As the great gong thundered, Farrell’s revolver cleared its holster. The brazen clang muffled the blast of the .45. The priest pitched backward in a heap beside the altar; and for a frozen instant no one but Farrell moved. The hypnotic spell of the interrupted blood ritual was not broken until the bewildered participants saw him bound forward, revolver in hand.
The priests fled before Farrell’s insane charge; but the amazed Sabeans sensed his purpose. They surged forward in a yelling, steel armed wave.
Farrell whirled at the altar. For a moment the deadly chatter of his revolvers held the blood maddened mob at bay. They recoiled, riddled by the murderous hail of lead. And then the hammers clicked on empty chambers.
All in a crowded instant. Then he seized the drugged beauty and bounded forward, his ceremonial scimitar flashing in whistling arcs as the first of the mob closed in. Steel struck sparks from steel, and Farrell’s blade dripped red; but as he cleared the threshold of the shrine, a crescent of swords had him hemmed in. Encumbered by his lovely burden, Farrell had not been able to move fast enough to reach the stairs before his retreat was cut off. He backed into an angle to make his final stand. They saw no need for haste; and they knew the peril of crowding a man who had no chance. He would kill a dozen of them before they overwhelmed him, and no one wanted to be first.
An angry voice from the rear urged them forward, but the charge was checked before it started. Something dropped from the parapet overhead, and burst into searing, blue white radiance that overwhelmed the wan torchlight, and dazzled the eyes that were fixed on Farrell.
The distraction was no more than momentary; but in the face of a hedge of swords, that moment seemed a lifetime. Though blinded by that blistering glare, Farrell had the advantage. Slashing blindly, he bounded along the balustrade and to the head of the stairs. He knew that the choking, dense white fumes enveloped the mob and would for another instant screen his flight. And as he took the stairs three at a leap, he knew what had given him his chance: a landing flare Ismeddin had taken from the plane.
Savage yells and deep voiced commands roared behind him; steel clanged, and the brazen gong thundered to urge the Sabeans to the pursuit as their eyes recovered from the incandescent blaze; but Farrell, as he dashed down the avenue, heard the drumming of the motors, and knew d’Artois was warming up. Farrell was now tearing across the plaza. He heard the clatter of hoofs, the roar of jezails and flint lock pistols, and the whistle of lead.
One final effort. The horsemen were on his heels. Farrell tossed his burden ahead of him and plunged headlong into the cabin after her. And then the roar of the motors drowned the clamor. The plane rushed headlong across the great square and straight at the dizzily towering walls. Then it zoomed upward at a ruinous angle; but the powerful engines made it, and in another moment, d’Artois flattened out.
“Holy smoke!” sighed Farrell. And then, raising his voice: “Ismeddin! Break out some brandy.”
But Ismeddin had stepped into the pilot’s compartment. Farrell turned toward the girl he had stolen from the sacrificial altar. She was still unconscious, and beautiful as a sleeping goddess, despite the blood that had dripped on her slender body from a dozen grazing cuts which seamed Farrell’s head and ribs.
And then Farrell’s blood froze. He now saw what he had not noted in the hell glare of smoking torches: it was not Makeda he had carried through a wall of blades.
“Good God!” he muttered. There was no more than a mocking similarity. He swept aside the long strand of dark hair that curled over her shoulder and caressed her left breast. He knew then that she could not be Makeda, for there was no star shaped mole on the magnolia blossom perfection.
It was too late to return. Triumph was bitter as the dust and blood on his lips. The girl on the lounge was stirring. The effect of the drug was wearing off. She sat up and regarded him with wonder widened, dark eyes…
Farrell heard a click behind him. And for the second time within a few moments he stood dazed and gaping. A smiling girl stood framed in the doorway that opened into the pilot’s compartment, and behind her was white-bearded Ismeddin.
“Well, for the love of Mike!” Farrell finally blurted out. “How—why—what the devil—”
The girl was Makeda—Makeda as she had been that mad, amorous hour in that sombre vault, except that the splendor of her body smiled warmly through a gown of transparent gauze.
