Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  Rain drops splashed against his face as he started toward the gate. One instant he stumbled in velvet blackness, the next the tombstones shone white in the dazzling glare. Harrison’s head ached frightfully. Only chance and a tough skull had saved his life. The would-be killer must have thought the blow was fatal and fled, taking John Wilkinson’s head for what grisly purpose there was no knowing. But the head was gone.

  Harrison winced at the thought of the rain filling the open grave, but he had neither the strength nor the inclination to shovel the dirt back in it. To remain in that dark graveyard might well be death. The slayer might return.

  Harrison looked back as he climbed the fence. The rain had disturbed the rats; the weeds were alive with scampering, flame-eyed shadows. With a shudder, Harrison made his way to the flivver. He climbed in, found his flashlight and reloaded his revolver.

  The rain grew in volume. Soon the rutty road to Lost Knob would be a welter of mud. In his condition he did not feel able to the task of driving back through the storm over that abominable road. But it could not be long until dawn. The old farmhouse would afford him a refuge until daylight.

  The rain came down in sheets, soaking him, dimming the already uncertain lights as he drove along the road, splashing noisily through the mud-puddles. Wind ripped through the post oaks. Once he grunted and batted his eyes. He could have sworn that a flash of lightning had fleetingly revealed a painted, naked, feathered figure gliding among the trees!

  The road wound up a thickly wooded eminence, rising close to the bank of a muddy creek. On the summit the old house squatted. Weeds and low bushes straggled from the surrounding woods up to the sagging porch. He parked the car as close to the house as he could get it, and climbed out, struggling with the wind and rain.

  He expected to have to blow the lock off the door with his gun, but it opened under his fingers. He stumbled into a musty-smelling room, weirdly lit by the flickering of the lightning through the cracks of the shutters.

  His flashlight revealed a rude bunk built against a side wall, a heavy hand-hewn table, a heap of rags in a corner. From this pile of rags black furtive shadows darted in all directions.

  Rats! Rats again!

  Could he never escape them?

  He closed the door and lit the lantern, placing it on the table. The broken chimney caused the flame to dance and flicker, but not enough wind found its way into the room to blow it out. Three doors, leading into the interior of the house, were closed. The floor and walls were pitted with holes gnawed by the rats.

  Tiny red eyes glared at him from the apertures.

  Harrison sat down on the bunk, flashlight and pistol on his lap. He expected to fight for his life before day broke. Peter Wilkinson was out there in the storm somewhere, with a heart full of murder, and either allied to him or working separately — in either case an enemy to the detective — was that mysterious painted figure.

  And that figure was Death, whether living masquerader or Indian ghost. In any event, the shutters would protect him from a shot from the dark, and to get at him his enemies would have to come into the lighted room where he would have an even chance — which was all the big detective had ever asked.

  To get his mind off the ghoulish red eyes glaring at him from the floor, Harrison brought out the object he had found lying near the broken lantern, where the slayer must have dropped it.

  It was a smooth oval of flint, made fast to a handle with rawhide thongs — the Indian tomahawk of an elder generation. And Harrison’s eyes narrowed suddenly; there was blood on the flint, and some of it was his own. But on the other point of the oval there was more blood, dark and crusted, with strands of hair lighter than his, clinging to the clotted point.

  Joash Sullivan’s blood? No. The old man had been knifed. But someone else had died that night. The darkness had hidden another grim deed...

  Black shadows were stealing across the floor. The rats were coming back — ghoulish shapes, creeping from their holes, converging on the heap of rags in the far corner — a tattered carpet, Harrison now saw, rolled in a long compact heap. Why should the rats leap upon that rag? Why should they race up and down along it, squealing and biting at the fabric?

  There was something hideously suggestive about its contour — a shape that grew more definite and ghastly as he looked.

  The rats scattered, squeaking, as Harrison sprang across the room. He tore away the carpet — and looked down on the corpse of Peter Wilkinson.

  The back of the head had been crushed. The white face was twisted in a leer of awful terror.

