by Harold Ward
Here the head man, knowing the task that was ahead of him and being unrestrained in the use of money, had installed a small portable power plant for the purpose of operating the electric drills with which to carve through the rocks which sealed the tomb. Many storage batteries were in operation; a peculiar humming sound was in the air.
Into this little cubicle Jimmy was carried and dropped upon the rough stone floor. In the entrance sat sombre-faced Zombi.
Jimmy knew only too well that their orders were to kill him if he attempted to escape. For their brains were the brains of Doctor Death. Their thoughts were his.
There were ghouls in the valley where the entrance to the tomb of Anubis, the jackal-headed, was located. So said the Egyptian workmen Yusef had hired, even though they had no idea of what was intended of them and that a god was buried somewhere in the vicinity.
The vacant, dead faces of the two Zombi did much to excite this belief. One of the workmen, in carrying Jimmy to his improvised prison, accidentally touched the cold, clammy hand of the animated dead man. He jerked away with an exclamation of horror, and the excitement among the men knew no bounds. They gathered in a little group, chattering like magpies.
Nor did Yusef, the head man, make any attempt to change their opinion. Rather, seeing an opportunity to frighten them into obedience, he built upon it, dwelling long and mightily on the prowess of this strange man they were serving. Strange were the tales regarding Death that had come to Yusef from across the sea and they lost none of their flavor in the telling. He was a god—a superman. Probably Death sensed what Yusef had told them; at any rate, he made no attempt to stop his head man. Possibly it tickled his vanity.
ALMOST from the very start these ghouls, so the workmen said, asserted themselves. With little or nothing to do, the workmen were constantly seeing things. Yusef was forced to spend half his time listening to their excited gossip. They refused to perform any errand singly, insisting that two men be assigned to every job. Their numbers made this a possibility and the head man, after consulting with Doctor Death, allowed it.
It was decided that the entrance to the tomb lay in a fairly deep recess now completely blocked with sand just at the edge of the cliff, perhaps a hundred yards from where they were camped. Immediately a shift of men was turned out and started to work in spite of their protests. For a moment it looked as if mutiny was in the air. Death turned his cavernous eyes toward them. He said nothing, yet they slunk away like whipped puppies.
“The ghouls, master,” they whined.
“Ghouls! Bah!” Death ejaculated, turning to Yusef.
By noon it was apparent that the wily scientist’s calculations had been correct. They had uncovered the entrance to a sloping shaft closed at the top with great stone blocks.
Again the men protested and once more Doctor Death was forced to drive them.
Constant relays were now employed. By evening the stones had been removed sufficiently so they could see into the shaft. From that time on it was easier, a mere matter of constant chipping and drilling. Again the foresight of Death’s agent was shown in providing the electric drills which were operated by the little power plant. For, within an hour, the opening was large enough for entrance.
A narrow shaft led downward, ending in a small, square chamber apparently hewn out of the living rock. It was, perhaps, twelve feet square and about the same height and without decorations of any sort.
THERE was a second chamber beyond. The party was working at a fever heat now with Death, fearful of what Holm might have disclosed over the wireless, driving like the maniac that he was. Nor did he stop to interrogate Jimmy again, so absorbed was he with his task. Yusef had brought wires down into the shaft. Setting a light upon a tripod, he started his drills going again. By midnight the opening was made and the second room was entered.
Death heaved a great sigh of disappointment. Of a sarcophagus there was no trace. Instead, in the center of the rarely beautiful room was a squat table, the legs elaborately carved out of stone to represent the feet of a jackal. Upon this table were innumerable curious looking phials, bowls, salvers, tall, slender lamps. In the center was an exquisitely carved casket of wrought silver, its contents turned to dust.
At one side of the room an opening had been filled up, the stones being so perfectly matched as to be almost indistinguishable. Upon those stones were hieroglyphics carved in bold relief.
Death, stepping closer, held the torch high and translated.
Anubis, the Jackal-head, Beloved of Osiris, to those who may come, Greeting:
The pathway beyond is filled with danger.
Yet he who conquers this pathway wins for himself everlasting life.
The way is long. Prepare for it.
Doctor Death shrugged his gaunt shoulders and turned to Yusef.
“Start them to work again,” he commanded.
He had translated the symbols to Yusef in a low voice. The men, standing in silent awe a little way apart, had not heard him. Nevertheless, there was a feeling of reluctance that was readily apparent as they commenced the work of drilling through this, the last lap of their journey into the tomb, as they thought.
By morning, the opening was completed. Doctor Death stepped through and allowed the beam of his flashlight to penetrate the stygian gloom.
Split into the solid rock was a fissure. Little more than a yard wide and just high enough to be entered without stooping, it extended on and on as far as the light beam could penetrate.
Death turned back.
“We have no idea how far into the rock this fissure leads,” he told Yusef. “It is best that we prepare for contingencies. Let the men be fed while I take the flashlight and explore.”
Yusef bowed low.
“It shall be as you say, master,” he answered turning back.
Death proceeded into the opening; continuing several hundred yards, he suddenly came to a widening. Before him stretched a great chasm, extending from side to side of the fissure and, he judged, at least two rods across.
