spell. She looked up and spoke softly to him, as was her habit:
"So, you do not like this strange voice in the jungle, little one?" Chim grimaced at her, and swung to a higher branch. But she clapped her hands, calling him down. "Come!" she called. "We must cross the river before dark."
A short distance below the krantz the river entered a gorge, roared for a mile between rocky pinnacles, and came out to spill, feather-white, over steep terraces of rock. A native tie-tie bridge, as delicate-looking as a spider's web, spanned the gorge at its narrowest point. Sheena knew that Rick would camp below the rapids. Also she knew that he would abandon his heavy dugout there and push on to the first Abama village above the gorge to trade for another canoe. It occured to her that she could block his further progress into Abama country by simply telling the villagers not to trade with him. And the more she thought of this new idea the better she liked it. She could avoid meeting him face to face, and yet, if he attempted to force a path through the jungle on foot, she could put all manner of obstacles in his way. Truly, she thought with an amused smile, such a trek would test the strength of his desire. Oh yes, he would soon come to cursing the day that he had set eyes upon Sheena, Golden Goddess of all the Jungles.
As sure footed as an ape she started across the lagging bridge. She was swaying fifty feet above the rapids, when, faintly above the roar of the water, she heard a shot, then another, and another. The echos were still bouncing from one side of the gorge to the other, when she reached the opposite shore, and went flashing down the steep trail like a golden streak.
Around the first limit of sight she saw the peak of a tent, gleaming white amid the low bush of a small clearing. Without pausing in her stride she leaped for the low branch of a tree. Then, with the effortless ease of a monkey, she went through the close-packed foliage which surrounded the clearing, sometimes leaping from the branch of one tree to another, sometimes swinging through the air on vines as thick as her wrist and as tough as a wire cable. She heard shouts as she came to stand on the gnarled limb of an ajap tree. Her lofty perch gave her a clear view of the camp, and her eyes took in the scene below in one swift, all-inclusive glance.
Rick Thorne was fighting for his life, beating off the attack of a half-dozen natives who kept circling around him and rushing at him, now one, now another, to thrust with a spear, or to strike with a heavy knobkerry. He was armed only with a club, which he evidently had wrested from one of his attackers, and he was fighting with the last-ditch ferocity of a wounded leopard. But they were slowly forcing him back to the high river bank. There were three tents in the clearing, but none of his servants were there to help him. Soon he would be driven over the bank to plunge to his death on the rocks below.
The Jungle Queen unslung her bow. But even as she notched the arrow she saw Rick go down under a terrific blow from a club that smashed through his pith-helmet with a dull, sickening sound. The striker, a squat, powerful-looking fellow with a queer headdress of turcan feathers, uttered a yell of triumph, and whirled his club around his head to strike again. And then Sheena's bow twanged, and the strange warrior fell across Rick's body with the arrow between his shoulders up to the feather. His companions, yelping and rushing in for the kill like wild dogs of the veldt, were suddenly silent and motionless, like wooden men holding weapons poised to strike. There was a moment of gaping wonderment, then the deadly twang of the bow again, and another of their number gasped, clutched at the shaft in his breast, staggered back and fell over the bank with a long-drawn shriek.
For a short time the others stood, half crouched, looking around with their mouths agape, their eyes roiling like white balls in their sockets. They could see no enemy; and, as winged death out of nowhere struck a third man, they made a frantic rush for the cover of the bush.
Wise in the ways of the forest people, Sheena did not come down at once. Long ago she had learned that when danger stalks in the jungle no creature is ever caught off guard twice. She waited until she saw a dugout shoot out from the river bank and go lurching dangerously downstream to the uneven paddle strokes of its panic-stricken occupants. Then she dropped to the ground and ran across the clearing to Rick. She dragged the dead native from his back with an amazing display of strength, then rolled Rick over and fell to her knees beside him.

2.

H
IS DARK curls were matted with blood, his breathing so faint that at first she was sure that he could not live for more than a few minutes. But when she put her ear to his breast and heard the strong beat of his heart, she knew that his helmet had absorbed the shock of the blow, and that his skull was not broken. She deemed it safe to move him, and soon had him under the mosquito netting on his canvas cot.
