Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1 Read online

  Nina Feserra was dead. Doctor Death had killed her. Of this Jimmy Holm was certain. And, in taking her life, the sinister being had stirred up a devil within Holm’s breast that would never be quieted until be had paid the penalty in the electric chair. It was an obsession with him, this longing to bring the monster to boot. He thought of it by day. By night it filled his dreams.

  Sending her dead hand to him through the ether was diabolical. He shuddered when he thought of it. God, what unlimited power the fiend possessed.

  Ricks, far from well, but filled with the same feverish energy as his subordinate, was constantly by his side, spurring him on. Caminetti had kept his word. The underworld had ceased its activities at a word from him, leaving the entire Detective Bureau free to pursue Doctor Death unhampered. Save for the desk men on duty, the Central station was practically deserted.

  The wolves of the underworld recognized the necessity of the police force of the nation devoting their time to the capture of this menace as much as did their masters. Caminetti had so decreed and the word of Caminetti was law. Proudly, the uncrowned king of crime met with the other members of the Secret Twelve, holding his thugs in leash with an iron hand.

  “If even a ten cent piece is stolen—if one single drop of blood is shed—the ax of Tony Caminetti will fall!”

  This was the edict that went out and these were the orders that were obeyed to the letter.

  “Until I say otherwise, even though the United States mint is left unguarded, it must not be touched,” he snarled to his lieutenants. They, in turn, passed it to the others.

  Holm had eaten a hasty dinner. Now, too nervous to remain in one place for long, he had strayed out into the lobby of the hotel where the unofficial White House had been established. Standing in the window, he gazed out into the drizzling rain, his brow puckered in thought.

  Mechanically his hand sought his case and extracted a cigarette. He struck a match. About to apply it to the end of the fag, he suddenly stopped. The flame burned down to his fingers unnoticed as he leaned forward with an exclamation of excitement.

  Nina Fererra had just passed.

  Common sense should have told Jimmy Holm to take no chances with so subtle an enemy as Doctor Death. But, for the nonce, caution was thrown to the winds. Turning, he elbowed his way through the throng about the exit and anxiously looked about. For a moment he failed to see her. Cars were constantly leaving the curb and he feared that she might have taken one of them. Then he caught sight of her again. She was halfway down the block, walking rapidly. He swung in behind her, closing up the gap as fast as possible lest she give him the slip.

  He had gained half the distance when a picture house gushed forth its crowd. For a moment he was held back. By the time he had fought his way through the milling mob, she was out of sight again.

  He broke into a run. Reaching the corner, he found that she had swung onto the side street. The rain was coming down in torrents now, obscuring the lights. He could barely make out her figure in the darkness. She was walking rapidly. Once she glanced back, evidently knowing that she was pursued.

  Ahead of her was a dark alley. She dodged into it. Breaking into a run, Holm speedily covered the distance to where she had disappeared. For an instant he stopped, gazing into the gloomy void. It was like a canyon, the tall buildings on either side looming up for countless stories until they seemed to meet at the top. In the middle of the block a single red light gleamed over an entrance; he was just in time to see her as she passed into it.

  “Nina!” he cried.

  She stopped, casting a frightened glance over her shoulder. Then she broke into a run and disappeared in the darkness.

  Holm increased his speed, rapidly covering the distance to where he had last seen her. He brought up in front of an open door. That she had dodged into it was a certainty.

  For a fleeting second or two he hesitated, realizing now that he had been lacking in caution. Then, squaring his shoulders, he threw common sense to the winds and, his fingers clasping the butt of his revolver, he took a step closer.

  “Nina!” he whispered.

  He was certain that he heard a movement far back in the darkness.

  “Nina!” he said again.

  Receiving no answer, he stepped inside the door.

  Again he whispered her name. He was certain that he heard her low, tense breathing.

  Something swept over him, engulfing him. It stifled him, taking his breath. His senses reeled.

  MUSCULAR arms were around his shoulders. Something was pressed against his nose. He tried to hold his breath—to fight it off—but in vain. The fumes surged through his head, intoxicating him. He would have fallen had not strong arms held him up.