Her arms closed about Farrell, and her lips stopped his queries. Finally she said, “Forgive me. But I had to do it. It was my cousin who was to die on the altar tonight. We resemble each other, and I didn’t think you’d notice the difference by night. So I put on those chains and sent for you—to—well, give you a reason for saving me—I mean, her.”
“You mean you slipped into the plane while I was being damn near chopped to little pieces—for a total stranger?”
Makeda smiled and shrugged. “I’m awfully fond of my cousin. And that old fellow said you could raise the dead, so I knew that saving her would be simple enough…”
“Billahi!” interposed Ismeddin, “I didn’t know that until the old slave woman told me, the last minute. And I thought the flare would be better than—”
“It was. And now you and Makeda’s cousin go forward and talk to Pierre. And break out something or other she can use to cover the points of interest. I don’t want Pierre to get eye strain and crack us up in the middle of this desert.
“Now, get the hell out, the both of you. I’m going to be busy studying astronomy for some time to come.”
“Astronomy?” wondered the old Arab as he wrapped a blanket around Makeda’s cousin. Then he winked, grinned, and added, “Sidi, that’s a new name for—”
“Get out or I’ll break your head!” threatened Farrell as he snapped out the cabin lights. “I was referring to a star-shaped mole, which is something you’d not understand.”
And then Makeda’s arms closed about Farrell and her questing lips sought his in the darkness.
“And so you did notice that mole?” she finally murmured, as she sighed contentedly and untwined her arms. “I was rather worried…you see, I thought you’d be terribly angry, and I just dreaded coming in here to face you…but I was afraid you might make a perfectly terrible mistake—she looks so much like me…”
SILVER PEACOCK
Originally published in All Detective Magazine, May 1933.
As the clock in the living room of Glenn Farrell’s summer home at Pass Christian struck five, old Isaac, the negro handyman, punctual to the minute, emerged from the kitchen and placed on the tabouret beside Farrell’s chair a large copper tray. On the tray was a tall, mint-garnished glass, and a stack of mail that Isaac had brought from the post office.
Judged by the post marks and return addresses, the lot would be uninteresting. While waiting for the glass to blossom out with a white frost, Farrell opened the first of the stack.
As he read the brief, typed message, he sat bolt upright in his chair. His gray eyes narrowed, and a frown furrowed his forehead as he re-read the note. A dozen years of hunting men, minerals, and beasts had accustomed Farrell to surprises, pleasant and otherwise; but Isaac had brought in a masterpiece.
Isaac, hearing Farrell’s exclamation of wrath and incredulity, started, stared for a moment, then retired to witness the storm from cover.
Bring one hundred thousand dollars in new, unmarked hundred dollar bills to the L.&N. Railroad bridge at midnight of the twentieth. A boat will be waiting for you. Do not fail, and do not attempt any trickery or resistance. The penalty will be death.
In lieu of a signature there was a spot of red wax stamped with a peacock. The seal was obviously the impression of a signet ring.
“Well, I’ll be everlastingly double-damned!” exploded Farrell as he emerged from his chair with a fluent motion that made the tawny, striped tiger’s skin on the hearth seem like evidence of fratricide. Then
he frowned, and stroked the long white scar that seamed his right cheek; a claw mark of the great cat that had almost succeeded. For a moment Farrell’s eyes peered through, and past the note in his hand.
“Peacock…hmmm…” he muttered, as the symbol stamped on the seal recalled memories of the fanatic Yezidees of Kurdistan, who worship Satan, and represent him as a peacock. “One hundred thousand, or else—! And they’ll be waiting with a boat to pick it up?”
He paced the length of the Boukhara rug, and back again. Then his frown relaxed into an amiable grin that contradicted the steel-gray glitter of his eyes.
“I’ll be waiting with a boat myself. Oh, there, Isaac! Lay out my clothes! Right away!”
Farrell’s voice rang through the drowsy, afternoon silence like a bugle.
“Yassuh, Mistah Glenn, yassuh!”
Farrell stepped into his bedroom, inspected and loaded a Colt .45.
“Now roll out the wagon, Isaac,” he directed as he stripped off his lounging pajamas and put on a suit of tropicals. Then (as he thrust the pistol into his shoulder holster) “Damn it, he would lay out this of all ties!”