Leaving Chim to watch Rick she went to gather the leaves of the baobab, the root of the mebila and other herbs. Back in the camp, she made a paste of these as Ebid Ela had taught her to do, omitting only the incantations the old woman had been wont to mutter over her bubbling pots. Rick did not open his eyes as she cleansed and poulticed his wound. When she had finished it was dark, and she went out to look around the deserted camp.
The half-cooked food in the pots, and the fact that everything had been left behind, told her that Rick's servants had left in a great hurry, probably at the first sight of trouble; and, since they were sure to be men from one of the coast villages, that did not surprise her. She shared the Abamas' contempt for the cowardly coast people. Uppermost in her mind was the question: Who were these warriors who had dared to attack a safari on her side of the Kwango? Whence had they come? Certainly they were not neighbors of the Abamas. They had looked like Kalundas, a once powerful people who lived beyond the mountains, but whose stock was now debased by cross-breeding with the dwarf-people who ranged the jungles between the Kwango and the Buffalo Mountain. But she could not be sure of this, because only once had she ventured into the Kalunda and seen one of their villages, and that from a great distance. Their huts, she remembered, were not placed in a circle as was the style among the Bantu-speaking people, but in long, straight aisles, and it was said that they were maneaters, sometimes even eating their own dead. For this reason the Abamas would have nothing to do with them.
A snarl and a sudden flurry of sound out in the bush sent a tingle down her spine. Jackals, with the smell of the dead in their nostrils. She did not want them howling around the camp all night, and went to roll the bodies over the bank and into the river. She was moving back to Rick's tent when her eye was caught by the glint of steel amid the grass. She bent to pick up a knife which evidently had been dropped by one of the men who had attacked the camp. The blade was double-edged, curved, and twice the span of her hand in length. It had an ivory handle, most cunningly carved, and she took it over to the fire to examine it more closely.
Figures were carved on the handle, men dressed like Rick, but with funny, thin legs. And there was a strange, prancing buck, with a beard like a goat and a single horn sticking straight out from between its eyes. And something that looked like a canoe with tall trees growing out of it—strange trees, becatise all the branches grew across the trunks without a twist or a downward bend. She thought it was strange that one who could carve men with such skill should make such a poor likeness of a tree. Any child could do better. But it was a good knife.
She was sliding it into the band of leopard skin about her waist when Rick called her by name. But when she ran into the tent and bent over him, he did not know her. He kept shouting her name, and then tried to get up, and it took all her strength to hold him down. She spoke softly to him. Her voice seemed to reach into the darkened chambers of his mind; for he ceased to struggle and lay quiet again.
She did not know what else she could do to help him, and she rose and looked down on his handsome face with troubled eyes. Her foster-mother would have said that he was possessed of a devil, and she would have made a magic to cast it out. But long ago something deep in Sheena's nature had rebelled against the darker practices of her people. She had faith in their simple remedies, because she had seen them heal; but she had no faith in witchcraft, because too often she had seen it fail. And besides, Ebid Ela had taught her many a fraudulent trick.
On the following day at sundown, as before, she heard the drum again; but she was too concerned over Rick to be more than vaguely aware of it. It spoke again on the third day, and again the Abama villages gave ear in silence. No answering call, no clue to the message the great drum cried out to the rim of the horizon. And it flashed into her mind that the drummer must be using some fetish-code, known only to the witchdoctors.
Minutes later when she went into the tent it was to look deeply into the gray eyes of Rick. They were very bright, and it was not only the effects of his fever that made them so; for he lifted himself on his elbow, and the slow smile came to his lips.
"It's been a long trek—mbali sana, sana!" he said in Swahili. "But I did fight my way through all those black devils. I did get through to you."
"Truly," she said softly. "It was a hard fight, and now you must rest."
He passed his hand over his eyes. "A little dizzy yet," he muttered; then: "You did not send your Abamas against me, Sheena?"
"No—no!" She was startled into a too vehement denial.
"Ah" His eyes probed her. "But you knew I was coming, the drums would tell you that You came to meet me, Sheena!"
