“Well, that’s that!” announced the latter. “I came to up in that room a while ago during the excitement—while they were all chasing you, I guess. I started out to look for you, came down here, then I heard the gun shots and started upstairs again.
“Before I got far I heard a car stop outside, and someone came running upon the porch. I thought I’d better hide in that room and see who it was.”
“Well done!” grunted Nick.
“Say,” went on Ken, “That police job you wanted—they’ll welcome you with open arms for cleaning up this gang, not to mention the reward that’s posted for rounding up these lugs!”
Doris Chamberlin’s arm encircled Nick tightly. In the warm caress of her body Nick felt the promise of a reward that would prove far more interesting than that offered by the police.
CAVE OF THE CRISS-CROSS KNIVES, by C.C. Spruce
Originally published in Spicy Adventures, April 1935.
Legend: “And one time, two of the lesser ones (deities) of the sunset, by a trick did imprison the Sun, the Flaming One himself, in order to carry out their plans. In his rage and in his captivity the Sun bellowed like the mad bull of Wahini. Then faithful followers gathered and released their Master, holding him until the act was completed. After which they released him and carried out his commands to cast the offending one into the sea, so that there might be no more than one of that race…
“Thus shall his power be maintained and his followers find peace!”
* * * *
“T-4, meet R-8.”
The Chief of Secret Service in Manila introduced the two operatives standing before his desk. T-4, the woman, nodded her blonde head with a curt jerk. R-8, the man, was equally uninterested in the introduction. He merely grunted. Both returned their stare to the Chief.
Chief Walters produced a large scale map of a section of the Pacific Ocean. He pointed to a mere speck inked in on its surface.
He said, “The island of Perambi has never been officially charted. It is small, jungle covered and fever ridden. Decidedly volcanic, we have only the assurance of our scientists that it will not lose itself in the depth of the Pacific at any time. That, however, is beside the point for the present. You will notice its strategic position.”
T-4’s blonde head bumped with R-8’s red thatch as both bent forward. Neither noticed.
Walters noticed, and chuckled. He leaned back in his chair. “I’ve chosen you two for reasons I’ll divulge later. The existing situation at Perambi is this: Our government has, for some little time, maintained a fueling station on that island. Other powers doubtless knew of that, but by the right of first come first served, our two men had not been molested. That has changed. The bi-yearly cutter which took them supplies returned here some time ago. Both men are dead. The supply of gasoline and oil is gone. Some coal remains. There was no sign of any of the two dozen or so natives which had inhabited this island. The bodies of the two men remained. The commander of the cutter took photographs, left two more men and returned for orders. Pleasant pictures they were too. Here, look.” He pushed photographs across the desk.
The two operatives did as they were bid.
The photographs were clear, all too clear. The bodies of the two white men, nude, were stretched across a pile of coal. Their torsos had almost been severed from their legs. Through the gaping wound which stretched across their abdomens could be seen, the gleam of white bone. The back bone. The only thing which still held the bodies together.
“Those were the first two. There have been others. One man only has managed to survive between visits of the cutter, which by the way has been changed to bi-monthly.”
T-4 and R-8 bent forward again.
Walters went on. “But that man was insane. His hair had turned white. His talk was for the most part gibberish. Yet every word was taken down. From those fragments we have pieced together a plan of action—your orders!”
The man and woman picked up the two sealed envelopes Walters pushed across to them.
The Secret Service chief went on, “We have studied every inch of that island by airplane. When you read your orders, please remember that they are the result of careful study and deduction. Here are two more packets for you. They contain dyes with which to stain your bodies. Here are the only weapons you will be able to take with you.”
T-4 and R-8 stared at the two razor sharp wavy blades. The knives were about fourteen inches long and all but two inches of that was blade. The handle of each was only a circular band of metal, resembling the thumb hole on a pair of scissors.
Walters stood up. “I suggest that you two read your orders together. I don’t think I need tell you about the danger of your mission.” The Chief held out both hands. The operatives each placed a palm in his. Walters shook those hands. “The only way I can express what I am thinking is to say—that right at this moment I am shaking hands with at least one person—who will soon be dead!”
* * * *
Once outside and on the street the two operatives underwent a distinct change. R-8, the red-headed man, slouched along as if he had no cares in the world.
The competent woman T-4 changed into a clinging vine, as far as outward appearances were concerned.
The man said, “Pleasant sort of chap—the chief. So cheerful.” He kept his voice low. “Shall we go to my room?”
“Why not?” T-4 replied. “And by the way—you might tell me your name. If we have to work together—” She didn’t finish the sentence but the man got the impression that she disliked the idea of working with anyone.
“And here I was just beginning to like you! Oh, all right. I might as well confess. I joined the Secret Service just to get a number and numeral instead of a name and now the hateful secret comes to light. My name—” he hesitated.
“Well.” T-4’s voice was a bit out of keeping with her clinging role.
“My name—is Toridzone Kinley. Now go on, laugh and then tell me yours.”
