Moon of Skulls

by Robert E. Howard

  “Gordon,” I said hoarsely, “have you an electric torch?”

  One of the men produced a large one.

  “Direct the light into the tunnel, but as you value your life, do not put a foot upon the steps.”

  The beam of light struck through the shadows, lighting the tunnel, etching out boldly a scene that will haunt my brain all the rest of my life. On the floor of the tunnel, between the chests which now gaped open, lay two men who were members of London’s finest secret service. Limbs twisted and faces horribly distorted they lay, and above and about them writhed, in long glittering scaly shimmerings, scores of hideous reptiles.

  The clock struck five.

  13. The Blind Beggar Who Rode

  “He seemed a beggar such as lags

  Looking for crusts and ale.”

  — Chesterton

  The cold gray dawn was stealing over the river as we stood in the deserted bar of the Temple of Dreams. Gordon was questioning the two men who had remained on guard outside the building while their unfortunate companion, went in to explore the tunnel.

  “As soon as we heard the whistle, sir, Leary and Murken rushed the bar and broke into the opium room, while we waited here at the bar door according to orders. Right away several ragged dopers came tumbling out and we grabbed them. But no one else came out and we heard nothing from Leary and Murken; so we just waited until you came, sir.”

  “You saw nothing of a giant Negro, or of the Chinaman Yun Shatu?”

  “No, sir. After a while the patrolmen arrived and we threw a cordon around the house, but no one was seen.”

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders; a few cursory questions had satisfied him that the captives were harmless addicts and he had them released.

  “You are sure no one else came out?”

  “Yes, sir — no, wait a moment. A wretched old blind beggar did come out, all rags and dirt and with a ragged girl leading him. We stopped him but didn’t hold him — a wretch like that couldn’t be harmful.”

  “No?” Gordon jerked out. “Which way did he go?”

  “The girl led him down the street to the next block and then an automobile stopped and they got in and drove off, sir.”

  Gordon glared at him.

  “The stupidity of the London detective has rightfully become an international jest,” he said acidly. “No doubt it never occurred to you as being strange that a Limehouse beggar should ride about in his own automobile.”

  Then impatiently waving aside the man, who sought to speak further, he turned to me and I saw the lines of weariness beneath his eyes.

  “Mr. Costigan, if you will come to my apartment we may be able to clear up some new things.”

  14. The Black Empire

  “Oh the new spears dipped in life-blood as the woman

  shrieked in vain!

  Oh the days before the English! When will those days

  come again?”

  — Mundy

  Gordon struck a match and absently allowed it to flicker and go out in his hand. His Turkish cigarette hung unlighted between his fingers.

  “This is the most logical conclusion to be reached,” he was saying. “The weak link in our chain was lack of men. But curse it, one cannot round up an army at two o’clock in the morning, even with the aid of Scotland Yard. I went on to Limehouse, leaving orders for a number of patrolmen to follow me as quickly as they could be got together, and to throw a cordon about the house.

  “They arrived too late to prevent the Master’s servants slipping out of the side doors and windows, no doubt, as they could easily do with only Finnegan and Hansen on guard at the front of the building. However, they arrived in time to prevent the Master himself from slipping out in that way — no doubt he lingered to effect his disguise and was caught in that manner. He owes his escape to his craft and boldness and to the carelessness of Finnegan and Hansen. The girl who accompanied him —”

  “She was Zuleika, without doubt.”

  I answered listlessly, wondering anew what shackles bound her to the Egyptian sorcerer.

  “You owe your life to her,” Gordon rapped, lighting another match. “We were standing in the shadows in front of the warehouse, waiting for the hour to strike, and of course ignorant as to what was going on in the house, when a girl appeared at one of the barred windows and begged us for God’s sake to do something, that a man was being murdered. So we broke in at once. However, she was not to be seen when we entered.”

  “She returned to the room, no doubt,” I muttered, “and was forced to accompany the Master. God grant he knows nothing of her trickery.”

