by Harold Ward
Somewhere, under Death’s direction, men were working night and day. Somewhere, he had called forth the dead from their tombs and was using them in preparation for his battle against the living.
“It is in connection with the murders in the old house where Harmachis lived that we must seek a clew,” Jimmy Holm told the assembled Secret Twelve. “It is there that Death struck first and it is there that the solution of our secret lies.”
Inspector Ricks nodded gloomily.
“But why?” he demanded belligerently, as was his wont when worried. “What connection has the murder of Harmachis, the Egyptian, and his swarthy crew with Doctor Death? Tell me that.”
Holm turned to Blake, head of the United States Secret Service.
“Tell them what your men discovered in connection with Harmachis, please.”
Blake, tall, thin, gray-headed and athletic, leaned forward in his chair.
“Harmachis, the Egyptian, had applied to the United States government for protection,” he said slowly. “Preparations were being made to place a heavy guard around his house. The request was received only the day before his murder. Had it not been for official red tape, the men would have already been placed.”
THERE was a stir among the little group assembled about the table. Milton David, head of the David detective agency, the greatest private manhunting organization in America, turned his sharp eyes upon the other.
“Why?” he said explosively.
For a moment Justin Blake made no reply. Taking a cigar from his pocket, he slowly nipped off the end with the cutter hanging from his watch chain, inverted the cigar and blew out the tiny particles of dust. He placed the small end of the weed between his lips again and, lighting it, blew smoke rings thoughtfully into the air.
“What I’m about to tell you,” he said, “sounds like the ravings of an out-patient of Bedlam. Yet I swear to you that it is the truth.”
Again he hesitated, his eyes wearing that same strange, faraway look.
“Harmachis,” he said, “was a high official of the Egyptian government. He came to this country on a mission. Because of the strangeness of that mission, he traveled incognito and with a smaller retinue than he would ordinarily have taken. That was why he occupied that tumble-down old house.”
Rising, he took a turn about the room as if marshaling his thoughts.
“This mission,” he said finally, “was about the strangest, weirdest thing that the human mind could conceive. We are all aware that the early Egyptians possessed the secret of life after death—that what we call the occult was to them an open book.
“They also possessed the secret—”
He stopped haltingly in the middle of the sentence, looking from one to the other as if seeking to find in their faces some doubt as to his sanity. Finding none, he continued:
“They also possessed the secret of bringing the dead back to life!”
He waited until the stir caused by his remarks had subsided, puffing, at his cigar in gloomy silence, his eyes wearing a strange, far-away look as if he almost doubted the truth of his own words.
“I do not mean this in the ordinary sense of the word as we understand spiritualism,” he continued. “I mean that every one of those countless millions of Egyptians buried in the past was mummified in such a manner that, given the proper treatment, he will step forth from his mummy case just as he was in life—a living, breathing entity, taking up his daily duties where he left them off the day be died.”
“Raving lunacy!” Milton David ejaculated.
Blake turned his eyes on his brother detective. A smile crept over his tired face.
“I thought that you’d say that,” he answered, “Remember, my friends, strange though it may sound, I know whereof I speak. It was on this account that Prince Harmachis applied to the United States for protection.
“Somewhere here in the city of New York, lived a man who had this secret. The Egyptian government in some manner learned of it. Harmachis was sent here to recover it. Think, my friends, of the consequences of that secret falling into the wrong hands.
“Vision, if you can, going back into the dim and dusty past and bringing to life men and women who existed thousands of years before Christ walked upon this earth. Imagine restoring kings and pharaohs, paupers and princes, queens and harlots—millions of them. Vision restoring life to all of them. What would happen? The earth, over-populated, would be impoverished within a week. Every spot would be as thickly settled, almost, as the heart of New York...”
He dropped back into his chair again and once more sucked at his cigar in moody silence.
“The Egyptian government realized this,” he went on. “The secret was too dangerous for any man to hold. Harmachis was sent to America to secure it—to get it at any cost. He came here and established himself in this old house over a year ago, carrying on his investigations and his negotiations in silence. That the reason for his coming leaked out is apparent from the fact that he applied to the United States government for protection.
“That he succeeded in learning the source of the secret is shown by his murder!
“I feel as certain as that I am sitting here today that Doctor Death learned of this secret and bided his time until Harmachis had secured it.
“And I am equally sure, gentlemen, that that secret is now in the hands of that archenemy of civilization, Doctor Death!”
Again be waited until the confusion caused by his remarks had subsided.
“Somewhere,” he said slowly, weighing every word, “Doctor Death is preparing for his greatest coup. The countless millions of dead and buried Egyptians are to be restored to life. Under the direction of this man who calls himself Death they will fall upon civilization—modern society. Under their onslaught our social order will be destroyed. The world will go back thousands of years.”
He stopped suddenly. For a long time no one spoke. Then Jimmy Holm broke the silence.
“He will need money for such a coup,” he asserted.
Blake nodded.
“Which probably accounts for his silence,” he said. “Sooner or later he will have his plans completed. Then he will strike.”
“And then God help the world!” the President of the United States said in a low, husky whisper.
