by Harold Ward
“You see,” he continued, “we not only wanted to get you, but we wanted to locate your lair so that we could put your death-dealing machinery out of business. And now—”
“Watch him!” Ricks shrieked, leaping.
Holm’s revolver cracked as Death whirled. The bullet went wild, shattering the delicate mechanism of the death-dealing apparatus which made midgets of men.
Then the lights went out!
For the nonce they had forgotten Charmion. Standing a pace to one side, she had been waiting for the signal from the sinister scientist. Inch by inch, her slender fingers had strayed to the switch which manipulated the single light in the ceiling. Then, as the great room was plunged into darkness, Death had leaped.
Holm riddled with bullets the spot where the old man had been standing. Ricks, in the meantime, made a futile leap for the girl. Failing to locate her, he brought up with a crash against Holm. The two men went down in a little pile.
The accident saved their lives. From across the room, just on a level with where they had been standing, came a swish of steel, a thud in the wall behind them.
Charmion, the Egyptian, had hurled a javelin!
From somewhere in the distance came a mocking laugh. Then a door slammed.
Death had escaped!
THERE was a sound in the darkness. Holm, his fingers pressed against the hand of his companion, listened intently.
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!
It was the sound of marching feet coming toward them. It drew closer and closer, coming slowly, mechanically, its dirge-like, inexorable rhythm never changing...
“Damnation!” Holm whispered hoarsely. “He’s sending the Zombi against us!”
The detective’s flashlight was out now. Its beam penetrated the blackness of the basement room, bringing out in bold relief the cold, dead faces and staring eyes of the oncoming horde.
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!
Slowly, lifting each leg automatically, jerkily, they moved toward their victims.
Holm swung his flashlight in a great arc about the room. A little distance away, he located the door. Ricks by his side, he charged toward it. Together they threw their weight against it. It was locked.
Closer and closer the inexorable horde crept toward them. There was another door in the rear—that through which Death and his companion had made their escape. They started toward it, only to stop in their tracks.
Coming toward them from that direction was a second group of Zombi. Walking dead men converged on them from all sides.
For an instant panic swept over Jimmy Holm. Then, gaining control of himself, he whispered his instructions to Ricks.
“Bullets are of no avail against them,” be said. “But thought, perhaps thought will halt them. I have concentrated against Death before—and won. Work on the lock while I try it now.”
He leaned forward, his mind concentrated in an effort to ward off these creatures from the grave. He knew that they were motivated by the thoughts of Doctor Death. Perhaps his own thought waves would prevail against them as they had on several occasions in the past.
Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!
The Zombi continued their onward march. They were within a few yards now, their arms outstretched, their fingers working automatically as they sought to grip them around the throats of the two men before them.
Suddenly they hesitated... their legs moved slower and slower.
They stopped altogether.
Jimmy Holm was concentrating now as he had never concentrated before.
Again the Zombi moved forward... hesitated... moved forward again... stopped...
Then, as a powerful wave of Death’s thought surged through their metallic veins, they increased their speed. They were on the two detectives now.
The door swung open as Ricks succeeded in mastering the lock.
Side by side, the two men rushed up the ramp and through the alley to the call box at the corner.
Chapter III
Island of the Doomed
SIRENS shrieked and wailed as the squad cars roared up to the abandoned church. A hundred armed men sprang out and scattered, surrounding the place on every side. In a solid phalanx, they swept forward, ready to shoot down all opposition. Huge searchlights carried by the men in the lead brought daylight into the gloomy interior as these fighting men of the greatest police force on earth swarmed into every opening.
The ancient house of worship was deserted.
Death had worked fast. Not even a Zombi was left. And in the basement where the ghastly death-dealing machine had stood there was now a pile of junk.
In retreating, Death had burned his bridges behind him. He had destroyed the delicate apparatus he had constructed. Now it would not fall into the hands of his enemies so that they might study it.
ANOTHER council of the Secret Twelve was called. Doctor Death was again at large. This time, knowing with what they had to deal, they took no chances. They did not assemble in one place. Instead, the telephone was used. Jimmy Holm asked each member a single question. In every instance the answer was “Yes!”
Holm turned to Inspector Ricks.
“Plan number one!” he commanded.
Ricks nodded gloomily. Reaching into the pigeon hole of his desk, he extracted an envelope inscribed “Plan Number One.” He tore it open and scanned its contents, even though he knew them by heart.
Turning, he picked up the telephone and barked an order into the receiver. A teletype operator in the outer office rattled the keys. Over the wires went three fateful words:
“Plan number one!”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the radio audience,” a million radios blared as the programs were interrupted. “We stop long enough to read the following flash which has just been furnished by the Press Radio Bureau: ‘Effective immediately and until such time as Doctor Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, is killed or captured, a military dictatorship is placed upon the nation with the President of the United States in supreme command!’ The program will now continue.”
