by Harold Ward
“Wait a minute,” he said gruffly.
“If this man, Doctor Death, is down there—if the girl recently was taken through this door—if there’s no other entrance, then how the devil did he get this pile of lumber and stuff back over it? Wizard though he is, he’d have to be the devil himself to be able to reach through solid stone to replace those obstructions.”
His question was soon answered. For, as Holm applied his weight to the door and swung it open, revealing a dark, narrow opening into which an iron ladder led, one of the policemen gave a cry of alarm. Then his gun crashed. The report filled the cellar with its echoes.
From somewhere out of the darkness walked a Zombi. Gazing neither to left nor right, the walking dead man approached the opening with slow, mechanical steps and stood, hand on the door, ready to close it at the word of command.
“Leave it alone!” Holm cautioned. “It is dead.”
“God!” Ricks whispered, gazing at the horrible creature that stood, staring straight ahead, giving no heed to what was going on about it. “It’s awful! Horrible!”
“Trained to do just that one thing—just as all of the others are trained to do certain things,” Holm answered. “This one is the guardian of the door. As soon as we have entered, he will close it behind us and arrange the wood in place again. It knows nothing else; it is motivated only by the thoughts of its master.”
He took the lead down into the black hole, Ricks and the others following close behind. As the last man disappeared in the darkness, the door fell behind them with a dull crash. They could hear the Zombi as he dragged the boxes and crates back into place.
It was a long, narrow dark hall in which they found themselves—a passageway apparently carved out of the solid rock and sloping steadily downward. They followed it. Finally they came to a steel door like that of a safe. It opened to their touch into a small chamber from which led half a dozen passages.
“Which way now?” Ricks inquired.
Holm scratched his head.
“I recall vaguely coming through this place,” he answered. “But my impressions were so blurred—so indistinct—that I am confused.”
The Inspector turned to the nearest door and cautiously opened it, allowing the beam of his light to play into every niche and corner.
“This is a cul de sac,” he said. “It is through one of the other entrances that we must look for our man.”
Holm jerked open another door.
“Quick!” he said. “This is the way. I remember it now. A surge of memory comes over me. It is Nina. She is calling me. She is inside there, somewhere—telling me to go back.”
Ricks looked at him queerly.
“If I didn’t know you so well, I’d think that you were turning yellow,” he snapped.
For an instant there was silence. The other men gathered around their superiors, waiting for orders. Jimmy Holm shook his head sadly.
“You don’t understand, Inspector,” he said finally. “I’m telling you that she is trying to warn us. There is danger ahead—serious danger. What it is, I don’t pretend to know. But she knows and she is trying to tell us with all of the forces at her command that we will meet with trouble. We must watch ourselves—watch every turn. Remember, this man Death is not an ordinary criminal. He is a superman—a man who stands out even in the midst of the greatest man of our nation.”
“Nevertheless,” said Ricks stubbornly, “if I get the nippers on him, I’ll bet ten dollars that he’ll come like any other crook.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Holm led the way through the door.
Chapter XV
Orgy of Death
SINGLE file, they crept forward. Holm took the lead. Ricks followed. Then came the rest of the squad, single file, for the passageway was still narrow, sloping gradually downward at an angle of about ten degrees.
Finally Holm brought him in front of another steel door. He stopped.
“Go on!” snarled Ricks. “What are you stopping for?”
“Wait a minute!” whispered Holm. “I think I hear someone moving about inside.”
For a full minute they stood there, not daring to stir, listening, every faculty alert.
Then came the sound of a subdued voice.
“Death!” Holm whispered again, his scalp tingling.
“Can this man be killed by ordinary bullets?” Ricks whispered. “Seems to me I’ve heard somewhere that it took a silver bullet or something of the sort to kill a being like him.”
Holm shook his head.
“He’s an extraordinary man gifted with more than ordinary intelligence,” he responded. “But you’ll find that he’s just as susceptible to lead as the commonest thug that walks the streets.”
His fingers were on the latch. Holding up a warning finger, he pressed it gently. The door swung open a tiny crack. He peered into the brilliantly lighted interior.
The burly Inspector, leaning forward, peered over his shoulder. He gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Holy Mary,” he breathed in an awed whisper.
Doctor Death, clad in robes of somber black, was standing in front of a small altar covered with three linen cloths, upon which burned six black candles.
In the center was an inverted crucifix upon which was the figure of the devil. The vestments which covered the robe were all of black, the cope being of white silk embroidered with fir cones.
The black-clad scientist was chanting an invocation to the devil.
The acolytes were Zombi. One of them brought the Host to the altar; a hissing sound came from the lips of the living dead men as it was elevated.
Doctor Death seized a knife from one of the black-clad acolytes and stabbed the Host. Then, with an angry gesture, he threw it to the floor and trampled upon it. From another Zombi he snatched a chalice of gold and poured its contents over the Host, muttering abominable execrations. At the close of the horrible ceremony, the celebrant made the sign of the cross on the floor with his left foot. Then, turning to the group of Zombi, he muttered an order. Immediately they commenced a sort of weird dance, keeping time in a stiff mechanical manner. It was horrible—more than horrible, it was abominable, revolting.
