by Harold Ward
Blake of the Secret Service was notified by telephone. And, in the meantime, Quigley at the head of a small army was sweeping down on that bit of forest land close to the line of the District of Columbia.
When he got there, Blake had already arrived, a crew of experts at his back. Around the still smoldering ruins were gathered a group of state policemen. Upon Quigley’s arrival, the Secret Service head came hurrying up. With him was a tall, lank man with scraggly beard clad in overalls.
“This is farmer Duncan, Commissioner,” Blake hastily explained. “One of the state policemen dug him up. Lives a couple of miles away from here. He has something of interest to tell us. He says that most of the cells were not under the old house at all, but in the brow of the hill in a dungeon, as it were.”
Duncan nodded.
“It was several years ago,” he said slowly, “that I came through this way lookin’ for a stray cow. I knowed that they didn’t want nobody around the place, but I wasn’t prepared when one of the guards—a big, hulkin’ fellow—came rushin’ out and ordered me to make myself scarce.
“He was meaner than the devil. Wouldn’t even let me explain. Stuck a gun under my nose and told me to keep going. And, mister, I went.
“Nevertheless, I got a good view of what was goin’ on. They was diggin’ into the brow of the bill yonder. I saw ’em cartin’ steel cages an’ th’ like in through the hole.”
BLAKE had taken time by the forelock. A clamshell digging outfit was working only a few miles away. He had seen it as he passed by. A motor-cycle man had already been rushed after it with orders to bring it up as speedily as possible. Even while he was telling about it, it appeared around the curve in the road pulled by a huge caterpillar tractor. The foreman was also a man of action and had risen to the emergency. A former army man, he knew how to move fast in a crisis.
It took him but a few moments to place his outfit in position. Then the big shovel commenced to bite into the hillside. Lifting four or five yards at a time, it chewed into the dirt and rock at a terrific speed, its operators urged on by the offer of double pay from the Commissioner of Police.
Within an hour they had reached the level of the cell tops.
Men crashed their way through the twisted battered steel. Again and again the big shovel was brought into requisition. With picks, shovels and dynamite rushed from the city, they forced their way through the stone and dirt. Occasionally a battered corpse was handed up through the opening. The Commissioner noted the bullet hole in the head of one of them and nodded sagely.
“Something happened here—something damned big,” he remarked to Blake.
The Secret Service man pursed his brow in thought.
“See that chap yonder—the one with his head bashed in?” he said, indicating one of the guards. “Those marks were never made by falling rocks. The doctor’s just examined him. He says that the poor chap was chopped to pieces with an axe.”
Commissioner Quigley paled.
“I’m hoping against hope,” he responded. “If Jimmy Holm and the others come out of this mess alive, I’ll say that he carries a horseshoe.”
So, digging, fighting their way far into the night through the darkness and gloom deep into the bowels of the earth, they finally came to that which they sought.
Huddled in a corner of the big dark cavern was a group of men and women. Dirty, blood-stained, unkempt, their eyes glittering with maniacal frenzy, they were still alive.
But it was only the maniacs who had survived.
Of Jimmy Holm, Inspector Ricks or Nina Fererra there was not a trace.
Chapter XXII
Prayer to the Devil
IN the gloomy cavern on the little island in the midst of the stagnant swamp where Death had once established his headquarters, only to be driven from them by the young head of the Secret Twelve, six black candles burned upon a small altar set in a niche in the stone wall.
The remainder of the huge cavern was in darkness. It was strewn with debris from the recent battle. Big chunks of rock that had been blasted loose by the force of the explosion were mingled indiscriminately with the wreckage of the expensive machines.
Close to the side of the altar stood one of the camera-like devices which Death called his “range-finder.” In front of it was a framework covered by a silvered screen.
The small space in front had been hurriedly arranged with an apparent air to comfort. An expensive rug covered the rough stone floor; several overstuffed chairs were scattered about; a small table held the remnants of a recent meal.
But, in order to make the horrible abjuration more impressive, the lights were all extinguished save the candles which burned with a feeble, ghostly glow.
Upon the altar were three linen cloths, each embroidered with the sign of Beelzebub. In the center was an inverted crucifix, the figure of the bleeding Christ hanging head downward.
In front of the altar stood Doctor Death. His gaunt, cadaverous form was clad in robes of somber black, covered with black vestments, the cope of white silk embroidered with fir cones.
Rapidly, singing every word clearly, the grim old man repeated the mass backward. He followed it with a rapid invocation to the devil. Each time he made the sign of the cross, he used his left hand.
Behind him and at his left stood Charmion, clad in the black robes of a devil’s acolyte, holding in her hand a golden vessel in which reposed the Host filched from some church of the true faith.
At a word from her master, the Egyptian glided forward and, kneeling, presented the Host to the celebrant. Hissing like a snake, Death seized a knife from beneath his robes and stabbed the contents of the vessel again and again. A curious blue smoke rose when the steel and Host met. Death chuckled cynically.
Then he took the golden bowl from Charmion and hurled it to the floor, spilling the contents. He trampled upon them angrily. She turned to the sacristy, gliding forward a moment later with a chalice of gold. Again she knelt and handed it to Death. Mouthing abominable execrations, the monster poured the contents onto the floor upon the Host, at the same time making the sign of the cross with his left foot.