"I have not said so! And you must go back to the coast when you are well again."
He made as if to rise, then fell back with a sharp intake of breath. In a moment she was on her knees beside him. "Be still! Be still!" she pleaded. His hand wound her hair into a golden twist, and drew her lips down to his. His weakness was his strength. She dared not pull away for fear of hurting him, and it was neither unpleasant, nor dangerous to yield just for a moment when there was no strength in him.
"I came a long way for this," he said at last, and sank back on his pillow. She stayed with him until he fell asleep, a smile still on his lips, his breathing deep and regular.
On the following morning he ate all that she gave him, and begged for more. When he had eaten enough for two men he sat up on the cot, pressing his head between the palms of his hands.
"No pain," he announced with a grin. "Good solid bone clean through."
"You remember what happened now?"
He was silent for a moment, frowning slightly; then: "Yes," he said. "My boys, six Lobitos, were cooking the evening meal. I was on this cot, and a drum—a big drum—was talking somewhere back in the jungle. I was nearly asleep, and it was some time later when I became aware of the quiet. The boys were not jabbering as usual. I went out, and there was not a man in sight. I shouted. Got no answer, and so I fired a few shots into the air. And then those fellows jumped me from behind. My gun was knocked from my hand, and they were all around me. The next thing I remember is seeing you, and I thought—"
"They were Kalundas, I think," she interposed. "One of them left this behind him." She drew the knife from her waist band and handed it to him with an unflattering comment on the artist's ability to carve trees.
"They are not trees," he said, after turning the ivory handle in his hand for some time. "It is a very big canoe, perhaps big enough to hold all the warriors Ekoti could muster. And from these poles many dotis of cloth were hung so that when the wind was blowing it would move through the water. See, one of the men wears a crown, and this buck is called "unicorn" in the speech of my people.
And it tells us that this ivory was not carved by a Bantu craftsman. The knife is old, three times as old as I am, I think."
"Then the man must have traded for it at the coast," she said with quick comprehension," and it can tell us nothing about them."
"True," he agreed. Then he leaned toward her and asked: "What brought you here, so far from Ekoti's village, Sheena?"
She saw the tell-tale gleam in his eyes, and quickly stepped out of his reach. "I came," she told him coldly. "That is enough for you to know. And as I have said, you must go back to the coast."
"I like it here," he said.
The Jungle Queen was not used to defiance, and she sensed that there was much of that behind his slow smile, and a hint at something else, too. Doubtless, he was remembering the moment when she had yielded to his weakness—thinking, perhaps, that the weakness was hers, and that he could have his way with her again.
"There must be an end to this folly," she said angrily. "If you will not go willingly, then Ekoti will take you down river. I have spoken!" And with that, she left him.
Rick let her go without a word of protest. He was a wiser man than when he had first come up the Kwango, nearly eight months ago. And most of that time he'd spent searching the old records at Benguela in a vain attempt to lift the veil of mystery which shrouded this lovely girl whose intelligence was of the highest order, but whose knowledge of the world outside her jungles would scarcely equal that of a five-year-old white child. But, though his researches had yielded no clue as to Sheena's identity, he had uncovered much concerning the Abamas that had given him food for thought.
According to record, the Abamas had fled the terrors of Chaka's bloody rule nearly seventy years ago, and had trekked north under the leadership of Yamo Galagi. Unlike the Zulu, Dingaan, Moselekatse and other generals, this chief was accustomed to lead his impis in person, and his march along the higher reaches of the Zambesi had been an Odyssey of battles, privations and sudden changes of fortune. Nevertheless, he had finally succeeded in overcoming all opposition, and the capture of countless herds of cattle had enabled his people to resume their pastoral life on the lush veldt between the watershed of the Zambesi and the Congo.
Then, Yamo Galagi, a born leader of men and one of the strongest personalities in African history, turned his attention to the organization of his kingdom, and ultimately pushed its boundaries across the north-flowing tributaries of the Congo as far as the Cuanza.