DARROW, one of the twelve scientists marked for slaughter, stirred.
“I have a confession to make, gentlemen,” he said. “Harmachis was a traitor to his country.”
“Meaning—what?” Jimmy Holm demanded.
“Meaning that he intended selling the secret to me. He was to have delivered it to me the day after he was killed. All arrangements had been made. He intended foisting another—a faked papyrus—upon his government.”
He waited until the excitement created by his statement had died down. Then:
“What madness is this?” the President of the United States demanded. “Why was he selling his secret to you?”
Doctor Daniel Darrow bowed his head.
“I—well, I admit that I was foolish,” he said. “But I was—hang it all, gentlemen, I was afraid. Too many of us have died and Death has threatened to exterminate the remainder of us. I thought that, with the secret in my possession, I would have the means with which to combat Death—that I could call forth the millions of ancient Egypt to battle his hellish hordes.”
“Ass!” Edgeworth, the young scientist next marked for slaughter, exclaimed.
Jimmy Holm halted the controversy with a gesture.
“Some good may yet come out of your blunder, Darrow,” he said. “Did you get any idea from Harmachis from whom this secret was to be obtained?”
Darrow shook his head.
“The secret lies somewhere in Egypt,” he answered. “Only the clew to it is here. To obtain it, it will be necessary to go to Egypt.”
“Thank God, that gives us time!” the President exclaimed. “Meanwhile—”
“Meanwhile every port must be watched, both in this country and in Egypt!” Jimmy Holm
interrupted. “Watched here for signs of his departure; there for traces of his landing. We must communicate with the Egyptian government. And an expedition must be fitted out, ready to start at a moment’s notice. Our men must take up the trail—seek out the man who sold this secret to Harmachis. The instant we have found the clew, we must act.”
“The fastest cruiser in the United States navy is at your command,” the President of the United States promised grimly.
He turned to Holm.
“You will take charge of the expedition?” he asked.
The young detective nodded.
“Naturally,” he responded.
A knock came at the door. In response to Justin Blake’s sharp, “Come in!” an official of the United States Secret Service entered. For a moment he conversed in low tones with his chief. At the conclusion of the short conversation, Blake turned to those assembled around the table, his face white and drawn. He seemed to have aged ten years, so haggard was his countenance as he addressed them.
“Hallenberg is gone—kidnaped!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Doctor Death has struck again.”
Horatio Hallenberg! Wealthiest man in America. Secretary of the Treasury. Member of the President’s official family. Little wonder that the chief of the Secret Service seized the back of his chair for support—that even the President of the United States half arose from his chair, only to sink back again, his face twisted with sorrow.
“Hallenberg! Gone!” he said in an awed voice. “Hallenberg! Who next?”
The question was one that was uppermost in the minds of all of them.
Who would be the next?
Chapter V
Dead Man Speaks
“THE dead,” as Jimmy Holm explained to his colleagues, “are bound by many strange ties. Some lack the faculty of expressing themselves. Others seek strange mediums by which to satisfy their desire to communicate with those who are left behind.”
It often happens that a man dies suddenly with a secret untold. In such cases, he will stop at nothing to achieve his purpose—to unburden his soul to those this side of the veil. Such was the case of Horatio Hallenberg, Secretary of the Treasury. Horatio Hallenberg was a patriot. Dying, he held the secret of America in his keeping. He fought to tear aside the veil until that secret could be told.
The Orpheum was packed. Elise Lando—tall, willowy, possessing a rare beauty—billed as the greatest theatrical sensation of the century, was just finishing her act. For thirty minutes she had mystified the great audience with her apparently impossible feats of mind-reading and second sight.
Suddenly, in the midst of a sentence, she stopped: Such of her face as could be seen beneath the hoodwink which covered her eyes worked convulsively. The audience leaned forward waiting for some new and startling demonstration of her marvelous power. Only Jones, her manager, standing in the wings beside the huge switchboard, realized that something had gone wrong.
“Get ready for a quick curtain!” he whispered to the electrician, his eyes never leaving the face of the woman on the stage.
The frail body of Elise Lando was trembling now. She leaned forward as if in a convulsion. Then she dropped back against the cushions of her chair.
“Blake!” she shrieked. Her voice changed suddenly. Instead of her usual musical tones, her voice was now strangely masculine. “Blake!” she cried again. “I demand Blake! Or Inspector Ricks! Holm! For God’s sake where are you? I want you! Want you! I am dead! Dead, I tell you! Dead for days! Carolyn... Death has got me... Death...”
“Curtain!” Jones roared.
The electrician’s hand jerked back the switch. The big curtain dropped with a thud. Jones rushed onto the stage and, seizing the shrieking woman, shook her back to consciousness. The hoodwink dropped off and she stared at her manager dreamily. Then a look of fear crept into her sombre dark eyes.
“Something—something appeared before me!” she gasped. “It seemed to seize me in its grasp. For a moment I was it.”
Jones nodded. She leaned on his arm as he assisted her to her dressing room. The door closed and she gave way to a fit of wild sobbing.