  The gun dropped from his nerveless fingers unnoticed.

  He sat up and rubbed his aching eyes, staring about dazedly. His head ached. His legs felt heavy and numb. He tried to move them, only to find that they were like leaden weights.

  He was lying on a low divan. He struggled to a sitting position and, with the assistance of his hands, swung his feet to the floor. Then he made shift to stand erect.

  His legs crumpled beneath his weight and he toppled backwards upon the couch again.

  A sinister laugh greeted his efforts. He turned his head.

  Doctor Death was standing in the open doorway, a sardonic smile on his saturnine face.

  THEN, for the first time, Holm saw, through the open doorway, Nina Fererra in the other room. She was seated in a huge, overstuffed chair, her head resting against the cushions, her arms hanging limply, her face curiously white and waxed.

  “Dead? Is she dead?” he demanded.

  Doctor Death chuckled again.

  “No such good news, my young friend,” he rasped. “Perhaps it would be better for you if she were.”

  He took a step closer and surveyed Holm through half-lowered lids.

  “I have no reason for deceiving you,” he said coldly. “Your condition is such that you are practically helpless. Meanwhile—watch!”

  He turned to the girl. From somewhere a vaporish aura swept over the form of the recumbent girl. It settled over her like smoke, enveloping her in its sinuous, snaky whorls. She opened her eyes... stretched forth her hands in a gesture of appeal.

  Death snapped his fingers.

  The vaporish substance lifted. For an instant it hung over the slender form as the girl dropped back against the cushions again. Then it disappeared.

  “Her soul!” Doctor Death said harshly. “She is dead now, but her soul still lingers with her, because I willed it so. It is up to you whether she lives again or whether, until the end of time, her soul—her ego—wanders through space, while her body, her shell, her framework, if you will, remains as you see it now. In plain words, she will become one of my Zombi—a living dead woman, devoid of everything except the ability to move—”

  “Horrible!” Holm exclaimed.

  Death chuckled again.

  “Poor, deluded fool,” he said. “You—you thought that you could circumvent me.”

  The old man snapped an order. A Zombi returned a moment later with a decanter and glasses. Fitting two of them, Death took a tiny vial from the drawer of the desk and let fall a few drops of a clear liquid into one of them. He handed it to Jimmy.

  “Drink!” he commanded curtly. “It will clear the fumes from your head and make you conscious of what I’m saying. Your legs will, however, remain paralyzed until I will otherwise. You need have no fear. You should know me well enough by this time to realize that, had I wanted to kill you, I could have done so long ago.”

  Jimmy Holm quaffed the amber fluid. It raced through his veins like molten metal, clearing his head in an instant.

  He glanced again through the open doorway. Nina Fererra! He cared little for himself. But this girl, condemned to this living death. God! It was unthinkable.

  “You devil!” he roared. “Infamous monster!”

  Death shook his head reprovingly.

 
“Harsh words will avail you nothing,” he said.

  “What is it that you want of me?” Jimmy asked, after a moment.

  Doctor Death smiled benevolently.

  “I knew that you would use your good sense,” he chuckled. “What I ask is very little, Jimmy Holm. Give me your word of honor that you will not attempt to lay a hand on me—that you will return to me on your former status. In payment, I will give you back the use of your limbs and the life of Nina Fererra. Otherwise—”

  He spread out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of finality.

  “I promise,” Jimmy Holm said slowly.

  There was a timid knock at the door of the huge penthouse atop the Quiller building where Tony Caminetti held sway as king of the underworld. A peculiar door it was, grained and painted so as to resemble wood. In reality it was chromium steel. Pulling aside a tiny slide, the guard on duty placed his eye to an almost invisible peephole and peered out.

  Chapter XXV

  Caminetti Shows His Gun.

  A WEASEL-FACED man stood under the doorlight, the rain dripping from the brim of his battered hat.

  “Muggs Dent,” the guard muttered to his companion who was lounging in a leather-covered chair beside a table on which rested a machine gun.