  “I do not know,” said Gordon, dropping the charred match stem, “whether she guessed at our true identity or whether she just made the appeal in desperation.

  “However, the main point is this: evidence points to the fact that, on hearing the whistle, Leary and Murken invaded Yun Shatu’s from the front at the same instant my three men and I made our attack on the warehouse front. As it took us some seconds to batter down the door, it is logical to suppose that they found the secret door and entered the tunnel before we affected an entrance into the warehouse.

  “The Master, knowing our plans beforehand, and being aware that an invasion would be made through the tunnel and having long ago made preparations for such an exigency —”

  An involuntary shudder shook me.

  “— the Master worked the lever that opened the chest — the screams you heard as you lay upon the altar were the death shrieks of Leary and Murken. Then, leaving the Chinaman behind to finish you, the Master and the rest descended into the tunnel — incredible as it seems — and threading their way unharmed among the serpents, entered Yun Shatu’s house and escaped therefrom as I have said.”

  “That seems impossible. Why should not the snakes turn on them?”

  Gordon finally ignited his cigarette and puffed a few seconds before replying.

  “The reptiles might still have been giving their full and hideous attention to the dying men, or else — I have on previous occasions been confronted with indisputable proof of the Master’s dominance over beasts and reptiles of even the lowest or most dangerous orders. How he and his slaves passed unhurt among those scaly fiends must remain, at present, one of the many unsolved mysteries pertaining to that strange man.”

  I stirred restlessly in my chair. This brought up a point for the purpose of clearing up which I had come to Gordon’s neat but bizarre apartments.

  “You have not yet told me,” I said abruptly, “who this man is and what is his mission.”

  “As to who he is, I can only say that he is known as you name him — the Master. I have never seen him unmasked, nor do I know his real name nor his nationality.”

  “I can enlighten you to an extent there,” I broke in. “I have seen him unmasked and have heard the name his slaves call him.”

  Gordon’s eyes blazed and he leaned forward.

  “His name,” I continued, “is Kathulos and he claims to be an Egyptian.”

  “Kathulos!” Gordon repeated. “You say he claims to be an Egyptian — have you any reason for doubting his claim of that nationality?”

  “He may be of Egypt,” I answered slowly, “but he is different, somehow, from any human I ever saw or hope to see. Great age might account for some of his peculiarities, but there are certain lineal differences that my anthropological studies tell me have been present since birth — features which would be abnormal to any other man but which are perfectly normal in Kathulos. That sounds paradoxical, I admit, but to appreciate fully the horrid inhumanness of the man, you would have to see him yourself.”

  Gordon sat at attention while I swiftly sketched the appearance of the Egyptian as I remembered him — and that appearance was indelibly etched on my brain forever.

  As I finished he nodded.

  “As I have said, I never saw Kathulos except when disguised as a beggar, a leper or some such thing — when he was fairly swathed in rags. Still, I too have been impre
ssed with a strange difference about him — something that is not present in other men.”

  Gordon tapped his knee with his fingers — a habit of his when deeply engrossed by a problem of some sort.

  “You have asked as to the mission of this man,” he began slowly. “I will tell you all I know.”

  “My position with the British government is a unique and peculiar one. I hold what might be called a roving commission — an office created solely for the purpose of suiting my special needs. As a secret service official during the war, I convinced the powers of a need of such office and of my ability to fill it.

  “Somewhat over seventeen months ago I was sent to South Africa to investigate the unrest which has been growing among the natives of the interior ever since the World War and which has of late assumed alarming proportions. There I first got on the track of this man Kathulos. I found, in roundabout ways, that Africa was a seething cauldron of rebellion from Morocco to Cape Town. The old, old vow had been made again — the Negroes and the Mohammedans, banded together, should drive the white men into the sea.

