by Harold Ward
The little band went at the task like beavers. Without proper equipment, the job seemed almost hopeless. Yet, with jackknives, they managed to extract the bullets from the brass revolver shells, placing the powder, as they got it out, into an envelope which the Inspector found in one of his pockets. Meanwhile, they took turns at enlarging the crack at the bottom of the stone panel, chipping the stone bit by bit with their knives as chisels, using the butt of a gun for a mallet. Finally, when it was large enough, they carefully poured the powder into the opening, tamped it down, made a fuse out of a bit of cloth torn from a handkerchief filled with powder and were ready for the trial.
Holm touched a match to the fuse. For an instant it spluttered and fizzled, seemingly about to go out. Then there was an explosion that made the interior of the little cavern ring, filling it with harsh, acrid smoke.
THE result was disappointing. The greater part of the force had gone downward, making a small hole in the floor while only a tiny corner or the door was broken off.
Holm looked at the result of their efforts sadly.
“At this rate it will take weeks to enlarge the opening sufficiently to allow the passage of a man’s body,” he said. “And, even if we could survive that long, we haven’t enough powder left for over another charge or two.”
Ricks cursed roundly. Suddenly, he stopped, his eves bulging from his head.
“Look! he said hoarsely.
Holm whirled.
The door was slowly rising.
An instant later they charged through the opening and stood in that part of the chamber where they had witnessed the devil’s mass. Here, for a moment, Ricks halted them while his flashlight played into every nook and corner.
“Ah-h!” he said, his breath coming hissingly.
The beam of light fell squarely upon the face of a Zombi. The dead thing’s glassy eyes glared back unblinkingly, its hand grasped a lever which it was manipulating to lower the stone gate again. In its other hand was a bit of paper which it held out to Jimmy. Stepping forward he seized it. Then, while Ricks held the flashlight, he read:
Jimmy: We are leaving. I have implanted in this poor dead thing the thought of opening the door. Follow the guide that I have provided and leave the cave as soon as possible. God alone knows what horrible thing Doctor Death will do next.
NINA.
P.S. I love you.
“But,” Ricks snapped, “I thought that the entrance through which we came was the only one.”
“So did I,” Jimmy responded. “But there is evidently another one or she would not have said so. Come, let us hurry. Nina Fererra has saved us again. She may have no opportunity to do so next time and, as she says. Heaven knows what hellish atrocity Doctor Death has already plotted.”
Chapter XVII
Journey of Horror
THEY found their way out of the cave. How? Not even Jimmy Holm could tell, and he assumed the leadership when Ricks confessed himself baffled. It could have been nothing else but the thought waves of Nina Fererra which, attuned to the brain of Jimmy, carried them to safety.
Nor was Inspector Ricks allowing himself to be taken by surprise again. He agreed with Jimmy that every step of the journey should be scouted. Two good men were sent a pace ahead, two walked behind in the capacity of rear guards, while the main party stuck together, every faculty alert, the men keeping a constant watch for possible trouble again.
Unerringly, Jimmy directed their course through the suite of rooms. For a moment they stopped while Ricks, ever the policeman in spite of danger, searched hurriedly for evidence that might be used once the sinister doctor was under lock and key. His efforts were fruitless. Doctor Death was not to be caught napping again. Not even a scrap of paper was left to tell of his participation in the weird crimes that were shocking the nation.
Nor was Jimmy able to find any traces of Nina Fererra. Her personal belongings had been removed as thoroughly as had those of Doctor Death.
The living rooms ransacked, they hastened through the great cave of stalactites. They glistened like diamonds under the lights which Jimmy turned on as they entered.
Even Ricks, the stolid, was moved by the sight.
“Wonderful!” he exclaimed.
Suddenly a Zombi appeared before them. Jimmy laid a restraining hand on the arm of the man ahead.
“Wait,” he whispered.
Mechanically, lifting each leg as carefully as though walking on eggs, the dead thing approached them. Stopping in front of Jimmy, he extended his hand.