He turned back. It would be necessary to construct a bridge in order to cross the chasm. The building of it would take time.
He stopped. Footsteps! Someone was coming on the run. Then he saw the beam of a flashlight bobbing up and down as the runner negotiated the narrow passage. He hurried forward to meet the newcomer. It was Yusef.
“Master! Master!” the head man panted excitedly. “He is gone! Gone!”
Death snarled angrily.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“The young man! He who pretended that he was dead!” the other hastened to explain. “I went into the cave just now where I had him fastened. He is a jinn, master, the same as you. For the two guards were still sitting at the entrance. The ropes with which he was bound were on the rocky floor where he had been lying.
“And one of the cars is gone, too, master!”
“Did the girl accompany him?” Death snapped.
Yusef shook his head.
“She tried to,” he responded. “He called to her and she attempted to follow. But the two sailors restrained her. When the young man fought, they fired at him, wounding him, they believe. He leaped into the car and dashed madly away. Shall I take the other car and pursue him?”
For a moment only Death pondered. Then he shook his head.
“No,” he said shortly. “Again it is—Kismet—fate. We must rush the faster, that is all.”
Chapter XVI
Into Hell’s Pit
OUTSIDE, Death took a quick inventory. A glance into the cubicle where Jimmy had been confined told him the story. In some manner the young detective had succeeded in upsetting one of the storage batteries with which the little power plant was operated. Despite the pain—and Death knew that it must have been terrific—he had rubbed his wrists into the acid, thus burning the ropes until they had fallen apart.
How had he gotten past the Zombi? Again Death’s brow was corrugated in thought. There was only one answer to the problem. Jimmy Holm�
��s thought waves were stronger than his own. The Zombi, his own thought waves striking against the metallic solution with which their veins were filled, were presumed to obey. This was the second time that Holm had escaped when they had been placed in charge of him. There would be no third time.
Yet, strange as it may appear, there was no feeling of anger in the breast of Doctor Death against the man who had escaped him. Had he but known it, Jimmy Holm had, by escaping, ingratiated himself more than ever in the sinister old scientist’s esteem. He coveted Jimmy Holm, who had demonstrated his power. And what he coveted he took. Regardless of everything, he then and there swore to possess himself of Jimmy Holm. Sooner or later the young detective would again be in his power. And when that time came, he would work with every stratagem at his command to win him over.
It took but an instant for Captain English to explain what had happened. Holm, rushing from the cavern, had made a dash for the automobile standing near by. Nina had been close to the two men. He had called to her.
As she ran toward him at the sound of his voice, McPherson, the Scotch engineer, had seized her. Holm, whirling, had started to put up a fight. English had seized a gun—for he and his companion had been delegated to guard the camp—and had taken a snap shot at the youngster.
That his aim had been true, he was certain. Holm had staggered. Then, shouting something unintelligible to Nina, he had leaped into the car, stepped on the starter and driven like a madman across the wadi. At that minute Yusef had appeared. They had reported to him and he, in turn, had dashed into the cavern to tell Death.
Death listened to the report in silence. Then, shaking his head sadly, he turned away.
“Love,” he said, looking at Nina almost fondly. “This thing called love, I do not understand it.”
Neither Doctor Death nor his head man rested. The planks with which the ferry boat had been constructed were unloaded from the truck and re-arranged on the sand until what Death considered plans for a safe bridge across the chasm had been arrived at.
Apparently bottomless and rising straight up hundreds of feet—probably to the top of the mountain—that it was one of the craters of a small extinct volcano was extremely probable. By throwing his flashlight beam across, he had seen that the fissure continued on at the opposite side, which would make the landing of an extemporized bridge possible, provided they could get it across, the hole being something like an “O” with both ends of the loop left open. Death calculated that it was between twenty-five and thirty feet in diameter.
Now it was that the experience of the Scotch engineer of the submarine came into good use. Normal in every way apparently, except for the loss of memory of certain things brought about by Death’s hypnotic control, he and Captain English had spent their time guarding the camp, smoking, playing cards, and, to all intents and purposes, enjoying themselves. Death called the two into consultation.
The dour Scot listened to the problem without comment. At the conclusion of Death’s recital, he smiled broadly.
“Thot should be easy, mon,” he asserted.
Taking several of the planks, he laid them atop of each other in a zig-zag fashion.
“You will note, mon, thot the joints overlap nowhere,” he explained. “Now, by fastening enough of these planks together—the bridge should be at least six planks thick, I’m thinking, to sustain the weight in the center—the matter can be handled.”
Death nodded approvingly.
“But how will you get the thing anchored at the opposite side?” he demanded.
The Scotchman nodded.
“A fairr question, mon,” he exclaimed. “Yet, ’twill be easy. The fissure is, ye say, over a yard in width and considerably higher than your head at that point. We will build a tripod, mon—a hoist wit’ a block and tackle. We’ll fasten this to the end of th’ bridge and, as we build it, we’ll shove it oot acrost the chasm. Ye’ve natives enough here to furnish the man power. ’Twill be fairr easy, is my belief.”
Again Death nodded approvingly.
