Dr Satan - [Pulp Classics 6]

by Edited By Robert Weinberg

  The north side of the can. Toward him.

  Keane slunk into a doorway. His quick eyes roved over the Broadway crowd, and in a moment they rested on a figure that tensed his body. A tall, shambling man, across the street from the trash container, was walking slowly toward the Seventy-Second Street subway entrance. Under his arm was held a parcel done up in newspaper.

  Keane’s lips thinned. Doctor Satan was making sure he saw the parcel and followed the carrier!

  He stepped unobtrusively from the doorway and into the Broadway crowds, where he followed the tall, shambling figure to the subway entrance. Was the tall figure that of Doctor Satan himself, or one of his helpers? Keane did not know; but he did know that he would have shot the man down in cold blood, had he not been fully aware that no weapon as crude as an automatic could prevail over an opponent like Doctor Satan.

  * * * *

  The tall figure got off the subway at a Greenwich Village station. Keane followed, a block behind, his body was taut as a stretched tendon. He knew he was to be trapped, to be brought to a carefully devised death. He knew that, for the moment, Doctor Satan had dropped all other plans to concentrate on removing him.

  He was prepared for violence as he walked along the dark Village street after the tall figure. He was ready for anything from a bullet or knife in the dark to an attack and abduction by masked men springing on him from dark area-ways; but he was not prepared for the thing that actually did happen.

  * * * *

  At one moment he was following the tall figure. At the next the figure ahead had disappeared - and Keane was still moving forward, though he had willed his body to halt while he gazed around to see where the figure could have gone.

  Keane strove to stop, to walk to right or left. He count not; his muscles were driven by another’s will. And now another thing happened - a thing even more frightening. He began to lose his sight.

  The dark street, the partly lighted buildings lining it, the sidewalk before him, all slowly, faded from his sight. But his body kept moving slowly, surely forward.

  In a moment he was blind. He could see not one thing. But his feet seemed able to see. They bore him on without a stumble, raising for curbs, lowering him for gutters. Thus with no man forcing him, apparently, blindfolded as surely as if thick cloths were tied over his eyes, Keane moved to the will of Doctor Satan, toward the trap.

  He felt himself turn. Under his hand was an iron railing. He felt himself going down steps. A door creaked open in front of him. He walked on, totally blind, and heard the soft creak, and a slam, behind him.

  More stairs downward. Hands outstretched to scrape along the moist walls of a passage like a low tunnel. Steps again. A clang over his head as though a stone trap-door had been battened down above him. Finally a swish of drapes and a gentle, yet deadly-sounding voice that made every nerve-end in his body twitch.

  No need to speculate on the ownership of that voice! The arrogance that lay behind the softness of it hold him. It was the voice of Doctor Satan himself.

  * * * *

  5.

  Slowly Keane’s eyesight returned to him, to telegraph to his mind weird, nightmare pictures.

  Black-draped walls closed him in. Lounging against one wall were two men - a man with a giant’s torso and no legs, and a creature with a hairy, ape-like face in which were set bright, cruel little eyes.

  Across from them was a metal brazier, set on a high tripod, in which a small flame flickered. In the center of the room was a metal table, bare save for a small pinch of yellowish powder. And over this table was bending the man who had spoken - a figure that set the blood to leaping in Keane’s veins as his heart thudded with sudden acceleration in his breast. A tall figure robed in red, with a red mask over the face, red gloves on the hands, and a red skullcap from which protruded small mocking imitations of Satan’s horns.

  Doctor Satan turned from the metal table. His black eyes burned at Keane through the eyeholes of the red mask.

  “Welcome, Ascott Keane,” came sardonic words. “We are honored that you should have gone to such trouble to visit us in our modest lair.”

  Keane’s face, looking, in the red glare that illuminated the room, like something cast in bronze, remained impassive. Wordlessly he watched the diabolical figure in red.

  The cultured tone was edged with steel as Doctor Satan continued.

  “You committed suicide when you resolved a month ago to devote your life to destroying me. Oh, yes, I knew of the resolve the instant it was made. I have ways of knowing what is in men’s minds; though I concede that you were able, shortly after that, to shield your brain from me. Tell me, Ascott Keane, what warned you of my existence?”

  Keane stood straight and tall before the red-robed figure. His resemblance to Walstead faded, in spite of make-up, with the altering of his expression. He was Keane again, regardless of collodion-painted lips and padded clothes.

  “A month ago,” he said, “I talked with the son of a bankrupt friend of mine. The boy, a wild and not very strong character, said nothing significant. But I too can read a little of what is in men’s minds; and in his I caught a glimpse of a figure in Satan’s masquerade. I got a hint of the man’s background and motives: a rich man, still young, jaded with purchased thrills, with no more humanity in his heart than a snake - out to become the world’s leading criminal. A man whose whimsical choice of a name, Doctor Satan, could not have been more apt in expressing his purpose. A sleek beast, playing a monstrous game. A thing to be stamped out as soon as possible.”

