The Adventure Megapack: 25 Classic Adventure Stories

by Dorothy Quick

  A flash of thought shot through him. He strove to recall what had happened. The slug in the panel. The bullet-proof glass. The queer hiss. Then—of course! In some clever manner, the cab had been constructed with an air-tight rear. When he had tried to make trouble, the driver had sent a stream of etherized gas coursing into the tonneau of the cab. It had knocked him out.

  Trevor climbed to his feet silently and stood there in the obscurity cautiously. Where was he now? What had happened after the gas had deprived him of his senses? There was no sound about him. No light. Nothing. He walked straight ahead very slowly, holding his arms out before him. Presently they hit something. A wall.

  He felt it. It was smooth, with a lustre like wax. He let his hands run along the wall, searching for a doorway. He made a complete circuit of the room. There was never a break in the regularity of the walls.

  No door! He was trapped, Trevor was. And beautifully trapped. He was in a sealed chamber. There was no exit from it. Still, if there was no door anywhere, how had he gotten in here?

  He glanced up through the darkness in the direction of the ceiling. That was it. He had been let down into this black chamber through an aperture in the ceiling—now invisible by the opacity of the dark.

  Trevor felt in his pocket quickly. His gun was gone. Simultaneously, he heard voices. They were above him—hoarse virile voices of men. He strained to listen.

  “He is unarmed?”

  “Yeah. Louis had to use the gas on him in the cab. He tried to make trouble. Fired at Louis. Bullets couldn’t go through, naturally, but Louis was afraid some one might hear the noise.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Below. I put him in the water torture pool.”

  A momentary silence. Then, “Open it. I want to talk to him.”

  Trevor crouched quickly in a corner of the black room. He stared up above him. The ceiling appeared to lift up and away. A square patch of yellowish light filtered through the ceiling upon the floor of the chamber and shimmered there uncertainly. It was blotted out at the next instant by an ovular shadow as some one above leaned across the hole and called, “Trevor!”

  Bert Trevor debated his situation rapidly. He did not answer.

  “Trevor!” the man called sharply. “If you are awake, answer me. Stalling won’t help you any!”

  “I’m here,” said Trevor evenly. “Who is it?”

  The man above chuckled. “It is the Murder Master, my friend.”

  Trevor laughed stridently. “Murder Master, eh? You sound like an old pal of mine, Mr. Murder Master. You sound, in fact, like Walter Gruen. But you can’t be he. He’s too yellow a rat to even stick his head through a hole when an unarmed man is trapped beneath him!”

  The Murder Master scowled. “Still the old bravado, eh, Trevor?” he snarled. “Well, you will lose it before I’m through with you. You can quit the bluffing. You haven’t got a chance. And you know it—you’re through!”

  Trevor snapped “I’ve got every chance in the world, Gruen. You and your dirty murderers can’t touch me!”

  “So!” exclaimed the Murder Master. “I thought that was the cause of your insipid arrogance. You have some false idea that your life is a hostage, guaranteed safety until I can locate those very valuable papers which you so neatly stole from me.”

  “You bet!” said Trevor with acerbity. “And it’s no false idea either. That’s the prime reason I only gave the district attorney copies of those graft and bribe agreements! I’m safe, Gruen, as long as I and I alone know where that stuff is.”

  “You think so?”

  “I’ll say I do. And just in case you get a little rash and bump me off in a moment of recklessness, let me tell you this. The moment anything happens to me, those papers will find their way to the D. A.’s office and he’ll put the screws right on you, and add a little charge of murder.”

  “And,” finished the Murder Master, “there is not a man in this city more honest than John Walsh.”

  “The D. A.’s square all right,” said Trevor. “You won’t get those papers away from him no matter what you offer him.”

  “I dare say you are right,” the Murder Master replied dulcetly. “Therefore I must try to get the papers in another manner. You agree there?”

  Trevor did not answer. A sudden pang of dread cut him.

  “So,” said the Murder Master, “I will let you tell me just where you have put them.”

  Trevor replied caustically, “Go to hell!”

  The Murder Master chuckled.

  “Very well,” he remarked blithely. “If you will not tell of your own accord and save yourself a lot of pain, I will have to make you tell.” He made a surreptitious motion to the man at his side above the sealed chamber.