Death snapped a command. Instantly the dancers ceased their gyrations and turned to him. He said something to them again. Single file, moving like automatons, they marched out of the room.
A MAN can shed the husk of civilization as easily as a snake can shed its skin.
Inspector Ricks threw off his veneer that night. There was a touch of fighting Irish in his blood that, when it welled to the surface, made him forget himself and his position. He should have waited—disposed of his forces to better advantage. Instead, as he gazed upon the unspeakable orgies that were being practiced before his eyes, he became as primitive as the fiercest cave man that ever fought for possession of a Paleozoic belle or howled a challenge to an opposition tribe.
Seizing Holm by the shoulder, he thrust him aside and leaped inside the room.
“Up with your hands, you filthy old devil!” he roared.
“Back! Jimmy, back! I told you not to come!”
It was Nina Fererra speaking. She had appeared in the little doorway leading to the sacristy. Upon her face was a look of sorrow, of deadly earnestness.
“Back!” she shouted. “Back if you value your lives!”
For an instant the policemen halted. Then Ricks bellowed an angry order.
“Forward!” he shouted. “Seize him, men!”
Death turned, his eyes blazing, his long angular arms extended. From the ends of his bony fingers leaped sparks. Ricks, his arm outstretched in the act of seizing him, stopped short in his tracks, a look of indescribable fear creeping over his ruddy countenance.
“God!” he said in a hoarse whisper.
He staggered back.
It was as if he had been struck by a thunderbolt. The blood seemed to congeal in his veins. A great ball of light appeared before his eyes, blinding him, striking him dumb. He was paralyzed. Hi
s arms dropped uselessly to his side. His legs crumpled, unable to bear their weight.
Jimmy Holm leaped forward, only to fall by his superior’s side.
“Back, Jimmy!”
She was too late.
The other charged into the chamber. The same fate overtook them all. They went down in a pile, sprawling like dead men.
Nina Fererra saved them from total annihilation. Leaping across the room, she seized the shoulder of Doctor Death and jerked him back. He whirled.
“What do you mean?” he roared.
“My magic against your magic, you fiend!” she snapped. “If you kill them, just as surely as there is a God in heaven, I will kill you.”
Doctor Death chortled.
“You love this boy—this cub, eh?” he asked.
Nina Fererra nodded.
“Enough to kill you if you have harmed him,” she said.
“Have a care what you are saying,” he screeched.
She stepped forward to where Holm lay. Her white band was extended to him. For an instant he stirred.
Doctor Death roared angrily. Seizing her about the waist, he dragged her back through the door. She struggled in his grasp, but her efforts were futile.
“Let me go, you monster!” she cried. “You cannot play my mind as you have played the minds of others, I...”
She went limp in his arms.
“I hated to do this, little wonder-child,” he said softly. “But naughty children must be punished. And these men must die. With them constantly hounding me, I can never achieve my mission.”
His hand darted to a switch placed high upon the wall. His fingers grasped it; jerked it.
There was a dull, rumbling sound. Then a crash. The passage through which the intrepid officers had entered seemed to disintegrate. The rocky walls leaned forward. The roof sagged. Then came a second crash as the rocks fell, filling every outlet.
Death chuckled. Leaning forward, he surveyed his work of destruction with a sardonic grin. His eyes shifted to the huddle of men on the floor.
“Damn them,” he said.
He pressed another switch. A huge slab of stone fell with a jar that shook the ground, closing the only entrance left.
Picking up the unconscious girl as if she had been a child, he carried her through another door into a larger room.
“There was no other way,” he said sadly.
Chapter XVI
In Death’s Depths
INSPECTOR RICKS was the first to regain consciousness. For a moment he lay, staring out into the darkness, wondering what had happened. Then, as recollection came back to him, he cursed himself for his folly. For the first time in his long and brilliant career he had grown careless.
Instead of protecting himself and his men, he had charged into the room with a result that they had all fallen into the trap. Blusterer and sometime bully that he was, he was yet no fool. Nor was he lacking in common sense. He realized that he had underestimated his opponent. And, worst of all, he had underestimated him with the full knowledge of his uncanny power.
“Why the devil didn’t I bring a preacher or two along?” he muttered to himself. “Or a priest? A little holy water and a crucifix might have worked wonders. But it’s too late now.”
He pulled himself to a sitting position and found a box of matches in his pocket.
He struck one. His flashlight lay where it had fallen. He picked it up and pressed the button. Recovering his gun, be took stock of his position.
Holm lay in a crumpled heap just behind him. The others were back a little way. A pair of legs protruding from beneath the pile of rock were mute evidence of the tragic fate that had befallen at least one of his comrades.
“My fault,” he said sadly. “Brainless idiot that I am.”
As the light fell upon his face, Holm yawned, stretched himself and opened his eyes. For an instant he gazed up blinking owlishly. Then, as recollection swept over him, he, too, pulled himself to a sitting position.
“What happened?” he demanded. Then: “But I remember now. We charged in at Death. He turned on us—”
“And would’ve killed us, without a doubt, had not the girl distracted his attention,” the Inspector interrupted.