The woman did laugh! “Where on earth did you get such a name?”
“I was born on a boat,” Kinley said with mock misery. “Just as it was crossing the equator. I guess my parents had a sense of humor. What’s your name?”
“Lilandra Sweeney,” T-4 said firmly. She added, “I guess it’s your turn to laugh now.”
The man did chuckle. He said “I wonder if that’s why the chief chose us to work together? Really, two people with names like ours shouldn’t be allowed to live!”
She said sweetly, “But it is a shame for such a name as Toridzone Kinley to end with your early death—”
He smiled languidly. “Nice.”
“Suppose we get to work?” She snapped. Kinley’s room proved to be a small house on the outskirts of town. Its untidy state spoke of the complete absence of servants, but neither man nor woman paid any attention to that. They were both too interested in their orders.
First, they read the complete ravings of the man who had lived—and who had become insane. Certain words and phrases were repeated in that exact record: “The gods are purple—cave of the criss-cross knives—clearing in the jungle—coal is an altar—purple gods from the sunset—clothes are taboo—Poor Winton, he touched coal—the criss-cross knives—the criss-cross knives—poor Winton—saved by a sun-bath—purple gods—” There was much more of the same. The name “Peretti” was repeated again and again.
Kinley whistled. “Peretti! Do you know him, Lilandra Sweeney?”
She shrugged with impatience at his use of her name. “Of course. Paid spy for whoever will give him his price. He used to be with Japan. A smart, cunning operative. And rather handsome.
“You would think of that last,” the man said. “Let’s read our orders.”
Walters’ commands were brief, yet explicit. “Be at the government airfield tomorrow just before dawn with your bodies stained purple. You will find the dye in t
he packet. Your hair too must be purple but that and the staining of your faces may be attended to in the plane which will fly over Perambi just at sunset. You will strap on the two purple parachutes and jump from the plane. You will land in the clearing which our air-men have discovered near the center of the island. Your weapons—the knives—you already have. Your apparel will be of the scantiest. I leave that to your own discretion. The man who was saved had on only a pair of shorts. The enclosed picture is of the remains of Winston. You will not touch coal. You will find “Peretti,” discover for whom he is working, and destroy him. A cutter with fuel, two new men, and supplies will stand by the island—just out of sight. When you have completed your mission, signal the cutter by a single smoke fire.” There was no signature.
Kinley pushed one hand through his red hair. He whistled softly through his teeth. “I get it,” he muttered. “You and I are just a god and goddess—and purple at that—descending from the clouds on a few dozen ignorant natives. ‘Destroy Peretti!’ That’s quite an order. It’s been tried before.” He sighed, “Oh well—I’ve always wanted someone to look up to me!”
The woman sniffed disdainfully. She opened her packet of dye. She read the directions and moistened the powder with water. She pulled her dress off over her head.
She said without turning around, “Well, we might as well get this first part over with. You better smear some dye on my back.” She added, “I’m glad I have long hair—even if it does have to be purple!”
Toridzone Kinley was accustomed to sudden death in all manner of forms. He wasn’t quite as hardened to sudden life.
When T-4, otherwise Lilandra Sweeney, pulled that simple dress from her body she slipped completely from the role of a Secret Service operative. Any part but that of “woman” fell from her.
And remember, she kept her back to the man!
Her body was vibrantly alive. The soft white flesh of her neck and shoulders, was divided from the sweep of her back by a scanty line of lace that hooked together in the sweet hollow made by her spine. A pair of sheer silk step-ins only partially covered her boyish hips. Boyish? Perhaps supple would be a better adjective. Yet that word brings up an image of hardness. There was nothing hard about T-4 now.
She had the deceiving appearance of the sleek softness of a tiger. Beautiful—yet dangerous.
Her shapely legs were encased in high chiffon stockings that ended a few inches below the step-ins. Far enough to disclose an enticing stretch of gleaming flesh.
Kinley gulped. He reached one hand for a dab of the paste-like purple dye. He felt as if he were defiling some deity as his unwilling fingers spread a purple smear across the white expanse of one smooth shoulder. With the contact—his hands were unwilling no longer. He said slowly, “You’d better take off the—the—brassiere. After all you don’t want a strip of white showing.”
The woman reached deft hands around. She unhooked the flimsy bit of lace.
How could she know that a man’s man like Kinley had a mirror in the house? How could she know that it was directly in front of her?
She might have been unaware, but the man never forgot that unveiling!
He saw rounded breasts, standing out firm and white against the prevailing purple of the rest of her skin. He saw—well, he saw enough to make his hands falter in their task of daubing purple dye on velvety skin! He had to bite his lips to keep back a command to stop as the woman’s fingers spread more dye, kneading it into the yielding resiliency of her snowy breasts.
She faced him at last.
“You’d better take off your shirt,” she said.
“For tomorrow—we may die,” his lips formed the words. He bent over and kissed her.
Not until he felt her hands pressing against him did he relent in the fierce pressure.
He took off his shirt—let her smear on the coloring.