  “Let ’m in,” the other growled.

  The guard unlocked the door and held it open just far enough to allow the weasel-faced man to step inside. Then he closed it and hastily shot the bolt.

  “Wot the hell d’you want?” he exploded. “Y’ know damned well the big boss don’ want the likes of youse comin’ here, an’ him hobnobbin’ wit’ th’ best men in the country.”

  The weasel-faced man nodded.

  “I know all dat,” he said in an awed whisper. “But I’ve got something—something big dat he’s gotta know about—right now. Jeez! I’m tellin’ youse dat it’s important.”

  “Tell me!” the guard growled.

  Muggs Dent shook his head stubbornly.

  “It’s fer d’ boss’ ear alone,” he answered.

  The big guard got out of his chair slowly and took a step toward the other, his huge fists doubled.

  “Kick in wit’ d’ info, sweetheart,” he growled, “or youse’ll be takin’ a ride dat you won’t come back from. Get me?”

  Dent’s face paled.

  “All right,” he agreed. “But fer th’ love of God get it to d’ big boy quick.”

  He leaned forward and dropped his voice.

  “Dey’ve got Holm!”

  The big guard started.

  “Meanin’ jus’ what?” he growled.

  “S’help me God!” Muggs Dent said virtuously. “I seen ’m take ’im. Here’s his rod. It dropped from his pocket when dey was tusslin’ wit’ ’im.”

  He jerked the revolver that had fallen from Holm’s hand from his pocket and extended it butt first, to the other. For an instant the two guards gazed at him under lowered eyelids. Then the first nodded to his companion.

  “Better get dis to Tony pronto,” he said.

  The other shook his head solemnly.

  “Sure,” he said. “Ain’t we playin’ wit’ d’ p’lice now?”

  He hurried through an adjoining door and rapped softly on the panels of the master’s room. A second later Tony Caminetti, his slender form draped in a figured silk dressing gown, stepped into the room.

  “What’s this I hear, Muggs?” he demanded. “The boys say that you have some hot information.”

  “Dey’ve got Holm,” Dent said excitedly. “I seen ’em take ’im, boss. See, dere’s his rod.”

  He pointed to the revolver on the table. Caminetti picked the weapon up and examined it closely.

  “Police department gun, all right,” he said. “Go ahead with your story. Did they kill him?”

  The weasel-faced man shook his head.

  “I don’t t’ink so,” he answered. “Here’s d’ dope: I’m in d’ alley back of d’ Antler building tonight watchin’ fer a moll dat I know who’s woikin’ in a restaurant dere, when who does I see turnin’ in but a gang of dem Reds. I knows one of dem; it was Rogeski, d’ guy dat d’ p’lice had d’ trouble wid a while back. I knows dat he’s got it in fer me, thinkin’ dat I’m d’ guy wot turned ‘im in, so I quick looks aroun’ icr a place t’ do a fadeaway. Right beside me is an open door an’ I dodges into it. I just gets back away from d’ door when in dey comes, Rogeski at d’ head. I t’inks dat dey’s got me cornered an’ I’m reachin’ fer me heat when I sees dat dey hadn’t noticed me at all. It was somebody else dat dey was after.

  “‘Sh-h-h’ I hears Rogeski whisper, ‘here he comes.’

  “A minit later who steps up to d’ door but Holm. Dere’s a red light close by an’ I gets a square view of his mug.

  “‘Nina!’ he says, jus’ like dat.

  “Den he pulls out his rod an’ steps inside an’ dey mobs ’im. I hears ’im tussun’ fer a mink an’ den somethin’ drops against me toe. It was Holm’s rod.

  “’Let ’im down!’ I hears Rogeski say.

  “A minit later dere’s a truck pulls up at d’ door and dey shoves Holm into it and pulls out. I waits till I’m sure dat dey are gone an’ den I pulls my freight f’r here, knowin’ how youse an’ Holm is pals right now. An’ dat’s the story, so help me, an’ dere’s d’ gun to prove it.”