Holm nodded.
“I remember hearing him tell about his power,” he said. “He killed Stark that way—by the power of thought. It is hypnotism developed to the highest degree.”
Ricks rose to his feet and flexed his muscles until the circulation was restored. Holm followed suit.
“It felt like a shock from a 2.200 volt wire,” the burly policeman grunted. “When it hit me I went down like an ox in a slaughter house.”
“That was practically what it amounted to,” Holm said soberly. “Tremendous forces are tied up in the human system. It is merely a question of being able to use them.”
“It would be a great asset to a policeman,” the practical Ricks assented, turning to his men. Several of them were already coming out from under the influence of the thought-wave. He assisted them to their feet and then, flashlight playing over the walls, he made a minute inspection of the little grotto in which they were confined, Holm assisting him. At the close of the inspection, the two men were forced to admit themselves baffled.
ON two sides the walls were of smooth stone, the chamber evidently having been carved out of the solid rock. The third side was where the avalanche had taken place, closing the passageway. From the amount of stone that had fallen, they knew that escape by that way was impossible. This left only the side where the door had been.
Nor was an inspection of this reassuring. The door, about eight feet in height by six in width, was fitted tightly into solid grooves at top and bottom. Nor, search as they would, could they locate the mechanism by which it was manipulated.
Knife in hand, the Inspector tried every crack and crevice in the place. Clearly, there could be no chance of digging themselves out. They were trapped, sealed up for eternity inside that great pile of rock unless, as Holm suggested, Nina Fererra was able to free herself from the domination of the man who called himself Death and come to their rescue.
“And there is little chance of that,” he ended. “She has been able to thwart his plans twice. I doubt if he, cunning as he is, will let there be a third time.”
His remarks were brought to a sudden close by a slight grating noise in the stone door. The two men whirled, the Inspector’s flashlight playing up and down the smooth, stone surface. For an instant they saw nothing. Then they discovered a small block of stone, perhaps an inch square, that had appeared close to the top.
Ricks held up his hand for attention and whispered a warning to his men to say nothing.
For a long time there was silence. Then, through the opening—sounding as if it came from a long distance—came the voice of Doctor Death.
“Listen, Jimmy, and you, Ricks,” he said raspingly. “Only the interference of my assistant saved your lives. Why should I save you, only to have you thwart me at every turn? But she loves you, Jimmy—fool that she is! And for her sake I am willing to make terms. Are you listening?”
“We are listening,” Jimmy Holm answered. “And, if Miss Fererra is within hearing, thank her for me—for all of us,”
“Bah!” Death shouted. “My time is too valuable to listen to the asinine vaporings of a pair of fools in love. Love has no place in my plan of things. Here are my terms. You can take them or leave them.
“In the first place, you are sealed inside this block of stone like sardines in a can. There is only one exit—this door. Give me your words of honor; you first, Ricks, that you will withdraw from this case and keep your men out of it to the end that the great work that I have planned can be carried to a successful culmination. You, Jimmy, are to come back to me. I will restore you to your old status. And, in addition, Nina becomes yours. Do you agree?”
“Did Nina tell you to give me that message?” Jimmy Holm demanded.
“Nina knows nothing about this conversation,”
Doctor Death answered. “Come, what is your answer?”
“As for my self and my men, you can go to hell!” Ricks snarled. “Jimmy can answer for himself. I never yet gave ground an inch for a criminal and I’m getting too old to start in now.”
“Bah!” Death snarled again. “I am not a criminal, Inspector. I am, as I have tried to tell you often, a man with a mission—”
“Nevertheless, you can go to thunder!” Ricks interrupted. “Jimmy can speak for himself.”
“Ricks’ answer goes double,” Holm asserted.
“Then,” said the voice of Death angrily, “you die. Locked up inside this tomb, you will slowly starve to death.”
The tiny opening was closed again and they were left with their thoughts.
“I have an idea,” Holm exclaimed excitedly, speaking in a low voice.
“Thank heaven for that!” Ricks said fervently. “I’ll confess that I haven’t.”
“Standing as I was, slightly to one side of the opening, I had an opportunity of seeing the bit of stone as it was shoved out. It was fastened to the end of an iron rod. From my observation, the slab of stone in the door—provided, of course, that it is the same width as the bit of stone that composes the opening—is less than six inches thick.”
“It might as well be six feet thick, for all the good it does us,” Ricks grunted.
Holm shook his head. Dropping to his knees, he let the ray of the flashlight play over the bottom of the stone slab.
“Here is my idea,” he said. “We will take turns drilling into the crack. When we have enlarged it sufficiently, we remove the gunpowder from our revolver cartridges and, by tamping it down, make a charge sufficient to enlarge the opening. By doing this several times, we will eventually have a hole big enough for the smallest of us to crawl through. Once on the other side, we can search for the hidden mechanism and open the door for the others.”
Ricks’ eyes lighted up.
“It’s worth trying at any rate,” he said.”Anything is better than being cooped up here and dying like rats in a trap.”