“God! There he is again!” she shrieked. “Big, intense, his face twisted with grief. He is trying to seize me! He grabbed me by the shoulders. He wants to speak. I’m afraid, so afraid...”
She leaned forward, her face buried in her hands. Jones nodded soberly and laid his hand lightly on her head.
“Every cent I’ve got is invested in this act,” he said. “And I’m willing to squander it all, Elise—everything for the sake of my country. It may mean your life—mine. But, by God, we’ve stumbled onto something! I’m going after Ricks.”
THE tall, slender form of Elise Lando leaned forward. Her large eyes were gleaming like live coals as she faced the three men across the table in her apartment in one of the largest of the city’s hotels.
“I am hazy—indistinct,” she said. “They say that I—that he—called for you. It is hard for me to explain just the condition I was in. I was two entities in one, if you understand. I was myself and yet I was he. I saw him standing beside me as one sees someone in a dream. His form was vague, vaporish, yet I recall every detail. He was tall and thin with a kind face and a small white mustache cropped short—”
“Hallenberg!” Blake interrupted with a quick glance at Ricks and Holm.
“I am psychic,” the girl went on. “In order to do my mind reading act, I must go into a trance. I was in this condition when this man intruded.”
Blake scratched his chin reflectively.
“It was only last night that he disappeared,” he said. “Yet your manager and those who saw the tragic finish of your act say that you—or whoever it was that possessed you—this man—spirit—call it what you will—said that he had been dead for days. I—I don’t understand.”
“There are many things we cannot claim to understand that are connected with Doctor Death,” Jimmy Holm interrupted.
Elise Lando nodded seriously.
“There are things beyond the veil which are beyond the ken of all of us,” she said solemnly. “But, for the love of God, gentlemen, let me go into a trance here—now. I seem to feel him again. He—”
Her voice ended in a shrill screech. Her frail body twisted and writhed. Then she fell back against the cushions of the chair, her eyes closed.
“Thank God that you are here—all of you!” came from the girl’s lovely mouth suddenly, in a heavy bass voice.
“That was Hallenberg!” Blake roared, a startled look creeping over his face. “I’d know his voice anywhere.”
There was a scowl on the girl’s face.
“Please do not interrupt me, Blake,” the masculine voice snapped. “My time is limited. He—Death—is liable to call for me at any time. I am not my own master, if you understand what I mean. For days he has been masquerading as me, using my body, serving the country in my place and, all the time, preparing to loot the Treasury.
“The girl—Fererra—saved it. Her will was too strong for him and he was forced to abdicate. That was when you thought that I had been kidnaped—last night.
“It was over a week ago that he entered my office. My secretary will recall the occasion. It was the day I had the appointment with the Egyptian minister. He had credentials—forged, of course.
“Hardly had the door closed behind him than he shot me dead. And—listen carefully, all of you—some secret was disclosed to him by the Egyptian minister—some secret that menaces the safety of the world. The Egyptian, of course thought that when he talked to him, he was talking to me.
“But I digress. Let me continue:
“The bullet struck me squarely in the chest. The impact hurled me back a pace. For an instant I stood there swaying, a look of amazement on my face. This man—this tall, good looking individual with the suave, easy manner—was a total stranger to me. Why, then, did he want to kill me?
“I took a step forward. Then blackness engulfed me and I knew no more.
&
nbsp; “The period of oblivion could have lasted only for a moment, for when I opened my eyes I was lying there—
“God in heaven! No! I was sitting in the chair where this stranger—this man who had introduced himself to me as an international banker from London—had been sitting. Yet it was my body that was lying on the floor where I had collapsed when the bullet struck my heart.
“I knew that I was dead—that it was my body there on the floor. Yet, as I say, the smoking gun was clutched in my own hand. I leaned forward, my eyes almost bulging from their sockets. Yes, the blood was oozing from the wound in my body’s chest; it spread in an ever-widening circle over the shirt front.
“It was like looking at my own reflection in a mirror. I saw my body pull itself to its feet. For a moment the body leaned against the desk, breathing heavily. Then my body turned to the man in the chair—the man with the gun in his hand. The man whose shell I now occupied.
“‘Come!’ I was ordered by my own body. ‘But first get the mop and wipe up the blood from the marble floor where you fell.’
“It was my voice. It seemed to be Horatio Hallenberg who was talking. But I—Horatio Hallenberg—was sitting in the chair.
“I was dazed. I pressed my hand to my forehead wonderingly. My fingers brushed through long hair, combed carefully backward. But I am almost bald, as you are all aware.
“SOMETHING told me that the commands of this man—this man whom I now know is Doctor Death—were to be obeyed. Obediently, I stepped to the small closet which you will remember, Blake, adjoins my private office. There I obtained a rag and wet it at the faucet. As I turned back I noted myself in the mirror. I uttered an exclamation of horror.
“The face that gazed back at me from the glass was that of the man who killed me. Yet, understand, my friends, I was not Doctor Death in person. The body I was wearing was that of still another man, whose body he had occupied for the killing. Doctor Death’s face is too well known to the public for him to take the chance of appearing in public—”