  For an instant Harrison’s brain reeled with the ghastly possibilities his discovery summoned up. Then he took a firm grasp on himself, fought off the whispering potency of the dark, howling night, the thrashing wet black woods and the abysmal aura of the ancient hills, and recognized the only sane solution of the riddle.

  Somberly he looked down on the dead man. Peter Wilkinson’s fright had been genuine, after all. In his blind panic he had reverted to the habits of his boyhood and fled toward his old home — and met death instead of security.

  Harrison started convulsively as a weird sound smote his ears above the roar of the storm — the wailing horror of an Indian war-whoop. The killer was upon him!

  Harrison sprang to a shuttered window, peered through a crack, waiting for a flash of lightning. When it came he fired through the window at a feathered head he saw peering around a tree close to the car.

  In the darkness that followed the flash he crouched, waiting — there came another white glare — he grunted explosively but did not fire. The head was still there, and he got a better look at it. The lightning shone weirdly white upon it.

  It was John Wilkinson’s fleshless skull, clad in a feathered headdress and bound in place — and it was the bait of a trap.

  Harrison wheeled and sprang toward the lantern on the table. That grisly ruse had been to draw his attention to the front of the house while the killer slunk upon him through the rear of the building! The rats squealed and scattered. Even as Harrison whirled an inner door began to open. He smashed a heavy slug through the panels, heard a groan and the sound of a falling body, and then, just as he reached a hand to extinguish the lantern, the world crashed over his head.

  A blinding burst of lightning, a deafening clap of thunder, and the ancient house staggered from gables to foundations! Blue fire crackled from the ceiling and ran down the walls and over the floor. One livid tongue just flicked the detective’s shin in passing.

  It was like the impact of a sledgehammer. There was in instant of blindness and numb agony, and Harrison found himself sprawling, half-stunned on the floor. The lantern lay extinguished beside the overturned table, but the room was filled with a lurid light.

  He realized that a bolt of lightning had struck the house, and that the upper story was ablaze. He hauled himself to his feet, looking for his gun. It lay halfway across the room, and as he started toward it, the bullet-split door swung open. Harrison stopped dead in his tracks.

  Through the door limped a man naked but for a loin-cloth and moccasins on his feet. A revolver in his hand menaced the detective. Blood oozing from a wound in his thigh mingled with the paint with which he had smeared himself.

  “So it was you who wanted to be the oil millionaire, Richard!” said Harrison.

  The other laughed savagely. “Aye, and I will be! And no cursed brothers to share with — brothers I always hated, damn them! Don’t move! You nearly got me when you shot through the door. I’m taking no chances with you! Before I send you to Hell, I’ll tell you everything.

  “As soon as you and Peter started for the graveyard, I realized my mistake in merely scratching the top of the grave — knew you’d hit hard clay and know the grave hadn’t been opened. I knew then I’d have to kill you, as well as Peter. I took the rat you mashed when neither of you were looking, so its disappearance would play on Peter’s superstitions.

  “I rode to the graveyard through the woods, on a fa
st horse. The Indian disguise was one I thought up long ago. What with that rotten road, and the flat that delayed you, I got to the graveyard before you and Peter did. On the way, though, I dismounted and stopped to kill that old fool Joash Sullivan. I was afraid he might see and recognize me.

  “I was watching when you dug into the grave. When Peter got panicky and ran through the woods I chased him, killed him, and brought his body here to the old house. Then I went back after you. I intended bringing your body here, or rather your bones, after the rats finished you, as I thought they would. Then I heard Joel Middleton coming and had to run for it — I don’t care to meet that gun-fighting devil anywhere!

  “I was going to burn this house with both your bodies in it. People would think, when they found the bones in the ashes, that Middleton killed you both and burnt the house! And now you play right into my hands by coming here! Lightning has struck the house and it’s burning! Oh, the gods fight for me tonight!”

  A light of unholy madness played in Richard’s eyes, but the pistol muzzle was steady, as Harrison stood clenching his great fists helplessly.