  Instantly Trevor became aware of a new sound, a gurgling, rushing musical sound. He flattened himself against the wall, his keen eyes transfixed on the solitary spot of illumined floor where the shaft of light from above struck down. He could see something like sand creep steadily across the wood there and then pass on, omnivorously devouring the floor. The gurgle continued for a few seconds, then gulped like a drowning man and fell silent.

  Trevor felt a cold clammy liquid wash his shoes. It crept up above the soles and then onward, slowly, tantalizingly, over his ankles. It was water! The man-devil above was flooding the chamber with water!

  Trevor’s jaw tightened grimly. He stiffened at the bite of the water against his knees. The shaft of light had disappeared without warning. Trevor glanced up swiftly. Gruen had replaced the panel of the ceiling over the aperture. There was no escape from the black pit.

  The water surged hungrily up to his waist.

  Still Trevor felt secure. This was only a minor form of torture. They were trying to frighten him into confessing the locality of the coveted graft disclosures. They wouldn’t let him drown like a rat in a trap. They’d let the water rise up so far and then stop it.

  But the rising seething eddies in the darkness did not hesitate at all. The water reached his chin. He could no longer stand. He lifted his legs up behind him and trod water calmly, saving his strength in case this ordeal should be prolonged. The water would stop soon now.

  It didn’t. It kept on rising, lifting him higher and higher. Trevor was coming closer and closer to the ceiling now. He could sense it. There was a dull thud as his skull cracked against the wood of the ceiling. The water persisted—up farther. Daunted now, Trevor floundered frenziedly in the rush of the torrent. He tried to swim. His head slapped the ceiling constantly. He flipped over onto his back and stuck his nostrils up as far as they would go. His nose rubbed the ceiling. He could feel the water careen over his ears and climb steadily past his jaw, up, up, to his mouth, over it.

  It swam into his nose just as he took a deep breath and held it for life. The water smacked against the ceiling with a peculiar crumping sound. It covered him completely.

  Midway in the jet maw of the water, Trevor floated on that one last breath. Clusters of strange scenes fled before his eyes. His lungs pounded harder than his pulsating heart. Trevor felt that they must soon split wide open from the pressure of the water and his failing wind. Sparks lanced in front of him. Bursting meteors detonated soundlessly in his ears. He let out that breath. Gigantic bubbles seemed to pass his eyes as the precious oxygen boiled upwards towards the ceiling.

  Half-conscious, Trevor could still, however, distinguish the fact that heavy mauling hands had gripped him cruelly by the hair of his head and had yanked him. A burning light flared into his eyes and the sudden change from the delitescent chamber blinded him for several minutes. But the ghastly clutch of the water was gone. Clean fresh air washed his body and kissed his face.

  Something stung him. He opened his eyes. Walter Gruen was standing in front of Trevor grinning like a devil. Even as Trevor discerned him. Gruen leaned forward again and slapped Trevor across the face with a resounding impact!

  Weak, dazed, Trevor tried to rise. He found his arms and legs would not functi
on. They were numb, paralyzed. He dimly heard men’s voices guffaw mawkishly at his feeble antics. Gruen’s open hand left another five-fingered welt on his cheek.

  Trevor did not mind that so much. It didn’t hurt. It helped to clear his fogged brain. So they had pulled him out at the last moment. That was something. They didn’t actually plan to murder him yet, then. They really did want to know where those papers were.

  He heard Walter Gruen speaking.

  “You didn’t like your little bath, did you?” Gruen gloated. “Not many do, Trevor. And you’ll go back into it again for another try if you don’t come across. Where are those papers?”

  “The answer,” Trevor gasped, “is the same as before. Only more so!”

  Gruen slapped him.

  “You filthy rat!” Trevor cried. “I’ll kill you for that! You’ll never even reach a jury!”

  “Listen, Trevor,” Gruen said in an even, ominous voice, “tell me where you stuck those papers and I’ll set you free.”

  Trevor laughed weakly. “Set me free in hell,” he said. “You’d knock me off in a second if you knew. I’m not telling, Gruen. You fiend! Now I know why the stoolies cower when your name is mentioned. Now I know why they call you the Murder Master! Go on—give me the water chamber again. I don’t tell anything! Get it? And next time you’ll pull a corpse out of there, and your goose’ll be cooked!”