He corrected Isaac’s selection of neckwear. And a few minutes later, Farrell’s Hispano was a glittering flash and a high-pitched scream that streaked across the bridge toward Bay Saint Louis, and thence down the highway toward New Orleans.
Farrell realized that there was no need for haste. The enemy had given him three days in which to prepare a counter-attack—or, as they doubtless thought, to raise a hundred thousand dollars; but Farrell’s swift trip to New Orleans was expressive of impatience to take the initiative, rather than any need to hurry the simple preparations he had in mind.
An hour and a quarter later, the Hispano drew up before police head-quarters in New Orleans. Farrell strode into the smoke clouded office of the chief of the Detective Bureau.
“Evening, Baker,” he greeted, then glanced about. “Where’s the chief?”
“Out now, Mr. Farrell,” replied the sergeant. “Anything I can do for you?”
Farrell slid the extortion letter and a long cigar across the desk.
“Stuff that in your face, and give Healy that love-letter, if you don’t mind.” Then, as Baker reached for the cigar and bit off the tip, “Tell the chief I’m staying at the Union Club tonight, in case he wants to get in touch with me. And if not, I’ll see him in the morning. If you want to, you can take a peep at that letter yourself. You’ll hear plenty before we’re through.”
Without waiting for Baker’s comment, Farrell left the office and drove to the club.
* * * *
Although he dined alone that evening, Farrell’s thoughts were sufficient company. Even a perfectly grilled guinea hen and a bottle of Chablis did not suffice to divert him from his plan of campaign. While equipping his speedboat with a pair of machine guns, and bolting boiler plate to the cabin would be a simple procedure, Farrell did not underestimate the enemy’s possibilities. The exultation of the warpath was diluted by flashes of misgiving, such as assail all but the foolhardy when in the face of peril.
He finally decided that his plans would be none the worse for a fresh start in the morning. As he thrust aside his demitasse, and wondered as to the best disposition of the evening, the waiter approached with a portable telephone, set it on his table and plugged it in.
“Farrell speaking… Hi, there, Burnham… How’d you know I was in town?… Sorry, but I can hardly understand you. Bum connection… Better now… Uh-huh… Sure, I’ll meet you in the lobby of the Plaza, right after the show. But better than that—”
A sharp click. Farrell jiggled the instrument. The line was dead.
“Want to call back, sir?” wondered the waiter.
Farrell shook his head.
“Take it away—just a minute, I’ll sign my check, too.” Then, as he took his hat, “Guess Burnham was in a hurry and was satisfied when he heard me say I’d be there; but he might have asked me to join him. Funny egg, Burnham. Never could dope him out. And why meet me in the lobby instead of here at the club?”
Whereupon Farrell dismissed the query, paused at the desk to leave word as to his destination, and strode down Canal Street, toward the Plaza.
The theatre, however, did not prove to be the diversion that Farrell had anticipated. The peacock was not to be dismissed so lightly. After burning his way through the better part of a pack of cigarettes, Farrell left the smoking room, and stepped out into the lobby a few minutes before the conclusion of the performance.
The usher who opened the door regarded him for a moment, then said, “Mr. Farrell? Mr. Burnham will be looking for you at the box office.”
Before Farrell could question the usher, the latter vanished in the darkness of a side aisle.
“What in the hell’s eating Burnham?” muttered Farrell as he took his post. He loosened the pistol in his shoulder holster, then reflected, “I’m jumpy, that’s all. No point in anyone putting me on the spot. It’s money they want, not my hide.”
* * * *
A moment later, the show was over. Farrell, standing at the box-office, surveyed the crowd that was advancing down the long, narrow, sloping floor. And just as the head of the chattering procession reached the sidewalk, Farrell saw Burnham in the middle of the lobby. He was lifting his leghorn hat, and mopping his bald head with a handkerchief. Burnham, it seemed, had enjoyed the performance no more than Farrell. His pale, heavy face was worried and haggard. Two men were accompanying him. One edged closer and whispered a word into Burnham’s ear. Farrell recognized them; plainclothes men. He frowned perplexedly.