Ten thousand presses in the United States and Canada rumbled and roared. Within ten minutes extras were upon the streets. The front page of all, with the exception of the title, was identical. Emblazoned across the top was a banner head in wood type six inches high:
DICTATORSHIP NOW IN EFFECT
Press, Radio, Telephone And Telegraph Taken Over By Government As An Emergency Measure
Upon every front page was a photograph—the picture of a man with skull-like face and shaggy white hair, his eyes peering from their deep caverns like burning fires.
And beneath that picture, the mat for which was made in the government printing office, appeared these words:
WANTED: RANCE MANDARIN, ALIAS DOCTOR DEATH!
The Government will pay a reward of ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS for information leading to the apprehension of Doctor Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, whose likeness appears above.
In addition to the above amount in CASH, the United States will pay to the person giving the above information an ANNUITY OF ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS MONTHLY during his or her lifetime.
In case the information is given simultaneously by more than one person, the above reward will be divided equally.
Give information IMMEDIATELY to your closest peace officer.
By order of
THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
Given Under My Hand and Seal in the City of Washington, D. C.
Herbert C. Diamond,
Acting Secretary of State.
As the momentous order went thundering over the wires, police officers snapped to attention. Reaching into their pockets, they brought forth likenesses of Rance Mandarin to refresh their memories.
Army officers even in the far-flung possessions, officers of the marines, the navy, the coast guard, ceased their activities, and, as the bugles blew “assembly,” published the President’s order to their men. The audiences in every theatre in the Western Hemisphere suddenly saw whatever film they were g
azing on fade out, only to have the picture of Rance Mandarin and the presidential proclamation take its place on the screen.
Plan number one! Upon receipt of the news, every scientist of any prominence in the United States with one exception, acted as a unit. Bags were packed—had been for weeks. They had but to seize them and move.
A few miles off the swampy coast of Louisiana was a small island. It was flat except for a gentle rise in the middle, on the crest of which stood a great grim fortress. This island was devoid of vegetation. Not even a bush large enough to afford a hiding place for a man had been allowed to remain standing. Except for the little knoll from which frowned the ancient battlements, the island was a barren pile of stone.
Around it was a barbed wire fence forty feet in height, charged with a half million volts of electricity, generated by a power plant in the midst of the barracks. There was but one entrance—a small gate, wide enough for only one man to enter at a time. A guard challenged each arrival.
And, inside the great wire fence was a barbed wire entanglement a quarter of a mile wide. From the four quarters of the island huge lights searched the heavens at night. Upon the ground, kept illuminated after dark by electric beacons, was a sign, the letters fifty feet in height, reading as follows:
Planes Flying Over This Island Will Be Fired Upon
Anti-aircraft guns were mounted at strategic spots. On a level plateau west of the fort a fleet of speedy aircraft equipped with machine guns stood in readiness, their engines tuned at hourly intervals, day or night, ready to give chase and shoot down any plane that might escape the marksmanship of the crack gunners who manned the long-snouted, vicious little spitfires below.
NOTHING that walked or swam or flew could approach that island undetected. Thus, while the leading scientists of the nation were hiding away in seldom frequented places with half a dozen Secret Service men watching over their every move, another group—detectives, Secret Service men, government operatives—each selected for his resemblance to some man prominent in the world of science, converged upon this fortress.
Yet the people at large knew nothing of the island, for the newspapers had agreed to keep the secret.
Heroes all, those disguised as scientists had volunteered to undergo imprisonment here—solitary confinement, almost—guarded by a battalion of soldiers and cloistered like monks. They were the red herrings drawn across the trail of the men whom the world was seeking to save. And their heroism was the greater because the world knew nothing of it.
Somewhere—in some hidden fastness—Death would be watching. Again he would chuckle at the apparent lack of foresight on the part of his enemies in thus segregating the men he sought where he might strike them down in a body. And while he struck at this band of heroes posing as the scientists, Jimmy Holm and his men would have the time in which to again hunt him down.
With them went Nina Fererra. The former assistant of Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, she had made her escape from him because of her love for Jimmy Holm. In vain did Holm plead with her, urging her to go into hiding like the scientists. She was obdurate.
“My place is on the firing line,” she said. “In spite of his many bad points, Death is my uncle. He loves me. If he can see what is going on, he will notice that I am in this group. Perhaps that will stay his hand. If my presence there will save the life of even one of those brave men, I will consider my time well spent.”
In the end, woman-like, she won her point. With her was her maid and another woman selected from the ranks of the Secret Service. The woman resembled Madam Sorello, widow of the eminent discoverer of the cosmoscope, the delicate instrument to measure the strength of the cosmic rays.
Madam Sorello, tall and angular, was in America for the purpose of interesting American capital in a venture to harness these same rays. Her presence here had been widely heralded through the press. Now, while she was hastening back to Italy on a tramp steamer, disguised as an emigrant woman, this operative was taking her place.
Plan number one! Tony Caminetti, uncrowned king of the underworld and a member of the Secret Twelve in spite of his station in life, for the third time issued an edict that caused a gnashing of teeth, but which none dared disobey.
“Until the apprehension of Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, all underworld activities must cease.”