The diabolical ceremony completed, the sinister celebrant turned to Charmion and, extending his bony hand, assisted her to her feet.
“’Tis done—this tribute to my colleague, the devil,” he muttered. “Again we win. Three times have I struck since we came here and each time my will has won over all opposition.”
Divesting himself of his hellish vestments, he tossed them at the foot of the altar with an air of weariness. Charmion did the same. She moved as if to switch on the light, but he halted her with a gesture.
“Let me sit in the dim light, pretty one,” he said, dropping into a nearby chair. “I am tired. Turn on the switch that I may strike down another of the hated scientists while the fever is on me. Come and sit beside me while I concentrate. Your fresh young beauty acts as a tonic.”
The Egyptian turned a switch. The silvered sheet at the other side of the cave glowed with a peculiar golden phosphorescence.
“My mind has been upon Taber for the last half hour,” the old scientist rambled on as Charmion seated herself upon the arm of his chair and ran her slender white fingers through the tangle of his white hair.
“Taboor?” she questioned. “Weel we keel heem? I do not recall heem.”
“I know little about him, myself,” Death answered. “The memory of his face remains with me, however. And, too, there has been much about him in the papers of late so that I should have no troubie in conjuring him out of space. Watch!”
Slowly there appeared upon the screen the figure of a tall, gray-haired man with smooth, clean-cut face and an outthrust underjaw. It was the face of a fighter—the face of Professor Noah Taber, the eminent psychologist, just elected to membership in the Secret Twelve in place of the lamented Darrow.
“Yes, I shall kill him,” Death answered. “When I strike him down it will stir the world to renewed frenzy. But I must rest a bit. My mind
is weary after our tiresome ordeal.
“It was a clever stroke to double on our tracks and come back here,” he rambled on. “With Holm out of the way—buried under that great mass of rock in the old asylum—no one is left who is clever enough to cope with me. No one else would think of looking for me here. Why? Because I have never been known to return, once I have left one of my retreats. That is why I came here now—to baffle them.
“And there was another reason,” he went on. “Hidden away where no one would be apt to find them—least of all Holm, in his haste—I had all of the parts for this new range-finder. Holm thought himself wise when he hid the scientists away while he placed a group of men made up to resemble them on the island out yonder. But I searched the scientists out, Charmion. And, finding them, I am striking them down one by one. At the rate I am progressing, only a month or two will elapse before I have wiped out the entire breed. And with them, the President of these United States. An excellent man, my beautiful one, but bullheaded. He, too, will have to die.”
He sat quiet for a moment, his sunken eyes gazing into vacancy.
“I love the swamps, the caverns—places like this,” he said. “They appeal to me. From here I can strike far better than when cooped up behind four walls in the city.”
“You are won’erful!” she exclaimed. “Jeemee, he, too, was won’erful to fight weeth you so long.”
“Bah!” Death snarled. “Yet I could have taken him, Charmion, and made something of him. Have you thought, my pretty one, of what will happen when my plans have been achieved? The world will be restored to its virginity again. I will rule the world. And you, Charmion, will sit at my right hand as you are doing now. There will be peace—everlasting peace.
“It was science that changed the plans of the Creator,” he went on. “The science that I am bent upon destroying. Here upon this deserted island, tenanted only by the ghosts of the blacks whom I killed—the vampire bats, the frogs, the snakes and other things of evil—I will strike—strike!”
“We weel keel!” the Egyptian chortled. “We weel keel them all. W’en weel we keel the man on the screen?”
Death stirred from his reverie.
“Now,” he said wearily. “I had almost forgotten.”
THREE figures crept slowly through the blackness of the cave until they stood just outside the circle of light. Now, as Death leaned toward the screen, his brow furrowed, his cavernous eyes glittering, they dashed forward.
The Egyptian leaped to her feet.
“Jeemee!” she exclaimed.
Death sprang from his chair and whirled, his eyes glittering. Holm’s fist caught him squarely on the chin. He went down like a log. Ricks seized him, clapping a pair of handcuffs upon his wrists. An instant later his ankles were also shackled.
“Tie something over his eyes!” Holm commanded. “I know his hypnotic power too well to give him an opportunity to use those orbs on me when he recovers consciousness.”
Nina screamed a warning. The two men leaped to their feet. But too late.
Charmion had darted through the darkness toward the newly-made gap in the wall which led to the huge airplane hangar. Holm and Ricks dashed after her.
The cavern floor was covered with huge pieces of rock, the result of the bomb that Holm had thrown. They crashed into them in the darkness, falling again and again. Ricks tripped over a rock and fell, but Holm didn’t stop. The Egyptian, on the other hand, seemed to have the ability to see in the dark, so cleverly did she negotiate her way through the great mass of rock upon the floor.
In the distance, Holm could discern the dim outlines of an airplane. Charmion was already in the cockpit, struggling with the controls.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!” he shouted, reaching for his gun.
A silvery laugh was his answer as she stretched forth her hand and seized the trip cord which opened the roof.
