by Kevin Olson
W. PETER MILLER has spent his adult life in the motion picture industry editing feature films and trailers. He has written for adventure gaming magazines and for Steve Jackson Games. He lives in the Los Angeles area with his wife of 25 years and 3 children.
Mr. Miller is active in the adventure and board gaming hobbies where he is known online on many sites as “Doc Savage,” a nod to his favorite pulp character, though he enjoys the Green Lama, G-8, and others. You can find his custom gaming creations as well as pulp reviews and news on his blog at www.DocSavageTales.blogspot.com.
the
Green Lama
in
The Case
of the
Hairless Ones
by Robert Craig
Green
Lama
The fist slammed once into Tsarong’s cheek.
His head recoiled from the blow.
Fresh blood slowly trickled from the Tibetan’s mouth. He was on his knees, hands secured behind his back, arms held at a painful angle.
He drew up his head and spat blood on the hard wood floor. The beat-ing had been without mercy.
Regaining his focus, the same question was asked of him.
“Where is Jethro Dumont?” the voice hissed. “I know that he is the one known as the Green Lama. Tell us where he hides.”
Tsarong’s answer was only muted silence.
His head was suddenly twisted to the side and pressed firmly against a rough, wooden table. Shards of wood splinters dug into his cheeks, deep enough to allow for his blood to flow along the long grooves of the table’s surface.
As a swollen eye strained to look forward, his focus fell upon a pair of strong, raw-boned hands grasping the handle of a weathered axe, its massive, chipped blade stained dark.
“His commitment is to be admired,” the dark voice remarked to another. “I suspect that he will tell us nothing, as his loyalty is too great.
“Be done with him.”
At that, Tsarong watched the axe blade move away from his vision, rising upward, moving to a destination he assumed to be suspended above his strained neck.
Tsarong’s reaction was immediate. A look of quiet serenity fell upon his dark features as a quiet Tibetan prayer escaped from bloodied lips.
And the axe fell.
fff
TWO NIGHTS EARLIER...
No. 240 Centre Street housed the New York City Police Department. Located between Broome and Grand in Manhattan, the impressive struct-ure was firmly located in the city’s Little Italy.
Sergeant Moore worked the third shift and the department’s front desk. He loved third shift, knowing that whatever entered through the department’s front door tended to have merit at this late hour, rather than the trivial walk-ins that filled the hours of the day shifts.
While double-checking the desk logs to ensure that previous shifts had been properly recorded, a strange sound broke Moore’s concentration.
It was soft; a sobbing just barely there.
Suddenly Moore knew that another had joined him. He looked up from the desk and was taken back by what he saw.
A nude woman stood there, head hung low, shoulders hunched, a burlap sack held in trembling arms.
Her body was a vivid red, as if she suffered from too many hours in the sun. But the most distinguishing thing about the woman was her hair, or lack thereof, for the woman standing in front of Sgt. Moore was totally bald.
“Miss, are you okay?” he asked, concerned about both the woman’s disturbing appearance and state of mind.
The woman looked up at Sergeant Moore with bloodshot eyes, a small gasp escaping from raw, chapped lips.
And she dropped the burlap sack in her arms.
It hit the station’s battered tile floor with a dull thud.
The bag came open and its cargo spilled forth.
Staring at Sgt. Moore were the open, pleading eyes of a severed head.
fff
Jethro Dumont lay awake. He did not move, remaining utterly still upon his mattress. Sleep eluded him during the wee hours of this morning.
Quite different from the floor mat that was my bed in Tibet, Dumont thought. Silk sheets now covered his naked form while a mattress with plush, quilted padding supported his lean, muscled frame. Remaining in corpse pose, he brought in a deep breath through his mouth, held it in his diaphragm, and with a deep sound, slowly let it escape from the back of his throat. He did this several more times, allowing his body to be brought into balance with the calm of his surroundings.
Once he attained inner balance, Dumont rose from the bed and walked across the bedroom of his cosmopolitan apartment with a quiet grace.
Pulling back the shades covering his bedroom window, he gazed out at the sleeping city. The light of the pale moon provided him a point of focus, bringing clarity to the space around him as he used even breathing to drop his heart rate to a serene pace.
Donning a golden namsa robe that covered his wiry muscles, he questioned what troubled him. It was odd for him to be stricken with random thoughts while he slumbered; normally, his training allowed him nights of utter stillness.
Perhaps what he desired was focus.
Walking to a spacious library, he paused beneath a Buddha shrine to light a small butter candle.
As the soft glow illuminated the room and its impressive wall-to-wall bookcases, Dumont eased himself into a leather-upholstered chair and prepared his mind to learn.
As the emerging light of day fell upon the Buddha shrine, a door to its side quietly opened. A man, slight of frame, stepped through; he carried in his hands a silver tray adorned by a cast-iron teapot, matching iron cup, and folded newspaper.
“Good morning, Tulka,” the newcomer said in perfect English, addressing Dumont as one who possessed the reborn spirit of a holy practitioner. “I see that the day arrived early for you.”