  THAT Tony Caminetti was a man of action had been demonstrated a hundred times in his climb from obscurity to leadership in the world of crime. He demonstrated it again now. For a few minutes he fired questions at Dent with the rapidity of one of his own machineguns. Then, satisfied that the man was telling the truth, he turned to the telephone and put in a call for Ricks. Five minutes later the Inspector, a dozen men at his back, was on his way to the penthouse.

  Muggs Dent was interrogated a third time. He stuck to his story.

  Ricks was puzzled.

  “You say that he called the name ‘Nina’?” he asked.

  Dent nodded.

  “Dat’s wot he says. ‘Nina!’ he says, jes’ like dat. Yet dere wasn’t no dame dere. Nobody but d’ Reds.”

  “You’re certain about that?”

  The weasel-faced man nodded indignantly.

  “If dere’d been a skoit I’d a noticed her, wouldn’t I?” he asked.

  “And the truck? Did you get the number?”

  The thin face of Muggs Dent lighted up.

  “Jeez! Inspector, I mos’ forgot dat,” he exclaimed. “Now dat you mention it, I did. I could see it plain as d’ nose on me face as it toined around under d’ light t’ back up. It was N.Y.-00-222-000. It’s funny I didn’t t’ink of it before.”

  The Inspector seized the telephone and called Headquarters.

  Ricks’ mind was racing with conjectures as he replaced the receiver on the hook and turned back to where Tony Caminetti was regarding him quizzically. The snatches of ’phone conversation the king of the underworld had overheard told him that the scent was hot. There was a grim look on the Inspector’s face as he jerked his thumb toward the other room.

  With a nod of comprehension, Caminetti led the way into his private parlor. Then, dropping into a chair and indicating another across the table, he shoved a decanter of whiskey and a glass toward his guest.

  “Drink?” he asked. “It’s the best stuff money can buy.”

  Inspector Ricks shook his head.

  “Haven’t the time,” he growled. “Tony, you’ve picked up something big—biggest thing, I’m thinking, that’s come our way so far in this case.”

  The Italian’s eyes glistened with excitement.

  “Splendid!” he exclaimed. “And may I ask what you have learned?”

  For a minute there was silence. Inspector Ricks wondered just how far he dared trust this man, this enemy of society who, until a few weeks ago, had been his bitterest enemy, and who now was fighting by his side.

  “I think that, perhaps, you have located the man we are after,” he said finally. “For your private information, I’ll say that Holm d
id disappear. He and I ate dinner together. He stepped out into the lobby. Five minutes later when I went out I found him gone. What your man says dovetails in with what I have just found out.”

  “And that is?”

  “New York truck license 00-222-000 is registered in the name of a man named Letowski,” Ricks answered. “A. Letowski, who is presumed to live somewhere near Lake Whatcum. And Ansel Letowski, my friend, was one of the gang of Communists that we had under arrest a few days back for indulging in one of those Death Club parades. It’s my opinion, that we will do a little investigating up Lake Whatcum way.”

  Chapter XXVI

  Slashing Torture

  DARKNESS hung like a pall over the little town of Lake Whatcum as Ricks’ big machine, its fenders covered with mud from the long drive from New York, its seats packed with husky policemen, swept through the main street. Ricks, slumped in the seat beside the driver, tired though he was, for he was still far from being a well man, felt a growing tension—the feeling that comes over the big game hunter when he first senses his quarry. Doctor Death was somewhere near him. He knew it—would have staked his life on it. He had had the same feeling before in his long career as a detective; it always came to him at the crucial moment in a case. “Ricks’ hunch,” his fellow officials called it.

  Somewhere within a radius of a few miles lurked the menace that threatened the safety of the world—the man who was terrorizing the entire country.

  “Slow up,” he growled to the driver.

  “Let’s see if we can find anybody alive in this burg.”

  Even as he spoke a man swung around the corner. The light of a street lamp glittered on the huge star pinned to his breast. It was the night watchman. Ricks hailed him and presented his credentials.