  Gruen stared at Trevor, his face a knotted gnarl of fury. His pig-eyes swept across Bart Trevor’s face furtively.

  “All right, Trevor,” he said at length. “We’ll try something else. We’ll give somebody else the works and let you watch. That’ll be a little different. You’ll have to tell to save somebody else!”

  Trevor frowned. “I don’t get you.”

  “No?” said Walter Gruen, grinning confidently. “Well, I’ll show you what I mean. We have a friend of yours here. I think you’ll know her. You’ve met her before.”

  “Her?” Trevor echoed, his eyes narrowing.

  “Yes,” said Gruen. “Her. I didn’t want to have to do this. But I’ll have to use her. I had her brought in just in case you acted up like this.”

  Trevor struggled to leap from the chair where he was sitting. His body responded, its strength returned. But something held him back. He glanced down. The Murder Master had shackled his two wrists to the arms of the chair. He tried to move his legs. They, too, were shackled. Trevor glanced cagily at the manacles. They were ordinary handcuffs. A crafty gleam pervaded the detective’s eyes. He sat back quietly.

  “Louis,” ordered Gruen, “tell Droone to bring her in.”

  A man moved behind Trevor’s chair. Trevor craned his neck and got a glimpse of the fellow. It was the driver of the taxicab. Bart also noticed another man behind him on the other side. He scrutinized him and recognized him as Bull Morgan, one of Gruen’s right-hand men and a leader of Gruen’s graft association.

  “Whole family is here, eh. Gruen?” said Trevor sarcastically. “Hello, Bull. Won’t this make a nice story when I break it to the tabs!”

  Bull Morgan roared with laughter. “When you break it to the tabs,” he leered. “Why, you thick-headed shamus, you’ll never break it to the tabs! You oughta be wise to that now. No matter what happens. Gruen ain’t gonna let you get outa here alive. You’ll tell where you got them papers, and then well bump you.”

  “You’re talking too much,” snapped Gruen irascibly.

  “Well, he’s gotta know sometime.”

  “Still think you’ll find the papers, eh, Gruen?” Trevor smiled. “Getting a little worried about them, too, aren’t you? And you’re going to bump me, anyhow? Well, listen, Gruen.” Trevor’s voice went taut. “I wouldn’t tell where they are if you sliced me into a thousand little pieces. And as for this girl you’re going to torment, I wouldn’t tell you even if she were the D. A.’s own daughter!”

  The door opened. Louis, the taxi driver, came in. He was followed by two men who carried an inert bundle between them in their arms.

  “You’re due for a shock, Trevor,” smiled Gruen maliciously. “Because that’s just who it is—the D. A.’s daughter. Ruth Walsh!”

  Trevor snapped rigid in his chair at the words. He stared in stupefaction as the Murder Master crossed the room, yanked the bundle roughly up and stood it on its feet. There was a gray hood over the head of the bundle. Gruen tore it off. Trevor saw, dumbly, helplessly, that it was Ruth, the daughter of honest John Walsh, the district attorney.

  “Gruen,” Bart Trevor whispered eerily, “you’re mad! You’re insane! You’ll never get away with this! This is a snatch! You’re treading on Uncle Sam!”

  Gruen smiled. “I’m treading on nobody,” he said meaningly, “except you and this frill. Will you talk?”

  “No!”

  Gruen nodded to Louis. “Put her on that table,” he said, “and strap her down. Okay, Harry and Joe. Clear out. Bull—go into the next room and bring in that red bottle on the shelf in there. The red one.”

  Bull Morgan nodded and strode out of the room. He reappeared presently carrying a quart bottle. Gruen accepted the bottle from Morgan. He strolled slowly over to Trevor and held the bottle directly in front of Trevor’s face.

  Trevor read on the inscription—Vitriol.

  He blanched instantly and beads of sweat copiously exuded from his face. Lines furrowed his brow as he stared at that word. Fearfully Trevor raised his eyes up to meet Gruen’s. Gruen looked like a gargoyle with an evil smirk flitting across his thick lips.

  “Not—that.…” rasped Trevor. “For God’s sake, Gruen—”

  Gruen’s face was an inscrutable mask. “Will you tell?”