* * * *
When they reached the airport the next dawn, they were calling each other “Tod and Lill.”
* * * *
Seen from the air, the island of Perambi didn’t look like much. Just a small darker speck in the broad expanse of the Pacific.
The pilot cut the motor. The plane began a graceful descent.
Tod and Lill stripped off their flying clothes. Their faces shone purple in the strong sunset light. They strapped on their parachutes.
Tod Kinley saw now why the woman was thankful for her long hair. She tucked the purple strands into the belt of her ’chute. It outlined and concealed the curve of her breasts.
The pilot said, “There’s the clearing. Kick open the trap. Jump when I give the word. Count ten and pull the rip-cord. Get ready—”
The plane circled closer to land. The man and woman could see the clearing in the center of the tangled jungle growth of the island. They managed a smile at each other. They both held the bare blades of the wavy knives in their left hands, in their right was clutched the ring of the parachute release.
“Jump!” said the pilot suddenly.
One after the other they plunged through the opening in the floor of the plane and into space!
Only a few minutes later, Kinley used his knife to cut loose from his chute. He raced across the clearing to the spot where Lill had landed. The fading sunlight made the purple of her parachute and of her supple body take on a livid shade. He reached her side, helped her cut away from the purple, flattened mass.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Okay,” she returned.
“And now what?”
She laughed nervously. “We are here anyway. You know—I think we’re the only living persons on this island!”
R-8 spoke. “Wrong as usual. Why don’t you look around?”
The woman looked when he pointed with his knife. She made out the swarthy forms of crouching natives. She made out the gleam of scant light from wavy steel. She stared around a small circle. She realized they were surrounded.
Kinley slipped his arm around her. For an instant he pulled her close to him. “Put your back to mine!” he demanded. “Hold the blade of your knife to the front. We’ll put up a fight anyway!”
When this maneuver was completed the natives stopped advancing but held their circle. A wizened old man stepped from the ranks. He spoke in English. “Come,” he said.
Tod caught his companion’s arm. “Don’t move—yet,” he cautioned in a voice that could not be heard beyond a few feet.
They stood as still as statues. He could feel her smooth skin, warm, vibrant, against his bare back.
The old native spoke then—in some strange gibberish. He pointed. Tod Kinley relaxed.
“I guess we might as well go now,” he said. “But wait just a second.”
Lill stopped. She had to clench her teeth when her companion burst out into a shrill screaming roar that penetrated to the depths of the jungle and echoed back to them threefold.
“East Side, West Side, All Around the Town!” Those were the words of the man’s shout.
The natives retreated a little. They seemed more respectful—but they still beckoned and pointed.
“Let—let’s go to their party,” the woman suggested.
He held out his arm. They followed together.
In the ensuing short walk Tod explained in a whisper, “Someone had taught them that English word. If we had moved when they said ‘Come’ we wouldn’t be alive now. Did you notice their knives?”
“Yes,” came the soft answer. “But where do we go from here?”
Before the man could venture any opinion the strange party came to a yawning hole in the earth.
Once again the old native who was leader spoke at length. He pointed again.
Tod said softly and soberly, “I recognize a few words of that dialect. A dialect that has not been used for many hundreds of years. We might as well go down—We might as well go into this hole—
which is called ‘The Cave Of The Criss-Cross Knives’!”
The woman showed her courage by humming a few bars of “The Song of the Islands” as they stepped down into total blackness.
Tod’s arm was around her. His fingers closed automatically around the softness of one breast that was enshrined in the long purple of her hair.
They went down a rude flight of stone stairs together. The blades of their wavy knives pierced the dark before them.
Both man and woman were counting those steps in an undertone. Not until they had reached one hundred and eighty-nine, did the path level out. Even then there was a walk of several minutes, made long by the almost total blackness, before the tunnel widened into a lighted amphitheater.
The small party stopped at a brusque command from the ancient leader.
That one, apparently a medicine man or witch doctor, shouted one phrase in the strange dialect, Tod translated, softly, “He says—‘the purple gods come!’”
“I know.” Lill returned impatiently. “You aren’t the only one who has studied ancient Polynesian dialects—and customs—of these natives.”
Neither had time to carry on that line of talk. They both had eyes only for the spectacle of that underground cavern.
Nature can be prodigal with her beauties, no matter in what part of the earth they may be found.
That cavern was immense. It stretched beyond mere eyesight. Stalagmites and stalactites echoed and reflected the light of strangely perfumed torches stuck in stone sockets on the walls.
The band proceeded down a worn path in the midst of this subterranean grandeur. Dwarfed by the magnificence of the sight, Lill and Tod walked together. Their bodies seemed to merge into one as they sought the comfort of another person who knew and had felt the outside world. Still their strange wavy bladed knives were held before them.
Neither of them spoke.
The cavern narrowed slightly. More torches filled the notches on the walls and shed their flickering light. Weird growths reflected, that light in hitherto unseen and therefore unbelievable colors.
The Spicy-Adventure Page 7