Dumont, seated at his desk with one of the seven books of the Abhidhamma Pitaka opened in front of him, turned and a slight smile broke across his angular features. “Slumber seemed to elude me, Tsarong. I was visited by a sense of unease during the night.”
A native of Tibet, Tsarong had studied at the Tibetan monastery alongside Dumont. When Dumont decided to return to the United States to share the teachings of Siddhartha, he asked Tsarong to accompany him as his personal aid and valet. By offering him a position of employment, Dumont hoped that he could secure the valued wisdom of his closest friend.
Allowing himself to reflect on what Dumont had told him, Tsarong opened the folded copy of the Daily Sentinel that sat alongside the tea service.
“Perhaps your mind is attuned to duress in the universe,” he said, placing an article in front of Dumont.
DECAPITATION! SAVAGE MURDER STUNS POLICE.
Police reported a savage murder after a nude woman appeared at 240 Centre Street in the early hours of the morning, carrying with her a man’s decapitated head in a burlap sack.
Sources say that the woman is in a state of shock and has not revealed what transpired. Unconfirmed reports also state that the woman appears to be devoid of hair on her entire body, though signs of chemical burns on her skin indicate that she may have been subjected to some form of chemical depilatory.
No official statement has been issued, but a formal police investigation is expected to be announced.
Dumont’s steely eyes looked up at Tsarong.
“When a dark wind comes, the learned one has foretold its arrival,” Tsarong said, taking the article to store it away in Dumont’s extensive system of crime reference files.
Dumont allowed himself a sip of the tea, musing on the foreboding nature of what he just read.
fff
Jethro Dumont drew in a deep breath and then alighted from the elevator.
&
nbsp; The charade begins once again, he thought, stepping onto the tiled floors of New York’s Museum of Modern Art’s fifth floor, and its current home for special exhibits.
As no more news had arrived in regards to the murder of the previous evening, he now tended to the social affairs of Jethro Dumont.
Dressed in a black doubled-breasted suit, he walked into the main exhibition room, already bustling with attendees in fine suits and beaded chiffon dresses. The bold colors of the chiffon proved a perfect compliment to the watercolor and oil paintings that adorned the walls and easels throughout the room, forming guided pathways that cut gently through the room.
Dumont was here at the invitation of Monroe Warner, retired Vice Consul to the US Consulate in Shenyang. Warner, who had met Dumont deep along the winding rivers of southern Manchuria during the younger man’s search for enlightenment, was hosting a reception for the Republic of China’s newly appointed ambassador to the United States.
After making his way to the bar for an old-fashioned Dutch with gin, Dumont brought himself into the main hall, only to be greeted immediately by the evening’s host.
“Jethro Dumont!” boomed the deep, hickory-tinged voice of former Vice Consul Monroe Warner. “It’s a far more civilized world we find ourselves in tonight!”
“I do agree,” Dumont said with a warm smile and friendly clasp of his host’s arm.
“Come, my friend,” Warner laughed, wrapping his arm over his old friend’s shoulder and moving him deeper into the room. “I want you to meet our guests of honor.”
As Warner led Dumont deeper through the crowd of partygoers, Dumont chuckled at his old friend’s enthusiasm, and then had his attention directed to three intriguing individuals standing before him.
The guests of honor, Dumont realized, as Warner stepped forward to greet the smiling Asian.
“A wonderful evening, a wonderful setting,” the man said in perfect English while extending a hand to Warner. “Your Museum of Modern Art holds many treasures for both the eye and the soul.”
The man turned from Monroe to Jethro, who immediately took the opportunity to introduce himself, “Jethro Dumont. I’m an old friend of Monroe’s, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
A slight bow of the head was the response, followed by a warm handshake. “And I, too, am pleased to make yours. I am Cheng Yi-chuan, newly appointed ambassador of the Republic of China to your nation.”
Though Dumont was impressed with the natural ease of Cheng, it was his companions that captured his attention.
Standing to Cheng’s rear was a tall, broad man in an ill-fitting suit, intense eyes surveying all of Dumont in a single glance. This was obviously Cheng’s personal bodyguard. Thick features topped a wide frame, indicative of the strong people bred by the harsh lands of Mongolia.
And though the man was intriguing, it was the woman at Cheng’s side who truly fascinated Jethro Dumont.
A tall, graceful beauty, the Asian woman was taller than most women who hailed from the same region. She was dressed beautifully in a black and scarlet floral silk dress with a slight keyhole opening below the neckline showcasing perfect alabaster skin. The bias cut of the dress, though technically covering most of her skin, still clung tightly to its wearer, allowing for her lean curves to be displayed in a slinky, sensuous way.
Long, raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, and thick, blunt bangs, very much influenced by Western style, accented highly arched brows and large, gorgeous brown eyes.
As Dumont paused to admire the exotic beauty in front of him, he noticed a slight twitch to her ruby lips that yielded to a slightly playful smile.