The plane shot straight into the air as she pulled back the lever that released the repulsion rays.
Holm, shaking with the rage of frustration, turned back into the cavern again, felt his way back to the place where they had left Nina. He came across Ricks on the way. The Inspector was struggling to his feet, still dazed by the blow to his skull when he fell. Together they picked their way through the rocks.
Back in the cavern where they had left Death and Nina, Holm hurried toward the figure lying prostrate in a dim corner. The faint gleam of the steel handcuffs guided him to the place.
He broke into a run as he drew nearer. There was only the prostrate figure there. Where was Nina, whom they had left behind in their pursuit of Death’s helper? Ricks caught up with him to hear his startled ejaculation. “My God!” Holm shouted. “Death’s gone! It’s Nina, lying here handcuffed. She may even be dead! We should never have left her alone with that fiend!”
But Nina Fererra was not dead. The shouts of the men brought her mind out of the trance imposed by Death. Dazedly she looked at Ricks and Holm, then the clear light of memory showed in her eyes.
“Two Zombis,” she spoke breathlessly. “They removed Death’s bonds, and fastened them on me. Then they carried him away. He was terribly weak, gasping for breath, yet his mind was still powerful enough to command the Zombis. But his body is old, and perhaps this last battle will eventually kill him. Though he is my uncle, I wish him dead,” she added with a shudder.
“Pray God he is dead!” Holm spoke fervently. “Yet I shall never be sure that we have killed him until I see clods raining down on his coffin. We should never have left him unguarded, with only Nina here. Charmion’s flight was probably a part of some pre-arranged strategy, in the event of some such crisis. He was only faking unconsciousness when we trussed him up. Had we knocked him out completely, his mind would have had no power over the Zombis, whom he must have been summoning even as we tied him up.”
“Meanwhile,” Ricks spoke wearily. “We had best get out of here and make our report to the President.”
THE great Blue Room of the White House was ablaze with light at five o’clock in the morning. The chief executive of the nation sat at his huge, flat top desk, around him were the few remaining members of the Secret Twelve. There was a harassed look on his face; the lines of worry were criss-crossed around the corners of his eyes, while his firm mouth was closed in a straight, lipless line.
As the last man entered, the President turned to the assembled group.
“Perhaps I am wrong in summoning you here at this ungodly hour, gentlemen,” he said apologetically. “But I have news—news of tremendous importance. Coming, as it does, an aftermath to Taber’s death—”
“Taber’s death!” Commissioner Quigley exploded. “Do you mean to say that Doctor Death has struck again?”
The President nodded.
“Early last evening,” he responded. “He went—like the others. Heart failure, the doctors said. We have managed to keep it from the press so far, but I doubt if it will be for long.”
Milton David slumped down in his chair.
“Heaven help us!” he exclaimed. “The world will go crazy when the information leaks out. Taber was a public idol. His disclosures along psychological lines have taken the people by storm.”
Then, without the formality of knocking, Jimmy Holm burst into the President’s office with Ricks and Nina behind him. Excitement reigned. The President rose in his chair, forgetting his dignity in his anxiety to clasp the hands of the friends he had given up for dead.
Questions were fired at Jimmy Holm from all sides. He held up his hands for silence and hastily told his story.
“When the asylum was burned and Death, as usual, destroyed his bridges behind him by exploding his mines,” he said, “the roof fell across the steel cages in such a manner as to leave a narrow passageway out into the burning building. I investigated. I found that by walking sideways, we could creep through it to safety. We made our escape through the cellar window by which I had entered.
“I had already deduced that his next coup would be to dou
ble back on his tracks. He is a creature of the swamps and morasses. His brain functions better there than anywhere else. And we had not had time to make a thorough search of the cavern. It was reasonable to assume, therefore, that he still had some of his material hidden away on the island and that he would go back there to organize. Remember, practically all of his Zombis were gone—knocked off in one way or another.
“He had, himself, taken the lives of his anarchists. Charmion was all that he had left. It was necessary for him to get somewhere and reform his shattered forces. The island in the swamp was deserted. The cavern, therefore, would be an ideal place.”
Lighting a cigarette, he gazed at the others with eyes that were tired from lack of sleep and overwork.
“I HAD a plane hidden away for an emergency,” he finally resumed. “Fearful of making our presence known to any of you lest it leak out, we took a blind chance and flew to the swamp. Making a silent landing, we walked in unawares on him and Charmion.
“We overpowered Death, bound him, then Ricks and I pursued Charmion when she attempted to escape. While we were gone, two Zombis, summoned by Death while faking unconsciousness, rescued him, putting his shackles on Nina. But,” Holm paused dramatically—“Nina thinks he was too weak to live long.”
“God grant that Nina is right,” the President said fervently. “Then the nation is saved—thanks to you three. If she judges rightly, we can all breathe freely again. My only regret is that you were not in time to save the scientists—those men who, hidden away, were struck down by the diabolical monster.”
Holm smiled.
“The scientists are not dead, as you think, but are on the island,” he said. “All of them—with the exception of Taber, who refused to go—are safe and sound, to the best of my knowledge.”
The others looked at him in amazement. He hastened to explain.