His government had been despotic, ruthless and cruel, but strong and efficient. From his capital, Massumba, the Great Encampment, his caravans had worked their way down to the Portuguese port of Benguela. At the height of his power he had commanded no less than three thousand warriors armed with flint-lock muskets, and three times as many bowmen. Once he had visited the court of the Portuguese king at Lisbon; and, thereafter, the chronicles styled him, Dom Joao da Silva, Count of Lunda. But some obscure quarrel had brought the black nobleman to rebellion against his overlord. He swore that he would drive the Portuguese into the sea, and he might well have succeeded had not a bullet put an end to his bloody career before the wall of Sao Salvador.
Upon the death of its strong man the Lunda kingdom, essentially feudal in character, had quickly broken up into warring fractions. But Yamo Galagi had inaugurated a Golden Age, and the Bantu had not forgotten him. His name lived in tradition and fable. He was a truly admirable man, they said. A man So brave and of such infallible cruelty that a command beaten out on his great drum was speedily fulfilled. But the drum spoke no more now—for who should beat the drum of so great a man? Surely his hand would shrivel and become the hand of a dead man. And at the voice of the drum so many would remember and grieve. Or, perchance, their hearts would grow strong again, for did not the Old Ones whisper among themselves that when the drum was heard again it would be the ghost-voice of the Galagi calling his warriors to battle and the Bantu to greatness?
And to this day Portuguese governors kept their ears tuned to such talk. More than one of them had spent much treasure and not a little blood in vain attempts to get possession of Yamo Galagi's drum. Ever present in their minds was the fear that some aspiring chieftain, less superstitious than his fellows, might unearth the fabulous drum, or a working facsimile thereof, and fill the jungles with its seditious clamor.
And there was a feature of the constitution of the old, Lunda kingdom that held peculiar interest for Rick. It was the queen-consort, the Mateyenda. The odd part about this female ruler was that she was not the king's wife, but a member of the royal line possessing her own court and her own income. Moreover she had the power of deciding the election of a new Galagi, as the petty chiefs who now held all that was left of the Lunda kingdom were now called. It appeared that she was allowed to marry, but her husbands were called "wives", and, generally speaking, had no influence at all. Thus the kingdom had had two heads in existence at one time which had been neither mutually exclusive, nor in mutual hostility.
From what Sheena had told him of her past, Rick reasoned that Ebid Ela had at one time been Mateyenda of the Lunda kingdom, and that the old woman had bequeathed her high office to the white foster-child she had cared for from infancy. This would account for the extraordinary influence Sheena had over the Abama clans.
Thinking about it all, Rick had come to a better understanding of what he was up against in the lovely person of Sheena. But it had not had the effect of cooling his ardour, or of weakening his determination to take the girl back to the coast with him someday. He was merely willing to coneede that it would take longer than he had anticipated when the idea had first occured to him. Though usually he walked where the angels feared to tread he could be as timid as a dik-dik when caution was indicated, and he had lived among Africans long enough to know that it was wise to speak softly in the presence of their gods.
"Take it slow and easy, young feller, he counseled himself. "She is as wild as a cage full of cheetahs, and twice as dangerous. Just let her get used to seeing you around. It might take ten years but it'll be worth it."
There was no fresh meat in the camp, and before sunrise Sheena was ghosting along the game trails that threaded the forest, and by sunup she was hack in the camp with a fat bush-buck. The morning air was bland with the odor of roasting meat when Rick came out of the tent to sit on his heels on the other side of the fire. She gave him a sidelong look and asked:
"Your head is better now?"
"As good as new. And now it Is in my heart to say—"
"What is in your heart does not trouble me," she checked him quickly. "What is in your head does. Tomorrow I leave this place. When do you start downriver?"
"Too much for one man to carry," he said. "I have no porters."
"I have not forgotten that when a white Bwana treks he must have his servants to cut a path for him," she said with gentle derison. "You will have porters, never doubt it. And they will see to it that their Bwana does not mistake his direction."
"Sheena must he obeyed," he said with a faint smile. And she gave him a sharp look. Quiet submission was not what she had expected. It was not in his nature, and she felt uneasy. Then it flashed into her mind that he might not be as well as he said he was. She smiled and said:
"You would do well to rest here until the moon changes."
"Six day's grace, eh?" said he.
To Be Continued...