  “You’ll lie here with that fool Peter!” raved Richard. “With a bullet through your head, until your bones are burnt to such a crisp that nobody can tell how you died! Joel Middleton will be shot down by some posse without a chance to talk. Saul will rave out his days in a madhouse! And I, who will be safely sleeping in my house in town before sun-up, will live out my allotted years in wealth and honor, never suspected — never—”

  He was sighting along the black barrel, eyes blazing, teeth bared like the fangs of a wolf between painted lips — his finger was curling on the trigger.

  Harrison crouched tensely, desperately, poising the hurl himself with bare hands at the killer and try to pit his naked strength against hot lead spitting from that black muzzle — then —

  The door crashed inward behind him and the lurid glare framed a tall figure in a dripping slicker.

  An incoherent yell rang to the roof and the gun in the outlaw’s hand roared. Again, and again, and yet again it crashed, filling the room with smoke and thunder, and the painted figure jerked to the impact of the tearing lead.

  Through the smoke Harrison saw Richard Wilkinson toppling — but he too was firing as he fell. Flames burst through the ceiling, and by their brighter glare Harrison saw a painted figure writhing on the floor, a taller figure wavering in the doorway. Richard was screaming in agony.

  Middleton threw his empty gun at Harrison’s feet.

  “Heard the shootin’ and come,” he croaked. “Reckon that settles the feud for good!” He toppled, and Harrison caught him in his arms, a lifeless weight.

  Richard’s screams rose to an unbearable pitch. The rats were swarming from their holes. Blood streaming across the floor had dripped into their holes, maddening them. Now they burst forth in a ravening horde that heeded not cries, or movement, or the devouring flames, but only their own fiendish hunger.

  In a grey-black wave they swept over the dead man and the dying man. Peter’s white face vanished under that wave. Richard’s screaming grew thick and muffled. He writhed, half covered by grey, tearing figures who sucked at his gushing blood, tore at his flesh.

  Harrison retreated through the door, carrying the dead outlaw. Joel Middleton, outlaw and killer, yet deserved a better fate than was befalling his slayer.

  To save that ghoul, Harrison would not have lifted a finger, had it been in his power.

  It was not. The graveyard rats had claimed their own. Out in the yard, Harrison let his burden fall limply. Above the roar of the flames still rose those awful, smothered cries.

  Through the blazing doorway he had a glimpse of a horror, a gory figure rearing upright, swaying, enveloped by a hundred clinging, tearing shapes. He glimpsed a face that was not a face at all, but a blind, bloody skull-mask. Then the awful scene was blotted out as the flaming roof fell with a thundering, ear-rending crash.

  Sparks showered against the sky, the flames rose as the walls fell in, and Harrison staggered away, dragging the dead man, as a storm-wrapped dawn came haggardly over the oak-clad ridges.

  * * *

  THE END

  THE TOMB’S SECRET; OR, THE TEETH OF DOOM

  First published in Strange Detective Stories, February 1934

  WHEN James Willoughby, millionaire philanthropist, realized that the dark, lightless car was deliberately crowding him into the curb, he acted with desperate decision. Snapping off his own lights, he threw open the door on the opposite side from the onrushing stranger, and leaped out, without stopping his own car. He landed sprawling on all fours, shredding the knees of his trousers and tearing the skin on his hands. An instant later his auto crashed cataclysmically into the curb, and the crunch of crumpled fenders and the tinkle of breaking glass mingled with the deafening reverberation of a sawed-off shotgun as the occupants of the mysterious car, not yet realizing that their intended victim had deserted his automobile, blasted the machine he had just left.

  Before the echoes died away, Willoughby was up and running through the darkness with an energy remarkable for his years. He knew that his ruse was already discovered, but it takes longer to swing a big car around than for a desperately frightened man to burst through a hedge, and a flitting figure in the darkness is a poor target. So James Willoughby lived where others had died, and presently came on foot and in disheveled condition to his home, which adjoined the park beside which the murderous attempt had been made. The police, hastening to his call, found him in a condition of mingled fear and bewilderment. He had seen none of his attackers; he could give no reason for the attack. All that he seemed to know was that death had struck at him from the dark, suddenly, terribly and mysteriously.