  The black eyes gleamed through the satanic mask.”Young Monroe, you are talking about. Fortunately he did not know my identity at that time. And now no one will ever know. Monroe is no longer in a position to talk. And some papers he left behind with his lawyer have been destroyed within the hour.”

  Now the arrogant voice was gentle again.

  “So you decided to be the one to annihilate me. Noble Keane! But the roles will be reversed. It is you who will be annihilated. I marked you at the start as a nuisance to be eliminated. Wealthy yourself, with a fairly analytical mind, you have entertained yourself for years by scotching crime. But your career ends, with me, Keane. It ends now, in this room.”

  Girse and Bostiff slowly left the wall they had been lounging against. Girse came with quick, small steps to Keane’s left side. Bostiff hitched his great body, with swinging movements of his huge arms, to Keane’s right side.

  Keane still stayed motionless. Futile to attempt to overpower Doctor Satan physically: it could not have been done even had the gigantic Bostiff and the agile Girse not been there in the blackballed room. The walls of the trap he had entered were strong walls; and its teeth were sharp teeth, from which there seemed no escape.

  Doctor Satan repeated an order he had given once before on that day. “Bostiff,” he said softly, “the iron box.”

  The legless giant hitched his way to the wall, drew back a sable drape, and pulled from the niche in the stonework the coffin-like metal box.

  Doctor Satan stared at Keane with green-glinting eyes. The stare held, minute after minute. Keane’s eyes slowly glazed.

  “You are asleep,” droned Doctor Satan at length.

  “I am asleep,” breathed Keane.

  Girse and Bostiff stared at each other with savage expectance on their face.

  “You shall do whatever I command.” Doctor Satan said.

  “I will do whatever you command, said Keane, like an automaton.

  * * * *

  Doctor Satan1s red-gloved hand went out toward Keane’s head. He plucked three hairs and laid them over the small mound of yellowish powder on the table. Act for act, he was duplicating the scene in which a treacherous disciple had been reduced from a man to a pinch of ashes.

  “Take the lid from the box, Bostiff.”

  The legless giant lifted the iron cover from the coffin. Within it could be seen scattered fine ash.

  * * * *

  “Keane, lie down in the box.”<
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  The black eyes gleamed with a feral light as Ascott Keane slowly walked to the box and lowered his body into it. Keane lay there, gazing up with wide, glazed eyes.

  Bostiff placed the lid back on the box.

  His dull eyes went from the box to the niche in the wall.

  “No,” Doctor Satan answered his unspoken question, “we’ll not put the box in its crypt. Leave it where it is. I want to watch this.”

  The red-gloved hands clenched with eloquent triumph; the red-robed figure towered in the room. Then Doctor Satan turned to the metal table.

  He picked up a bit of the yellowish powder and crumbled it between powerful fingers. The tiny heap on the table burst in to clear blue flame. The eyes of Doctor Satan and; his two servants turned toward the metal box in which lay Keane.

  Swiftly the box glowed dull red, cherry red, white-hot. Its rays beat against the faces of the three, set the table drapes to billowing a little. And in that white-hot metal coffin a thing of flesh and blood was lying - or had been lying when the blue flame began to burn.

  The metal box lost its fierce white glow. The heat rays beating from it faded in intensity. Doctor Satan’s red robe stirred with the deep breath he drew.

  “And so ends Ascott Keane,” he said vibrantly. “The one obstacle in my path. I can be a king, am emperor, now, in time.”

  He turned to Girse and Bostiff.

  “Go. I have no more need of you.”

  Bostiff hitched his huge body silently toward an end wall. He drew aside a drape and opened a door. Girse followed him out of it.

  * * * *

  Alone, Doctor Satan went to the cabinet and drew from a drawer the ten bundles of currency containing one hundred thousand dollar bills apiece. The bundles disappeared beneath the red robe. His hand went toward the switch that controlled the red illumination of the room.

  But his finger did not touch the switch. His hand remained suspended in the air, while he watched the iron coffin. And his red-robed body was as immobile as that of a statue.

  The lid of the coffin was moving.

  Slowly, steadily, it raised, to slide from the box and clang against the floor.

  A hand and arm appeared above the edge of the box, which was still black-hot. The hand was unharmed. The coat sleeve above it was charred a little at the cuff; that was all.

  Another hand and arm appeared, and then the body of Ascott Keane from the waist up as he sat in the coffin.

  Silently, rigidly, Doctor Satan glared at him, and Keane got out of the coffin and stood beside it. Wisps of smoke rose here and there from singed garments, but his flesh was not even reddened by the fierce fire, and his gray eyes bored steadily at the black eyes behind the mask.

  “What the Egyptians discovered,” he said softly, “they rendered fruitless by succeeding discoveries. I read the origin of your blue flame in your first attempt on my life, Doctor Satan, and I took the precaution of using as armor some of the green paste the old priests used against the consuming fires of their enemies.”

