by Harold Ward
From behind him came a sigh. He whirled. Edgeworth stood close by. Doctor Richmond Edgeworth, the young scientist whom Death had next marked for slaughter.
Ricks growled something unintelligible.
Edgeworth shrugged his shoulders.
“This inactivity irks me, too,” he exclaimed. “Are you certain that this man, Holm, knew what he was talking about—that he will keep his word? Remember, I’ve met him only a few times. He’s a comparative stranger to me. And, if may say so, rather young for so big a job.”
Ricks bit into his cigar to hold back the explosion that he knew was inevitable.
“Listen!” he snarled “I’ve known Jimmy Holm almost since he was a pup. A squarer kid never walked. Good Lord, man! It takes nerve to do what he did—disguise himself as a dead man—live with dead men—and get away with it. It takes quick thinking to handle a situation like he did. Here were these men—the crew of the submarine—left down yonder in that cave to be slaughtered by the elementals. Death had left the cages open, mind you. They were blood hungry—hungry to satiate themselves on the vitality of the men who had been left behind.
“It was Holm who had the sagacity to size up the crew and hastily explain to the more intelligent what had happened. It was he who told them where to get iron with which to arm themselves against these monsters. It was he who had brains enough to instruct the men to get back into the submarine, where they would draw the elementals in after them.
“And it was Holm,” he continued, “who hurriedly told them how to prepare the trap for the monsters—and how to stage a death scene so that Death, listening above, would think that his plan had not miscarried.
“And last, but not least,” he went on, chewing his stub of a cigar angrily, “it was Jimmy Holm who told these men what to do afterward—who told them his position as head of the Secret Twelve and asked them to hurry to various ports to notify the Egyptian officials in case I had not gotten the message which he, praise God, managed to send off the Sea Gull! And yet, damn it, man—and yet you doubt him! Bah!”
Edgeworth nodded.
“I apologize for my rash words,” he said. “But it seemed almost an impossibility for one man to accomplish all that this man—this youth—has set out to do. His idea of disguising himself as a Zombi was wonderful. I talked to some of the members of the crew myself. They all assert that, until he disclosed himself, they had no idea that he was any different from the other two.”
Ricks, mollified, nodded sagely.
“Aye, and that was not all,” he rumbled; “Jimmy Holm is a quick thinker, my lad. Knowing the sort of men with whom he had to deal—the dregs of the water front, all of them—criminals of the worst variety—he had the brains to show them his credentials as head of the Secret Twelve and to promise them presidential pardons—all of them—in case they carried out his instructions.”
“Which is something that any lawbreaker—if you will take the word of one who knows—is always seeking for,” a voice interrupted.
They whirled. Tony Caminetti, uncrowned king of America’s underworld, had come up behind them unobserved. “Jimmy Holm understood the type of men he was playing cards with,” the Italian went on. “And, understanding them, he played the trump card—the promise of a pardon. As a result, those men, without the law a few days ago, can go and come as they please.”
“The Sea Gull escapade alone was a classic,” Ricks interrupted. “How he, alone, managed to get that message off from a ship filled with enemies is something that marks him as a genius. It enabled us to come by airplane. thus getting here almost as soon as the submarine arrived, it enabled us to notify the Egyptian officials even before the men from the submarine had gotten to them. It gave them an opportunity to have everything in readiness so that these submarine men could lead us back to this spot—”
“Some time,” Caminetti observed with a true Italian shrug of his shoulders, “I will cross swords with Jimmy Holm. I consider him the only foeman left in America worthy of my steel.”
Ricks turned icy eyes upon him, but restrained himself.
“As I understand it, are we to remain here indefinitely—until Holm reports back here or until we are certain that he is dead?” Edgeworth asked.
Ricks nodded.
“Correct,” he responded. “And he’ll be back. Don’t forget that. Sooner or later he’ll return, just as he said he would. His statement to the submarine men was that he would stick with Death and his party until he had ascertained the exact location of their quest. Then, if able, he would rescue Nina Fererra and bring her back. If unable to do that, he would return for help.”