  “Listen, Gruen,” Trevor babbled, “leave her out of this. This is between you and me. Leave her out of it. She has nothing to do with it. She—”

  “She has everything to do with it,” said Gruen coldly. “I’m not stupid. I know I could pour this whole damned bottle down your throat and you’d kick in without telling. But it’ll be different watching a girl struggle as this acid eats her flesh. It’ll be different hearing her scream with pain. It’ll be different watching her rot to death under the flaming teeth of vitriol because a stubborn shamus like you was too—”

  Trevor gulped for air. He shook his head. “Gruen,” he said, “if I tell you where those papers are, will you let her go?”

  Gruen laughed harshly. “Let her go?” he cried. “Don’t be a fool, Trevor! What do you take me for? She’s seen me. She’s seen my men. She’d squawk! No, Trevor, she’s got to die—like you. But you can save her an unpleasant death for your story.”

  “And if I tell?”

  “I’ll be kind,” sneered Gruen. “I’ll let you both have a slug through the skull. Painless. Quick. Hell, what more could you ask?”

  Trevor’s face lifted up in repugnance. “Well, Gruen, you yellow skunk, my answer’s the same as before—go to hell!”

  Gruen recoiled in surprise. Then he hurtled forward and ploughed his pawlike fist into Trevor’s chin. Bart took the crack without flinching. It sent his head spinning dizzily and left a livid patch of torn flesh on his cheek.

  “You think this is a grandstand,” bellowed Gruen, enraged. “Well, by God, I’ll show you it isn’t!”

  He flew across the room to the table. Ruth Walsh lay on it just as they had left her there. She was unconscious as she had been when they carried her in. Gruen slapped her face vigorously a few times. Trevor gritted his teeth and watched Morgan move away from behind him to be near Gruen.

  Ruth Walsh stirred under the smarting blows which Gruen dealt her. Her blue eyes suddenly fluttered open. She gaped up in horror at Gruen’s bestial features. She cried out softly. Gruen pushed her head back and bumped it against the table. Ruth Walsh twisted and tried to turn on the table but the straps holding her down would not allow her body to move at all. Only her head. This she managed to jerk sideways.

  Her frightened gaze fell upon the chair. She saw Trevor manacled there, grimly watching her.
/>   Ruth cried, “Bart! Bart Trevor!”

  Slap! Gruen let her have a vicious blow. She screamed in pain and let her head fall back.

  “You dog,” Trevor muttered. He was leaning forward now, concealedly doing his best to seem natural to Morgan, Louis and Gruen. Trevor’s tie fell down towards his lap. The end of the cravat finally touched his legs. Then his manacled hands twisted tortuously around toward his legs and groped agonizingly for the end of the tie. His right hand reached it first. He bent forward, stooping, and his left hand reached the tie.

  They grasped it tightly dexterous fingers ripped open the binding and searched feverishly through the inner lining.

  Trevor’s fingers found their treasure. Out of the lining of his tie came a key. It was a small key, dull and queerly shaped. A skeleton key. Trevor straightened up, the key in his right hand. He twisted his hand to try and insert the key in the lock of the handcuffs. He made it. The lock clicked, the cuff snapping open.

  He transferred the key to the left lock quickly and snapped that open. He left the unlocked cuffs still on his hands. Bull Morgan turned and glanced leeringly at him. Then turned away. Trevor did not have any time to watch what they were doing to the Walsh girl. He stooped over and unlocked both of his leg cuffs.

  At the same second, there was a gruesome, horrible screech of agony and terror as Ruth wriggled like a snake in her bindings.

  Gruen laughed satanically and turned to Trevor. “Look at her,” he grated. “That’s acid there! We’re starting with the cheeks. Then we’ll go to the eyes and drop by drop we’ll let it eat into her brain!”

  “It burns! It burns!” screamed Ruth Walsh.

  CHAPTER III

  ESCAPE

  Bart Trevor plunged headlong across that room like a shell fired from a cannon! Taken completely by surprise, Walter Gruen could only glare, petrified, in astonishment. Morgan never even saw Trevor’s flashing frame until it was too late. But Louis had.

  Louis leaped into Trevor’s path, tugging at a gun. It flipped out in his hand, a stubby automatic. Crack! Crack! Twice it spit orange flame and belched lead in lightning stabs. The first slug zoomed into the opposite wall and ripped at the plaster there. The second tore at Trevor’s coat as he dove and went on to knock the chair into a far corner by its impetus.