  He took two slow steps toward the red-clad figure.

  “You should have watched your flame, instead of the iron coffin, Doctor Satan. You would have seen then that the flame burned blue throughout; it should have burned red if any body was devoured.”

  The breathing of the red-masked man sounded in the tense hush of the room.

  “Now we are alone, Doctor Satan. You have considerately sent your men way, as I hoped you would do. We’ll see if your powers are as strong as you think they are.”

  The glare faded from Doctor Satan’s eyes, leaving them glacially cold.

  “I’ll not underestimate you a second time, Ascott Keane! The death shrub - the blue flame - you are armed against those. But I have other weapons.”

  “You’ll never use them,” Keane growled deep in this throat.

  And then his hand shot up.

  Around Doctor Satan’s red-robed body a softly glowing aura suddenly formed. It was like a ball of pale yellow light which enclosed him, a lambent shell against the red rays of the room’s illumination.

  A snarl came from Doctor Satan’s lips, sounding muffled, as though the lambent shell had actual substance and could stifle sound. He straightened, with the aura moving as his body moved.

  His hands moved, weaving strange designs in the yellowed air. And slowly the aura faded a little from around him.

  Tendons ridged up on the back of Keane’s outstretched hand. Perspiration studded his forehead with the intensity of his effort to overwhelm the figure in red.

  That aura which he had flung around the red-robed body was one of the most powerful weapons known to occultism: a concentration of the pure form of electricity known as the Life Force. Mantling a living thing as it mantled Doctor Satan, it should drain out life, leaving behind nothing but inanimate clay. Yet it was not harming this man! Slowly, relentlessly, the aura continued to fade. And then Doctor Satan’s hands rose and leveled toward Keane.

  Strange duel between two titans - two men who probably knew more of Nature’s dark secrets than any others on Earth. Odd battle, with Keane, the force of good, gradually being beaten down by the force of evil.

  For now Keane’s rigid arm was sinking as the yellow aura almost disappeared from around Doctor Satan. Slowly he sank to his knees, as if a great weight oppressed him. And, as though this great weight was that of some intangible sea which could suffocate as well as weigh down, he began to gasp for breath. Louder and louder his agonized breathing sounded in the room. Doctor Satan’s black eyes glowed with triumph.

  Keane could see nothing could feel nothing. Yet it was as if some colorless, invisible, tremendously heavy Jelly were gradually hardening around him.

  The red lights grew dimmer, though Doctor Satan had not touched the switch; Keane felt that he was almost lost.

  With enormous effort he brought his arms up, spreading them wide at his sides. “Mother of God!” he whispered.

  Like a living cross he was, in that position; with trunk and head the upright, and arms the horizontal bars.

  “Mother of God!”

  Doctor Satan’s snarl was that of a beast. His eyes took on their feral green light, with a fiendish disappointment embittering their depths.

  And the great, invisible sea that was beating Keane down gradually receded from around him. But as it receded, so dimmed the red lights, till the two men were in blackness.

  “This time you preserve your life,” Doctor Satan said, in the darkness. “Next time - you leave your life behind!”

  There was a thud of sound, like a soft explosion.

  “Next time,” began Keane, struggling to his feet and forcing his body forward through the last traces of the deadly, unseen sea.

  He stopped. He was alone in the black-walled room. Slowly the lights came up again, as though shining ever more clearly through a psychic, thinning fog. Keane began wrenching the black drapes from the walls.

  He found a door and opened it. Ahead of him he saw a low passage with steps at the end. He ran down the passage, up the steps. In moment he was in the street, clutching the iron railing he had felt when he came here blinded.

  Cursing softly, he looked up and down the sidewalk. There was, of course, no sign of the red-clad figure. Doctor Satan had made good his escape. And with him had gone one million dollars, fruit of his first fantastic crime.

  Keane’s wide shoulders sagged, but only for a moment. Then they straightened.

  The first round was Doctor Satan’s. But there would be another time. And then, knowing a little more of the manner of being he was pitted against, he could fight more effectively - and win.

  <>

  * * * *

  THE CONSUMING FLAME

  1. THE NIGHT EXPLODES

  The service telephone rang. The chauffeur, in whipcord pants and shirt sleeves, picked it up. The crisp voice of Besson, president and majority stockholder of Besson Motors, sounded out. “Carlisle, is the sedan in running order?”

&nb
sp; The chauffeur stared at the phone with bulging eyes. His gasp sounded out. Then he collected his wits, and said: “Of course, sir.”

  “Bring it around to side entrance, then,” Besson ordered. “Full tank, check everything. I’m going to drive down to Cleveland. I’ll drive it myself.”

  Carlisle kept staring at the phone in that unbelieving way. He opened his lips several times as if to express the amazement showing on his face. But no words came.