  “This pact has been made before but always, hitherto, broken. Now, however, I sensed a giant intellect and a monstrous genius behind the veil, a genius powerful enough to accomplish this union and hold it together. Working entirely on hints and vague whispered clues, I followed the trail up through Central Africa and into Egypt. There, at last, I came upon definite evidence that such a man existed. The whispers hinted of a living dead man — a skull-faced man. I learned that this man was the high priest of the mysterious Scorpion society of northern Africa. He was spoken of variously as Skull-face, the Master, and the Scorpion.

  “Following a trail of bribed officials and filched state secrets, I at last trailed him to Alexandria, where I had my first sight of him in a dive in the native quarter — disguised as a leper. I heard him distinctly addressed as ‘Mighty Scorpion’ by the natives, but he escaped me.

  “All trace vanished then; the trail ran out entirely until rumors of strange happenings in London reached me and I came back to England to investigate an apparent leak in the war office.

  “As I thought, the Scorpion had preceded me. This man, whose education and craft transcend anything I ever met with, is simply the leader and instigator of a world-wide movement such as the world has never seen before. He plots, in a word, the overthrow of the white races!

  “His ultimate aim is a black empire, with himself as emperor of the world! And to that end he has banded together in one monstrous conspiracy the black, the brown and the yellow.”

  “I understand now what Yussef Ali meant when he said ‘the days of the empire,’” I muttered.

  “Exactly,” Gordon rapped with suppressed excitement. “Kathulos’ power is unlimited and unguessed. Like an octopus his tentacles stretch to the high places of civilization and the far corners of the world. And his main weapon is — dope! He has flooded Europe and no doubt America with opium and hashish, and in spite of all effort it has been impossible to discover the break in the barriers through which the hellish stuff is coming. With this he ensnares and enslaves men and women.

  “You have told me of the aristocratic men and women you saw coming to Yun Shatu’s dive. Without doubt they were dope addicts — for, as I said, the habit lurks in high places — holders of governmental positions, no doubt, coming to trade for the stuff they craved and giving in return state secrets, inside information and promise of protection for the Master’s crimes.

  “Oh, he does not work haphazardly! Before ever the black flood breaks, he will be prepared; if he has his way, the governments of the white races will be honeycombs of corruption — the strongest men of the white races will be dead. The white men’s secrets of war will be his. When it comes, I look for a simultaneous uprising against white supremacy, of all the colored races — races who, in the last war, learned the white men’s ways of battle, and who, led by such a man as Kathulos and armed with white men’s finest weapons, will be almost invincible.

  “A steady stream of rifles and ammunition has been pouring into East Africa and it was not until I discovered the source that it was stopped. I found that a staid and reliable Scotch firm was smuggling these arms among the natives and I found more: the manager of this firm was an opium slave. That was enough. I saw Kathulos’ hand in the matter. The manager was arrested and committed suicide in his cell — that is only one of the many situations with which I am called upon to deal.

  “Again, the case of Major Fairlan Morley. He, like myself, held a very flexible commission and had been sent to the Transvaal to work upon the same case. He sent to London a number of secret papers for safekeeping. They arrived some weeks ago and were put in a bank vault. The letter accompanying them gave explicit instructions that they were to be delivered to no one but the major himself, when he called for them in person, or in event of his death, to myself.

  “As soon as I learned that he had sailed from Africa I sent trusted men to Bordeaux, where he intended to make his first landing in Europe. They did not succeed in saving the major’s life, but they certified his death, for they found his body in a deserted ship whose hulk was stranded on the beach. Efforts were made to keep the affair a secret but somehow it leaked into the papers with the result —”

  “I begin to understand why I was to impersonate the unfortunate major,” I interrupted.

  “Exactly. A false beard furnished you, and your black hair dyed blond, you would have presented yourself at the bank, received the papers from the banker, who knew Major Morley just intimately enough to be deceived by your appearance, and the papers would have then fallen into the hands of the Master.