“And let me introduce you to the one who provides me with all of the art that I truly need, Mr. Dumont,” Cheng said, noticing Jethro’s eyes on the woman at his side. “This is my wife, Mei-feng.”
Dumont turned toward Mei and was pleasantly surprised to have her outstretch a slender hand with ruby nails, palm facing downward.
Dumont took the offered hand and symbolically brought her knuckles near his lips.
Her smile widened as Dumont stepped back, a glimmer of intrigue shining in her dark eyes.
“I hope that your stay in my country has been a pleasant one, Mrs. Cheng,” Dumont said.
“Oh, it truly has been,” Mei said. “It does not take long to become accustomed to your opportunities and amenities. I find it amazing that a country so young, especially in comparison to the empires of the East, can still provide a culture and traditions so truly its own.”
Dumont was taken back by the woman’s response to his simple question. Whereas Dumont had expected little more than a nod and smile, he had received an intelligent observation. He would not underestimate this woman, as most Chinese women—subservient to their male counterparts— rarely voiced an opinion in public.
This is a woman who may have much to do with her husband’s success, Dumont mused to himself.
Warner, always the politician, found the opportunity to insert himself into the exchange. “Dumont knows a bit about your country as well.”
“I must admit,” Jethro said, “I have been won over by the true magic of your land. Its wise spirit offers a learned path for the truly misguided.”
Both Mei and Cheng seemed intrigued by the direction of the conversation, but Warner took the opportunity to return to his wheelhouse.
“Jethro, let’s save your spiritual talk for later in the night. I see dear Mrs. Rockefeller with some of the museum board signaling us over for a chat.”
Cheng and Mei nodded their heads in farewell and followed Warner across the room. Their bodyguard, though, paused for a moment, staring hard into the eyes of Dumont as if establishing his dominance with a mere glance. Then, after a long blink of his eyes, he followed his wards toward the next conversation.
“Well, well, Mr. Dumont, it has not been that long since our paths last crossed,” said a husky voice containing a bit of twang and a whole lot of sultry.
Dumont turned to find yet another gorgeous woman. Long scarlet tendrils fell in finger waves along her alabaster face. A light green jersey knit suit, neatly trimmed by glossy Lucite buttons, proved the perfect compliment to her shimmering green eyes, almost feline in shape; eyes that could be both seductive and sweet at the same time.
“It’s always my pleasure to land in your path,” Dumont said to Jean Farrell, the young actress with whom the Green Lama had recently worked within Hollywood to solve the case of a supposed studio specter.
And though Jean and Jethro were social acquaintances, she was unaware that the man to whom she had pledged an allegiance to his war on crime, the mystic warrior known as the Green Lama, was the very same man now standing in front of her.
“May I ask what brings you to tonight’s affair?” Dumont said, moving closer to Jean in a conspiratorial yet flirtatious manner.
“Mrs. Rockefeller took in a showing of ‘Of Mice and Men’ that I’m currently in over at the Music Box . She so enjoyed my depiction of Curly’s wife that she was kind enough to send along her regards and invite me here as her personal guest,” Jean answered proudly.
Before Dumont could continue his conversation with the spunky young actress, the windows to the museum exploded.
fff
The siege came from above.
The small group of men dropped silently from the concrete architectural treatments around the perimeter of the museum’s rooftop. Dark rope had been secured to venting, heating units, and exhaust fans. As the descent to the fifth story was only slightly below the roofline, the men worked quickly.
Garbed entirely in black, little was visible as the attackers dropped like ebony spiders alongside one another, arriving in unison outside the windows of the gala, their feet coming to rest on a slight ledge.
A small explosive charge compos
ed of Amatol, a substance comprised of both TNT and ammonium nitrate, was placed at the base of each picture window. Each charge had been bound in a tight paper wrap, much like that of a common Chinese firecracker, and was attached to the glass with a chunk of modeling clay. A small one inch fuse extended from the top of each charge, providing for a three second burn per inch.
That was all the attackers needed.
With military precision, the raiding party lit each fuse. When the first spark appeared, each man began a silent countdown from three. When they arrived at the number one, the men bent their knees and kicked back, hands still secured to their ropes from above.
Like acrobats, they arched up into the night and then swiftly descended as the Amatol charges blew. Most of the windows exploded in their entirety, the lower glass blowing inward and showering the party guests, while portions of the upper glass detached in larger shards, only to crash hard to the sidewalks of 53rd street waiting below.
Any remaining glass, held precariously by the sills of the windows, was easily knocked aside as the attackers hurled through the wreckage of the picture windows to breach the reception.
The partygoers were in a state of shock. Near the windows, some cried out, some wept, their bodies crisscrossed with shallow cuts from the imploded glass.
But most of the attendees found little ability to focus on the wounds, their attention solely placed on the men who had seemingly invaded from the night sky.
The raiders wore black from head to toe, rough cloth held tight to their forms by tattered dark ties. Heads were covered almost entirely by black hoods, only fierce eyes showing through rough-cut openings.