LET us hope that it will be soon,” Edgeworth fumed. “Do you realize, Inspector the amount of money that is involved every day this expedition remains idle? All of the members of the Secret Twelve are here with the exception of the President of the United States—”
“And he’d a been here, if he could have gotten away,” Ricks interrupted grimly.
“And look at the scientists who are here,” Edgeworth continued. “All that are left—fearful of staying home. The salaries of many of them are far beyond that of the President of our country. And they are all here, waiting the bidding of this young man.”
Ricks whirled,
“If they had to stay here for the remainder of their lives, it wouldn’t be a snowdrop in hell to the length of time they’ll be dead!” he snarled. “And dead they’ll be unless Jimmy Holm can figure out some way to scotch Doctor Death. You can’t take money along with you when you cross the river, you know.”
To which Tony Caminetti nodded a hearty assent.
Turning on his heel, Ricks gazed out across the desert again. Suddenly he leaned forward, his keen eyes glaring brightly under their shaggy eyebrows.
“Look yonder!” be exclaimed. “See that speck out there in the dusk! It’s moving! It... by God, it’s fallen! Now it’s up again! Come on!”
He raced down the steep ascent like a man of half his years, his excited whoop turning out the camp.
Then, leading the van, he sped across the sands through the darkness to where a man was weaving drunkenly. His fists were doubled, his jaw set. It was only by a mighty effort that he set one foot ahead of the other. Yet, fighting every inch of the way, he was slowly dragging himself in the direction of his goal.
“Jimmy! By the devil, it’s Jimmy!” Ricks screamed insanely. “I told you that he’d come.”
“Ran out of gas... had to walk...” Holm said weakly.
He slumped in a little pile at the feet of the inspector.
Ricks bent forward and lifted his head.
“God! He’s wounded!” he exclaimed. “Some of you infernal idiots get back to camp and bring a stretcher. Move, damn you!”
Jimmy Holm opened his eyes and gazed up into the gruff old policeman’s face.
“Get everything... ready,” he said hoarsely. “Got to start back... at once...”
His head fell back. He had fainted from loss of blood.
Chapter XVIII
Banquet of Corpses
NEVERTHELESS, it was not until morning that the expedition physician pronounced Holm well enough to travel. He was weak and completely exhausted. His wound, though only searing the flesh of his shoulder, had bled freely while his wrists were seriously burned from the acid with which he had cut his bonds. Yet several drinks of strong brandy, a little beef broth and a few hours’ sleep worked wonders with his magnificent constitution and it was barely daybreak when he climbed out of bed and shook burly Inspector Ricks by the shoulder.
“Let’s be moving!” he exclaimed.
Ricks, who had insisted on watching all night beside the cot of his young friend, rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“Well, for the love of Mike!” he chortled. “You? But, Jimmy, you should be in bed.”
“Nonsense!” Holm exclaimed, dropping back to the edge of his cot and hastily recounting to Ricks all that had happened.
“Whether this yarn about the secret o
f Anubis, the jackal-headed, is a myth or whether it isn’t, we’ve got the chance to get Death now,” he snapped. “He’s practically unguarded. The few natives who are with him would be useless in a fight. The two sailors can be easily overcome. He’s hard pressed and he’s driving his men like a fiend. Now is our golden opportunity. And, should there be anything in this secret, we’ve got to get there first. We dare not take a chance. And besides—”
He stopped suddenly.
“Give me a cigar,” he growled. “I haven’t smoked since I was a Zombi. Believe it or not,” he grinned, “being dead is no snap.”
He bit off the end of the cigar that Ricks handed him. Then, lighting it, he puffed in silence for a moment.
“And, besides, there’s Nina,” he ended. “The sooner we get her out of the old devil’s clutches, the better off we’ll be!”