Every crook in the country, from the humblest ‘Airdale’ on the water front up through the scale of ‘chislers,’ ‘gun Molls,’ ‘finger men,’ ‘shakers’ and ‘con-men’ became temporarily honest because of that order. Every man and woman of doubtful character in the nation was suddenly transformed into a hated ‘shamus,’ drafted, as in time of war. And, so powerful was the influence of Tony Caminetti, that there was no lack of obedience.
“Hell! Dis is de tough break!” they spoke to each other out of the corners of their mouths—these men and women who lurked in the shadows. “It’s coittons for d’ guy dat makes a hist while dis is on, Tony says he’ll fog d’ hood dat learns about dis Doctor Death and don’t turn him in. It’s up to us to put d’ shamuses wise or we’ll all be on relief.”
Most of the Secret Twelve, without further orders, also went into hiding. Each man knew where he was going. Even the hotel rooms had been designated in advance. Nothing was left to chance. Only Jimmy Holm and his closest associates knew where they were to be found.
Doctor Death must be captured. An entire nation was in arms against one man.
Plan number one! The most colossal movement of men and troops acting under a single order in the history of the world. All for the sake of laying one man by the heels. And that man was the peer of all scientists in the world.
His was the brain that had evolved many of the things he now sought to tear down. And now that the maggots of madness were boring into that wonderful brain as a woodpecker chisels into a tree, he had changed from a national asset to the world’s greatest menace. No man was safe from Doctor Death.
And, acting as field marshal, was an humble captain of detectives—Jimmy Holm, elevated at a single stroke of the pen to the command of the greatest peace time army ever organized.
Chapter IV
Blood-Sucking Science
THE day had been a busy one for Jimmy Holm. Now, haggard and wan, his face unshaven, he was seated with Commissioner Quigley, Blake of the Secret Service, and Inspector Ricks in a private room of an obscure restaurant eating a belated dinner.
The door burst open and Milton David, head of the David detective agency, rushed in. Behind him was Tony Caminetti.
“Read this!” David snarled, laying a late edition of the News before Holm.
SCIENTIST DEFIES DEATH!
Dr. Richmond Edgeworth, Discoverer Of The Solar Ray Apparatus, Laughs at Death’s Threats.
“I Stand Like A Rock Against The Assaults of this Charlatan,” He Declares in Statement Given Press.
“The damned, infernal idiot!” Blake snapped.
“I’m in favor of forcing him to some hiding place,” snapped Milton David.
Tony Caminetti nodded approval.
“Death will read that and strike him down,” he said quietly, his black eyes gleaming angrily.
Holm leaped to his feet, pushing away his untasted meal.
“We’ve got to get him—to save him from his own folly!” he snapped.
Upon the combined residence and laboratory of Dr. Richmond Edgeworth, the brilliant young inventor of the solar ray apparatus, a small army rapidly converged. There was a raucous shrieking of sirens as a troop of motorcycle policemen whirled up the broad avenue. From every direction came the squad cars, their sirens, too, howling a wild warning. Then appeared mounted men, uniformed policemen, plain clothes men. The street was crowded with them.
Working like an army, traffic was driven back and the vicinity cleaned for a block in every direction.
Around the corner came another car, an escort of motorcycle policemen ahead. It split traffic like a great wedge. In it was the Commissioner of Police, Ho
lm, Ricks, Blake, David and Caminetti. In front of the big, ramshackle, old stone house where Edgeworth lived and did his experimenting, the car pulled up and unloaded. Deputy Commissioner Gilroy, who had been placed in charge of the mobilization, hurried up and saluted.
“Everything taken care of, sir!” he reported.
The Commissioner nodded. Then, dashing up the steps, he led the way into the house.
Jimmy Holm and his colleagues of the Secret Twelve were taking no chances. They intended to protect the stubborn young scientist in spite of himself. The nation needed his brain.
Edgeworth stood in the window as they entered, a cynical smile on his handsome face.
“I feel honored with this attention, gentlemen,” he said. “All you need is to order out the army, navy and marines to make the party complete.”
He gave a quick start as he recognized the Commissioner.
“Now I am flattered,” he chuckled.
Ricks started forward, an angry look on his florid face.
“You damned, bull-headed young ass!” he exploded. “Consider yourself under arrest!”
“For what?” Edgeworth snarled.
“For refusal to obey the order of the Secret Twelve. A state of war exists—war against crime—against this man, Death! The instant that plan number one went into effect, you—and every other man in this country—came under the orders of the President. You are the only individual who has refused to obey. We are sending you to a secret hiding place under guard—”
“Bah!” Edgeworth shouted. “I defy you! A bunch of old women allowing yourselves to be frightened by this bugaboo who calls himself Death. A decrepit old man, barely able to toddle without crutches. Yet you—”
He stopped suddenly, a peculiar look creeping over his smooth shaven face.
“Heaven have mercy on me!” he shrieked.
His face had already commenced to shrivel, his huge body to shrink like a deflated balloon. He tried to talk; his jaws refused to move. His complexion was changing as his face was drained of its color. His eyes were open, staring agonizedly to the front—past the men who were grouped around him to something—someone—behind them.