“We start immediately,” he asserted. “And you, Mac, will be in charge of the operation.”
YUSEF started a procession of workmen into the fissure, the first group carrying the materials for the hoist, the remainder laboring beneath the weight of planks.
Slowly and methodically, the old Scotchman laid the huge timbers together, bolting them in place atop each other, forming a solid stick at least a foot square and warranted, he asserted, strong enough to bear the weight of an elephant. Little by little, a foot at a time, the ponderous affair was pushed out into the chasm, the free end held up by the men at the rope which passed through the block swinging from the hoist.
It was a matter of only a few hours when the bridge was finished. Certain of the strength of his handiwork, the old engineer was the first to test it, walking across its narrow width with the agility of a ballet dancer. He stopped in the center and teetered up and down to test its solidity. Satisfied, he continued to the opposite side, saw that it was firmly anchored and turned his attention to the construction of a hand rail.
Meanwhile the natives had been sent back to camp where, under Yusef’s direction, they made up packages of food, arms and ammunition.
“I have no idea of the length of this fissure,” Death told Nina. “It may penetrate from one side of the mountain to the other. It may be miles in length or we may find that it ends only a short distance away. In any event, I am determined to continue on until we come to the tomb of Anubis, the jackal-headed, regardless of how far away that tomb may be. Once there, I will be guided by circumstances.”
But again the obstinacy of Yusef’s dark-skinned laborers interfered with the plans. To the edge of the chasm they would go and no farther. They gathered in a compact group, listened to the exhortations of Yusef—and remained stubborn.
It took Death but a moment to make up his mind. Such of their equipment as he deemed would most be needed was hastily sorted out and carried across the bridge.
“I will go ahead a short distance and see what the conditions are from there on,” he said, disappearing in the darkness of the narrow fissure.
Then it was that Yusef made his fatal mistake. He was angry—intensely so. Turning upon his stubborn followers, he commenced a tongue lashing that threatened to blast them where they stood.
The men huddled together in a little group. Suddenly one of them stepped forward and snarled some remark in reply. The head man brought the palm of his hand across the other’s face. The blow cracked like the report of a gun.
They came at Yusef in a charging mob, rushing him back by sheer force of numbers. The two submarine officers, leaping to the head man’s rescue, were also borne backward toward the edge of the bottomless chasm. Side by side they stood and exchanged blows with the maddened horde. Somewhere a knife was drawn. Nina saw it and screamed. Too late. Yusef staggered, the hilt of the weapon protruding from his chest.
He screamed. Once... horribly. Then he went over the edge into the bottomless pit.
ONE of the natives had a sudden idea. Rushing for a long rope which still remained in the block and was yet fastened to the improvised bridge, he gave a sharp tug. Nina, at the farther end was almost thrown after Yusef. She seized the hand rail for support and leaped across to safety.
The bridge was up several inches now. In a moment more it would be swung back over the chasm and probably dropped.
English, the engineer, sensed what was being done. His shout attracted McPherson. They rushed the native at the rope’s end.
The fellow’s idea was infectious. The others were suddenly seized with the same notion. Now the fight was being waged around the hoist.
The odds were too great. Slowly, battling for every inch of ground, the two men were forced back.
In desperation, they rushed across the bridge to where Nina stood on the other side.
There was a crash. The bridge, lifted out of place by the men at the end of the hoist, dropped into the chasm.
&nbs
p; English spoke first. “Here we are on this side—and no way to get back!”
From out of the fissure came a wild man. It was Doctor Death. His face was working convulsively as he saw what the blood-maddened natives had done.
“Dogs!” he snarled.
They slunk back before his voice like whipped curs.
“I could kill them with the power of my thought, possibly,” he pondered. “And, too, there are other ways. But why? Dumb as they are, I may need them upon my return. Who knows? Yet I dare not leave them here to tell the story of what has happened.” He chuckled sinisterly.
“Perhaps it was for the best,” he mused. “Now no one will know the truth. There is always a chance that Holm will come back with help. To all appearances, I have dropped off the earth. Yes, there is a way.”
He looked across the chasm at the cowering natives again. Then in a suave, almost sympathetic voice, he spoke:
“Sleep!” he said. “I command you to sleep!”
Like obedient children, they dropped to the floor of the fissure and closed their eyes.
“If I never come back, the judgment day will find them still lying there, under the power of my hypnosis,” Death said grimly, picking up one of the packs and leading the way, torch in hand.
Chapter XVII
Trial By Desert
AROUND the ancient hut which marked the entrance to the cave where the submarine was anchored, there was now a great camp. Half a hundred tents were scattered in a sort of crude semi-circle about the crumbling ruin. The smoke of innumerable camp fires polluted the air.
Inspector John Ricks, standing atop the outcropping of rock which rose up from the sea like a great sentinel, looked down at the panorama and scowled. For two days he had waited—two long days. And Inspector Ricks, always a man of energy, longed for action. Inactivity irked him. The unforgettable dusk of Egypt was falling. Every rock on the landscape stood out like black smudges upon a gray canvas. From below came the clatter of cooking utensils, the odor of frying meat.