Within an hour they were breaking camp. A troop of Egyptian motorized cavalry in the lead, the long caravan set out across the hot, sandy desert.
THE camp was deserted when they arrived late in the afternoon. Holm, who was regaining, his strength by leaps and bounds, again assumed charge. The Egyptian soldiers were sent ahead to scout, reporting back that they had made a thorough search and that not a living soul had been found.
Holm in person took the lead into the entrance to the tomb of Anubis. Entering the fissure, half a hundred armed men behind him, others scattered at intervals along the route, he came upon the body of one of the natives lying alongside the chasm. A little distance away were the others.
“Dead?” Ricks demanded in an awed voice.
Jimmy Holm knelt beside the nearest man and laid his hand on the swarthy face. For a moment he said nothing. He moved on to the next. One after another he touched the dark flesh. Then he arose.
“Not dead,” he said. “But sleeping. These men have been hypnotized—put into a state of suspended animation by Doctor Death.”
He looked across the deep chasm, allowing his flashlight beam to play over the rocky walls of the opposite side. It sought out the other opening, then came back to hover over the faces of the sleeping men again.
“This chasm—that tripod—these men?” he said, half to himself. “The whole story can be told in those few words. The question is—what happened? And how can we get across?”
His face suddenly lighted up.
“The power plant!” be exclaimed. “In such a group of scientific men, there is surely one who can rig up a battery that will shock these men into life again.”
Edgeworth turned and ran back up the fissure.
“Leave that to me!” he exclaimed.
At the end of ten minutes he returned, followed by various members of the party with the dismantled power plant. In less time than it took to tear it down, they had it together again. Edgeworth made certain adjustments. Then, a wire in either hand, being careful to hold it by the insulation, he turned to one of his colleagues.
“Turn her on!” be commanded.
He bent over the nearest native and touched the ends of the wires to his bare flesh. There was a sudden relaxation of the sleeper’s muscles. His limbs twitched spasmodically. Then, with a shrill cry of alarm, he leaped to his feet.
“What happened?” he exclaimed in his native tongue, his eyes glaring wildly.
It took one of the native officials but an instant to explain. A glance at the other sleepers told him that the speaker was telling the truth. One after another, the other sleeping men were awakened.
And, in the end, not one of them could tell what had transpired.
Their memories, from the time they entered the fissure the last time until they were so suddenly awakened, were a blank.
Yet the tripod spoke for itself. For an instant Jimmy Holm pondered. Then the idea came to him.
“That pulley!” he exclaimed. “He used a hoist in some manner, probably pulling the rope and bridge across after him.”
Again it was Edgeworth who sprang into the breach.
“I am certain that I noticed planks on one of the trucks outside,” he said. “With them we ought to be able to figure out some method of crossing.”
And in the end they did.
IT was sundown when they suddenly emerged from the fissure onto a rocky shelf which overlooked a verdant plain. As nearly as they could ascertain by the failing light, they were at the edge of a sort of basin, surrounded by mountains. High, precipitous cliffs frowned down at them from every side; as far as they could see in each direction, there was not a break of any kind in the high, rocky wall—no other means of entrance or exit save the fissure through which they had come.
“This demonstrates that Death is on the right road if there is anything to this Anubis yarn,” Holm told the others as they ate a hasty supper. Not knowing how far they would be forced to travel, a part of the party had been sent to bring up the supplies.
“Anubis, remember,” he went on, “was presumed to be the god who presided over mummification. If he had such a secret, knowing that sooner or later an attempt would be made to wrest his secret from him—possibly by hands not entitled to it—he selected this spot with the greatest care. In fact, he probably had it especially constructed for his burial place.”
Close examination indicated that the sides of the precipice had been cut down by human hands. Great piles of stone lay at the bottom as if some giant sculptor had whittled off the edge of the mountain with a Brobdingnagian chisel.