  “I can only guess at the contents of those papers, for events have been taking place too swiftly for me to call for and obtain them. But they must deal with subjects closely connected with the activities of Kathulos. How he learned of them and of the provisions of the letter accompanying them, I have no idea, but as I said, London is honeycombed with his spies.

  “In my search for clues, I often frequented Limehouse disguised as you first saw me. I went often to the Temple of Dreams and even once managed to enter the back room, for I suspected some sort of rendezvous in the rear of the building. The absence of any exit baffled me and I had no time to search for secret doors before I was ejected by the giant black man Hassim, who had no suspicion of my true identity. I noticed that very often the leper entered or left Yun Shatu’s, and finally it was borne on me that past a shadow of doubt this supposed leper was the Scorpion himself.

  “That night you discovered me on the couch in the opium room, I had come there with no especial plan in mind. Seeing Kathulos leaving, I determined to rise and follow him, but you spoiled that.”

  He fingered his chin and laughed grimly.

  “I was an amateur boxing champion in Oxford,” said he, “but Tom Cribb himself could not have withstood that blow — or have dealt it.”

  “I regret it as I regret few things.”

  “No need to apologize. You saved my life immediately afterward — I was stunned, but not too much to know that that brown devil Yussef Ali was burning to cut out my heart.”

  “How did you come to be at Sir Haldred Frenton’s estate? And how is it that you did not raid Yun Shatu’s dive?”

  “I did not have the place raided because I knew somehow Kathulos would be warned and our efforts would come to naught. I was at Sir Haldred’s that night because I have contrived to spend at least part of each night with him since he returned from the Congo. I anticipated an attempt upon his life when I learned from his own lips that he was preparing, from the studies he made on this trip, a treatise on the secret native societies of West Africa. He hinted that the disclosures he intended to make therein might prove sensational, to say the least. Since it is to Kathulos’ advantage to destroy such men as might be able to arouse the Western world to its danger, I knew that Sir Haldred was a marked man. Indeed, two distinct attempts were made upon his life on his journey to the co
ast from the African interior. So I put two trusted men on guard and they are at their post even now.

  “Roaming about the darkened house, I heard the noise of your entry, and, warning my men, I stole down to intercept you. At the time of our conversation, Sir Haldred was sitting in his unlighted study, a Scotland Yard man with drawn pistol on each side of him. Their vigilance no doubt accounts for Yussef Ali’s failure to attempt what you were sent to do.

  “Something in your manner convinced me in spite of yourself,” he meditated. “I will admit I had some bad moments of doubt as I waited in the darkness that precedes dawn, outside the warehouse.”

  Gordon rose suddenly and going to a strong box which stood in a corner of the room, drew thence a thick envelope.

  “Although Kathulos has checkmated me at almost every move,” he said, “I have not been entirely idle. Noting the frequenters of Yun Shatu’s, I have compiled a partial list of the Egyptian’s right-hand men, and their records. What you have told me has enabled me to complete that list. As we know, his henchmen are scattered all over the world, and there are possibly hundreds of them here in London. However, this is a list of those I believe to be in his closest council, now with him in England. He told you himself that few even of his followers ever saw him unmasked.”

  We bent together over the list, which contained the following names: “Yun Shatu, Hongkong Chinese, suspected opium smuggler — keeper of Temple of Dreams — resident of Limehouse seven years. Hassim, ex-Senegalese Chief — wanted in French Congo for murder. Santiago, Negro — fled from Haiti under suspicion of voodoo worship atrocities. Yar Khan, Afridi, record unknown. Yussef Ali, Moor, slave-dealer in Morocco — suspected of being a German spy in the World War — an instigator of the Fellaheen Rebellion on the upper Nile. Ganra Singh, Lahore, India, Sikh — smuggler of arms into Afghanistan — took an active part in the Lahore and Delhi riots — suspected of murder on two occasions — a dangerous man. Stephen Costigan, American — resident in England since the war — hashish addict — man of remarkable strength. Li Kung, northern China, opium smuggler.”