“Wonder if he’s in a jam, and they caught up with him. Maybe he’s short in his accounts…”
Just behind Burnham were two men who wore colored glasses of the kind favored by those susceptible to eyestrain caused by the semi-tropical glare of New Orleans: a detail that Farrell later recalled.
Burnham was now but a few paces distant.
“Looks like the devil on horseback,” was Farrell’s thought. “Hi, Burnham!”
Burnham’s companions, catching Farrell’s voice clearly above the chatter of the crowd, regarded Farrell intently. Burnham started. Farrell wondered at his expression of surprised recognition.
Farrell repeated his hail and stepped forward from the box office. At that same instant an arm shot up cut of the crowd midway between Burnham and Farrell, and his voice was drowned in a surging, gusty roar that was accompanied by a blinding flash which blazed from the upward reaching arm. A wave of blistering heat singed Farrell’s eyelashes and scorched his cheeks. Two splotches of bluish-white flame danced before his dazzled eyes as the chatter of the crowd roared into gasps of dismay and bewilderment, and shrill screams of fright, and—Farrell caught it distinctly—a single cry of mortal anguish.
“Steady, there! Quit shovin’!— Just a flashlight! Man hurt—stop him! Grab him!”
The lobby was a bawling, milling confusion.
Farrell plunged headlong toward that point where, a split instant ago, he had seen an arm rise in a gesture that ended in a sheet of flame. He heard a grunt, and a metallic clatter. His arms, reaching out instinctively, closed about someone who eluded his grasp before he could get a firm hold. A knife raked his ribs lightly; and he heard a low, guttural exclamation in a language he had not heard for years.
“The Peacock!” flashed through his mind.
“Get back and stay back!” roared a commanding voice. “Sam, don’t let anyone out of this lobby!”
The panic subsided almost as suddenly as it began. Above the bedlam of protests and inquiries, Farrell heard the scream of a siren. The alarm had reached police headquarters. And then Farrell’s eyes, more severely dazzled than those who had not looked directly at the flash, began to function. He saw one of the detectives who had accompanied Burnham kneeling beside a man who lay sprawled on the tiled floor. A st
ream of blood trickled redly across the white tiles. The hilts of two daggers, driven home to the guards, projected from his back. It was Burnham.
The plainclothes man looked up and shook his head.
“Finished,” he declared.
And then the massive bulk of John Healy, chief of the Detective Bureau, plunged through the crowd that was detained by the police cordon.
“I might have known I’d find you right in the midst of the mess!” he exclaimed as he recognized Farrell. Then, seeing that Farrell’s coat was slashed, and that blood was staining the light tropical cloth, “Hell’s fire, did they get you, too?”
“Just an accident. I grabbed someone. That damned flashlight powder blinded me, and—but what makes you think—”
“Plenty! Burnham got the same kind of letter you left on my desk. He didn’t pay off last night, like they told him to. And here he is—knifed right under our noses! Of all the slick tricks. What are you going to do? Payoff?”
Farrell’s laugh was mirthless. His eyes answered Healy before he spoke.
“I came to town to declare open season on peacocks, John. And I’m paying Burnham’s account along with my own. By the way, did they shake him down for the same amount?”
Healy nodded.
“Then,” declared Farrell, after a moment’s thought, “this whole show was a plant to show me what’ll happen if I don’t pay off. Burnham could no more raise a hundred thousand cash than a hundred million. I know. I was in on a couple of deals with him. And if that doesn’t convince you—” Farrell outlined the telephone strategy whereby he had been induced to wait for Burnham in the lobby; then, as he turned to leave, “If you want me tonight, or in the morning, I’ll be at the club. Night, John.”
CHAPTER II
Lydia and the Silver Peacock
The following afternoon Farrell returned to Pass Christian with his borrowed machine guns. Up to the time of his departure, the police had made no progress in solving the case. The assassins had escaped during that moment when everyone, that is, everyone but two men wearing colored glasses, was blinded by the blast of photographer’s flashlight powder. The clues were more colorful than helpful: two antique daggers, so the evening papers stated, of Persian workmanship; and the peacock seal which had taken the place of a signature on the extortion letter mailed to Burnham several days previous. As an afterthought, and by way of incongruous contrast, a battered flashlight gun, and two pairs of colored spectacles were listed.
E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates Page 36