Next morning after a hasty breakfast, they set out at daybreak. At the foot of the rocky shelf was what looked like the remains of a paved road leading straight across the plain. They followed this, finally coming to what had the appearance of an ancient dock at the edge of a lake of considerable size, now weed grown and filled with high marsh grass.
Having no boat with which to negotiate the ancient body of water, if, indeed, a boat could have gotten through the tangle of weeds, they were obliged to make a detour around the edge of the lake. With the coming of midday the sun shone squarely down upon them, fairly baking them with its rays. The marsh was filled with a horrible stench of decaying vegetation, while the innumerable flies and bugs which swarmed the swamp made every step a torture.
Then suddenly they came upon a scene that filled them with horror.
Close to the remains of what had been a camp lay a great group of dead—white-robed—Egyptians from appearance. In the center of the ghastly circle lay the two sailors. From the broad chest of English protruded a great spear. And the throat of McPherson, the Scotch engineer, had been slit.
Both of them had gone down fighting. Each had a gun in his hand.
And the bodies of the white-robed men scattered about the plain had been sucked dry. They were shriveled and wrinkled like the men who had died in the house of Harmachis, the Egyptian, in New York.
Jimmy Holm shuddered as he surveyed the great pile of dead, searching every face.
Of Doctor Death and Nina Fererra there was not a trace.
Hauled upon the banks of the little stream which flowed from the lake into the cleft in the mountainside were a number of huge canoes, hollowed apparently from the trunks of trees. They were of varying sizes, some of them capable of carrying a dozen or more men—others smaller. It was in them that the attacking party had come. It was fortunate that they had been left, since they answered the transportation problem for Holm and his party.
THE current was not particularly swift at the onset, carrying the craft at only a moderate rate of speed. Gazing upward, they could see the precipitous sides almost meeting at the top, so straight upward did they go; they were so smooth and steep that it seemed that on them nothing that walked or breathed could find a footing.
As they progressed the river narrowed until the rocky sides seemed almost to close in on them. Now the current was swifter, rushing along like a mill-race. A little distance farther, it widened. There were gently sloping banks on either side, fringed with low, spreading vail-colored trees, the boughs of which overhung the water.
Then, the stream widened to the proportions of a small lake, through the center of which the current seemed to cut, carrying the canoes along at a considerable speed, as if propelled by unseen hands.
The sun was straight above them in the heavens when Ricks, turning to say something to Jimmy, stopped suddenly in the middle of the speech, his eyes almost bulging from their sockets.
“Look!” he exclaimed. “Straight ahead.”
Elementals were moving about in the water. The lake was filled with them—queer, hairy creatures with beast-like, bearded laces and gleaming, yellowish eyes—sinister beings with thick lips and short, open snouts, their mouths filled with huge fangs.
They were on every side, surrounding the boats, swimming along with them, their teeth clicking angrily. And from their throat came strange, indescribable sounds, half human, half bestial. It was shrill, wailing, beating upon the ear drums with tympanic force.
As the current carried them forward like some great arm, other creatures appeared around them—beast-like things, neither of the land nor of the water—amphibian caricatures with glistening, slime-coated bodies and horrible, snake-like eyes. The water was filled with them. They brushed against the frail canoes, threatening to overturn them...
Monsters of the black dimension, they were, unthinkable monstrosities from another world. They were loathsome, nightmarish, unbelievable, creations of Doctor Death’s mind.
A man shrieked as a great hand reached up from the water. It did not touch him. Yet there was a sort of suction about it. It seemed to draw him—to attract him. His body leaned toward it. Holm felt the draw of another on his side of the boat. He turned his head. It was with difficulty that he jerked himself away from the magnetic attraction of the gruesome thing.
“For God’s sake, men, don’t give way to it!” he shouted. “It’s imagination—imagination, pure and simple—the thought waves of Doctor Death beating against our brains. Fight them off!”
Even as he spoke, concentrating all of his own will power in an effort to defeat that of the sinister old man who was against them, he knew that he had won. The shapes in the water were becoming vague—indistinct.