In a little box were several crucifixes and a tiny bottle labeled “Holy Water!”
“Nina! God bless her!” Jimmy exclaimed. “She has provided this to protect us against the elementals with which the cavern is filled.”
“She thinks of everything,” Ricks ejaculated. “Jimmy, if you get out of this fix alive, it’s up to you to find that girl and get her out of the clutches of the fiend who now holds her. And, doggone you, if you don’t marry her, I’ll make love to her myself.”
“Leave it to me, Inspector,” Jimmy Holm said grimly.
Now came the second stage of the journey. Here their work was not so easy, for the air was filled with the harsh, musty, overpowering odor of hate. With every step it grew stronger until it almost suffocated them. The wind howled and shrieked, sweeping down through the great chamber of emptiness, whirling, gyrating, almost lifting them from their feet. They walked against it with difficulty. Around them, but always keeping in the shadows, were sinister black things—nauseating, vaporish shapes—always keeping pace with them, but never coming out of the darkness.
Suddenly Jimmy was seized with an idea. Uncorking the bottle of Holy Water, he advanced toward a spot where the darkness was heavier than elsewhere; the spot drew back. He sprinkled a drop of the blessed water upon the floor. Instantly the wind died down... the atmosphere cleared...
“Humph!” Ricks said.
Yet there was a perplexed look on his ruddy face as he followed Jimmy Holm, his men edging in close behind.
As they reached the cavern where the dead lay piled like cordwood, Holm halted.
“Wait!” he whispered, his hand on Ricks’ arm.
Ricks, gazing in at the horrible sight, gasped.
But it was not at the charnel house that Holm pointed. Walking toward them was a second Zombi. Holm recognized him as he who had officiated as butler.
“The guide she mentioned,” he whispered to Ricks.
Swinging around at their approach, the living dead man led the way through the remainder of the big cave into a series of smaller caverns. For what seemed miles they followed him. They had long since left the lighted part and were traveling in darkness now, only their flashes illuminating the way. Even the elementals had dropped behind and the journey was made in silence save for an occasional whispered order or a warning when some obstruction blocked the path.
The pathway sloped steadily upward now. The air, too, became damper and heavier. The walls, when they allowed the rays of their flashes to strike them, glistened with moisture. The atmosphere was cold and chill. Their teeth chattered.
A sense of eerieness walked with them. It was not a feeling of danger such as they had experienced earlier, but a feeling of death and decay. It was like walking in a graveyard on a dark night.
Ricks looked at his watch.
“What time was it when we entered this devilish place?” he demanded.
“Close to four o’clock,” Holm answered.
“And it’s only eleven o’clock now. Seven hours and it seems like an eternity.”
“We’ve been walking almost that long,” Holm responded. “How long were we unconscious?”
Ricks looked at the timepiece again.
“Thunderation! It has stopped,” he growled. “You’re right, Holm. It was four o’clock yesterday morning that we entered this place and I’ll bet money on it. We’ve been in here all day yesterday and last night. My watch is good for twenty-four hours and I wound it just before we
started for the church. The question is, is it morning or night?”
“Night, I’d venture to say,” the other responded.
THE Zombi guide stopped. Beside him were the steps of a staircase cut out of the rock and leading upward. He waited until they had reached it. Then, turning, he marched stiffly back again and disappeared in the darkness.
“His tour of duty evidently ends here,” Holm grunted. “It’s up to us to see where this leads to.”
He mounted the stairway. It opened onto a sort of tunnel—a continuous arched vault of rotting brick and mortar so low that, at times, they were forced to crawl on hands and knees. The darkness was so thick that they seemed to breath it. It weighed them down, pressing against them on every side. Even the rays of the flashlights failed to penetrate it. To make matters worse, the batteries had commenced to burn out. One by one they grew weaker, flickered and died until finally they were in total darkness, unbroken save when they occasionally stopped to strike a match and get their bearings.