  It was only reasonable to suppose that death would strike again at its chosen victim, and that was why Brock Rollins, detective, kept a rendezvous the next evening with one Joey Glick, a nondescript character of the underworld who served his purpose in the tangled scheme of things.

  Rollins bulked big in the dingy back-room appointed for the meeting. His massive shoulders and thick body dwarfed his height. His cold blue eyes contrasted with the thick black hair that crowned his low broad forehead, and his civilized garments could not conceal the almost savage muscularity of his hard frame.

  Opposite him Joey Glick, never an impressive figure, looked even more insignificant than usual. And Joey’s skin was a pasty grey, and Joey’s fingers shook as he fumbled with a bit of paper on which was drawn a peculiar design.

  “Somebody planted it on me,” he chattered. “Right after I phoned you. In the jamb on the uptown train. Me, Joey Glick! They plant it on me and I don’t even know it. Only one man in this burg handles dips that slick — even if I didn’t know already.

  “Look! It’s the death-blossom! The symbol of the Sons of Erlik! They’re after me! They’ve been shadowing me — tapping wires. They know I know too much—”

  “Come to the point, will you?” grunted Rollins “You said you had a tip about the gorillas who tried to put the finger on Jim Willoughby. Quit shaking and spill it. And tell me, cold turkey — who was it?”

  “The man behind it is Yarghouz Barolass.”

  Rollins grunted in some surprise.

  “I didn’t know murder was his racket.”

  “Wait!” Joey babbled, so scared he was scarcely coherent. His brain was addled, his speech disjointed. “He’s head of the American branch of the Sons of Erlik — I know he is—”

  “Chinese?”

  “He’s a Mongol. His racket is blackmailing nutty old dames who fall for his black magic. You know that. But this is bigger. Listen, you know about Richard Lynch?”

  “Sure; got smashed up in an auto wreck by a hit-and-run speed maniac a week ago. Lay unidentified in a morgue all night before they discovered who he was. Some crazy loon tried to steal the corpse off the slab. What’s that got to do with Willoughby?”

  “It wasn’t an accident.” Joey was fumbling for a cig
arette. “They meant to get him — Yarghouz’s mob. It was them after the body that night—”

  “Have you been hitting the pipe?” demanded Rollins harshly.

  “No, damn it!” shrilled Joey. “I tell you, Yarghouz was after Richard Lynch’s corpse, just like he’s sending his mob after Job Hopkins’ body tomorrow night—”

  “What?” Rollins came erect, glaring incredulously.

  “Don’t rush me,” begged Joey, striking a match. “Gimme time. That death- blossom has got me jumping sideways. I’m jittery—”

  “I’ll say you are,” grunted Rollins. “You’ve been babbling a lot of stuff that don’t mean anything, except it’s Yarghouz Barolass who had Lynch bumped off, and now is after Willoughby. Why? That’s what I want to know. Straighten it out and give me the low-down.”

  “Alright,” promised Joey, sucking avidly at his cigarette. “Lemme have a drag. I been so upset I haven’t even smoked since I reached into my pocket for a fag and found that damned death-flower. This is straight goods. I know why they want the bodies of Richard Lynch, Job Hopkins and James Willoughby—”

  With appalling suddenness his hands shot to his throat, crushing the smoldering cigarette in his fingers. His eyes distended, his face purpled. Without a word he swayed upright, reeled and crashed to the floor. With a curse Rollins sprang up, bent over him, ran skilled hands over his body.

  “Dead as Judas Iscariot,” swore the detective. “What an infernal break! I knew his heart would get him some day, if he kept hitting the pipe—”

  He halted suddenly. On the floor where it had fallen beside the dead man lay the bit of ornamented paper Joey had called the blossom of death, and beside it lay a crumpled package of cigarettes.

  “When did he change his brand?” muttered Rollins. “He never smoked any kind but a special Egyptian make before; never saw him use this brand.” He lifted the package, drew out a cigarette and broke it into his hand, smelling the contents gingerly. There was a faint but definite odor which was not part of the smell of the cheap tobacco.