“Do you think that this is another trap?” Ricks whispered to Holm as they cautiously groped their way.
Holm answered: “I seem to hear Nina telling me that it is all right. And, damn it, man! We can’t go back.”
Now another odor assailed their nostrils. They were all only too familiar with it. It was the horrible stench of decomposing animal matter. The damp walls glittered with phosphoresence. From the low ceiling water trickled down on them. They walked ankle deep in sticky, foul-smelling mud. It clung to their feet, retarding them at every step.
Finally they came to the opening. Far ahead they saw it, an oasis of light in the desert of blackness. It cheered them on, reviving their flagging strength. It had been long since they had enjoyed nourishment. They were almost famished, their mouths parched for lack of water. Yet the sight of that tiny beam of light ahead acted like an intoxicant. They were almost running when they reached it.
It was a deep, circular vault in which they found themselves—a vault with bricked up sides, bottle shaped, the light coming through a small, round iron cover in the top. At least eight feet in diameter, the bottom was strewn with broken pots and earthen vessels. In one corner was a great heap of withered flowers. On three sides were openings similar to the one through which they had entered; through them the water trickled in tiny rivulets of oozy mud.
“A sewer manhole!” Ricks ejaculated.
“And the question is,” Holm responded, “how to get out of it. The bottle neck precludes climbing the sides, even though we had an instrument with which to pry out an occasional brick.”
The burly Inspector stooped and, making a stirrup of his hands, hoisted one of his smallest men to his shoulders. For an instant the policeman stood there getting his balance.
“I can touch the sides,” he called down to them. “If you can get Holm up—he’s the lightest of the bunch—he can stand on my shoulders and pry off the top.”
Jimmy Holm went up like a circus acrobat. His muddy feet maintaining a precarious hold on the shoulders of the other, he balanced himself and, raising his hands to the iron manhole cover, gave a mighty heave. The cover moved, then fell to one side.
“Quick! I’m slipping!” the man on Ricks’ shoulders yelled.
Holm’s fingers caught the edge of the opening as the second man fell. For an instant he hung there, gathering himself together. Then, with a mighty effort, he dragged his shoulders through the opening and, a moment later, had pulled himself to safety.
The sun was just sinking in the west. Around him on all sides were tombstones, marble shafts, grated sepulchers.
They had come out in the midst of a cemetery.
Calling down to the others, Holm made a hasty survey. A little distance away was a tool shed. It took him but an instant to break the lock. His first glance revealed the ropes with which the coffins were lowered into graves. He seized several of them and, knotting them together, hastened back to the gaping hole through which he had emerged.
Fastening one end of the rope to a nearby tree, he tossed the other through the opening.
Five minutes later, the entire party was by his side.
Chapter XVIII
The Choking Terror
DOCTOR RANCE MANDARIN, alias Doctor Death, hated Inspector John Ricks. It was the Inspector who had unmasked him, making him a fugitive from justice, causing the hand of every man to be turned against him. Yet there were some who secretly sided against the law. Doctor Death had commenced a single-handed warfare against society. There are many people who, gnawing at the vitals of civilization, long to see society crumble and governments fall.
Ricks knew this. So, too, did Jimmy Holm. They realized that, given an opportunity, it would not be long before the man who called himself Death would be at the head of a powerful organization of criminals. His weird power, aided by their knowledge of the underworld, would make the combination an even greater menace than was the wily scientist alone.
Consequently, Ricks increased his activities. His men were everywhere. The underworld was combed for traces of Death’s agents. The residence of the scientist was watched day and night by picked detectives. Another group was selected to guard the cemetery exit to the cave.
At the head of half a hundred men—a great group of churchmen chanting prayers, surrounding them—Ricks had led a second assault on the cave. With dynamite and crowbar, he had secured the body of his dead comrade, crushed beneath the avalanche of stone. He had left not a nook or corner unexplored.
Oddly enough, he found nothing. Not a Zombi was left. There was no flutter of elemental wings. Even the pile of dead had disappeared from the dingy niche where Holm had first seen them. In short, the cave had been dismantled. Only the pyramid of bones remained. The skulls grinned mockingly from a thousand angles as if chuckling at the grim jest that had been perpetrated upon the Inspector.
Acting upon the Inspector’s advice, the men of science marked for slaughter had been scattered to the four winds. Closely guarded, they had been sent to secret spots known only to a few. Then Inspector John Ricks settled in earnest to the task of running down the man who was responsible for the holocaust of death.
Ricks’ doings were chronicled to the world by means of the press. Never a modest man, the Inspector saw no necessity for hiding his light under a bushel now. And, as a result, Doctor Death was able to keep apace with him. Hating him as he did, he swore a horrible oath of vengeance.
To the Inspector came a note. In it Doctor Death informed him of his intentions. Then the Doctor disappeared. Search as he would, spurring his men on to increased activity, the Inspector could get no track of him.
To all appearances, he had disappeared from the face of the earth.
Accustomed to looking after the interests of other people, the big Inspector rarely gave a thought to his own safety. Thus it was that he left himself open for attack.
Two weeks after the escape from the cave, he sat in his library at home reading. He had an appointment with Holm and, weary after a hard day’s work, had specified that the young detective meet him at his house instead of at the office.
It was a typical man’s den, this library of Ricks’, a room in which he spent practically all of his leisure time. The chairs were huge and comfortable. a bowl filled with his favorite pipes and a humidor which kept his cigars at just the proper degree of moisture were on the table.
A widower, Ricks’ household was small, consisting merely of his housekeeper and a man-of-all-work. Both were engaged about their duties in another part of the house.
SUDDENLY there came a terrified shriek. Ricks leaped to his feet, his hand reaching for the gun he always carried beneath his left arm. He took a step toward the door, only to stop as it was crashed open and Mrs. James, the housekeeper, rushed in, her face white, her eyes bulging with horror. An instant later Riley, the other servant, a pensioned policeman, followed.
“Did you see it?” Mrs. James exclaimed pantingly. “It peeked in at us through the kitchen wi
ndow.”
“It was a devil!” Riley explained. “I saw it myself. I had no gun, but if I’d had one, ’twould have done no good, since you can’t kill such things—”
“A great giant with glassy eyes and a putty face like a dead man!” Mrs. James interrupted. “I—” She screamed. “There it is again—there at the window!”
Ricks whirled. Staring in at him was a bloated, grisly mask with pasty, mottled skin. Larger than an ordinary head, hairless, its glassy eyes deeply sunken into cavernous sockets, it glared unblinkingly into the room.
Ricks fired. The report of his gun roared as the leaden slug crashed through the glass. The grisly thing glared back at them for an instant. Then, as Ricks fired again, it disappeared.
The detective rushed to the broken window and, raising it, thrust his head through and stared into the darkness. There was no sign of the thing for which he sought.
“Missed, curse it!” he growled.
Then the truth came to him. It was a dead man they had been shooting at. Even though he hit it, his bullets would have no effect.
RILEY was standing like a man frozen in his tracks, his teeth chattering. Mrs. James had collapsed into a chair.
Ricks turned to the ex-policeman.
“Get a bit of pasteboard and fasten that window shut where we broke it,” he snapped. “I’ve had enough experience with my friend, the Doctor, not to leave any openings for him to get his weird tools through.”
The ex-policeman stared at the window with terror-stricken fascinated eyes for a moment. Then he turned slowly and ambled out of the room.
Ricks looked down at his sobbing housekeeper.
“Pull yourself together!” he snapped. “There’s nothing—”
He was interrupted by a shriek of terror—a blood-curdling yell.
The lights went out!
Something dashed past Ricks. He swung at it. His fist collided with flesh. Then he went down in a tangle of legs and arms.
Then the lights suddenly came on again. It was Riley with whom he had collided and with whom he had been tussling. He jerked the former policeman to his feet with an oath.