Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1 Page 4

  “Think hard,” she smiled, leaning forward and opening the car door. “Climb in and I’ll take you where you’re going—wherever that is.”

  Jimmy Holm stepped into the roadster obediently and settled himself beside her. He was playing a hunch—a hunch that told him that this girl was, in some way, linked with the mystery he was seeking to unravel.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “To be honest about the matter, I was merely taking a constitutional,” he answered. “What about driving down Broadway until we strike a boulevard, and then a spin into the country?”

  She nodded and stepped on the starter. For a moment she busied herself threading in and out of the traffic. Then, when they were in the clear, she glanced at him from the corners of her eyes.

  “Confess that you don’t know me,” she demanded.

  He grinned back at her cheerfully.

  “Oke,” he answered. “And now tell me something, please. Who are you and what’s your game?”

  “My game?” A puzzled expression crept over her beautiful face.

  She was driving with one hand now, fumbling, as she did so, with the ring on the third finger of her right hand. Holm watched the movement of her slim fingers out of the corner of his eye. They fascinated him.

  Half turning, she laid her hand upon his own.

  “Doctor Death,” she said quietly, “has read of your theories in the morning paper. He has taken a sudden fancy to you. It is his wish that you visit him.”

  He felt a sudden pain in his hand as of the prick of a pin. He attempted to jerk back, but his entire arm was benumbed. He noted that they were passing a policeman. He tried to open his mouth to shout an alarm. His throat was paralyzed.

  Then a feeling of lassitude and drowsiness swept over him. He saw everything, realizing what was going on as in a dream. Finally, with a tired sigh, he leaned back against the cushions.

  Then consciousness left him.

  Chapter VI

  In the Power of Death

  CONSCIOUSNESS returned to Jimmy Holm slowly. He was dazed. The thought came to him that he was dead. He was in a tomb surrounded by Zombi—gibbering, shrieking, howling corpses. He had never heard of Zombi talking, yet these dead men were dancing about him, chanting a weird, runic rhyme as they gazed at him with blood-lustful eyes. He was one of them, condemned to a living death. Yet, strangely, movement was denied him. He wondered why. And they hated him. That much he knew.

  A woman came into the picture—the girl who had tricked him so neatly. She moved toward him as if to protect him from the charnel horde. He felt that she was only an image—that her smooth body was a carving made by some great artist. Yet she seemed real as she drove back the living dead things that gibbered and cavorted around his pall, striving to reach him with their talon-like hands. She bent over him, her amber eyes gazing down at him. Her cool, slim fingers touched his forehead lightly—caressingly, he thought.

  Then came awakening. And with it a flood of memories.

  She was standing beside him, her ripe, crimson lips smiling down at him.

  “He is coming out of it,” she said to someone behind her.

  She was speaking to the dead men. Holm could see them in the background again, lurking just at the edge of a circle of light, waiting to pounce upon him. He cowered back. He tried to seize her by the hand, to hold her.

  Somewhere a gong struck.

  Something whimpered. He wondered if it was the dead men crying because the girl had robbed them of their prey. They whistled and moaned. No, it was not the Zombi. Zombi did not make such noises. And this thing gurgled like the slobbering breathing of some inhuman monster. Holm shuddered. It must be the Zombi. They were talking to each other...

  “Doctor Death!”

  He opened his eyes at the call. The girl was standing close to him. Behind her were grouped a horde of bloated, misshapen, verminous, gray creatures—dead things—things from the grave; grotesque caricatures of humanity; they grimaced and slavered, gazing at him with eyes that glittered, their slobbering jaws dripping slime. She was warding them off, it seemed.

  “Back! Back, you devils! This man is not for you!”

  The voice was sharp, snarling. At the command the horrible creatures shrank back... disappeared.

  He closed his eyes again. Then fell asleep. When he awoke his brain was clear. He was lying on a low davenport, unbound, yet when he tried to move, his limbs felt like leaden weights. He managed to twist his head slightly and noted that he was in a vast room, simply furnished, lighted by several shaded bridge lamps scattered about the floor. In the distance he caught a glimpse of an open door and of a brilliantly lighted roof painted a dazzling white; upon the shelves were rows and rows of bottles: innumerable scientific instruments, chemical paraphernalia and test tubes were upon the table. The odor of ether was in the air.

  He heard the strange whimpering, whining noise again. Then a sharp yelp of pain. It came from the other room. The girl frowned and, stepping to the open door, said something in a low voice to someone inside. A man answered in rumbling tones. Then she returned to him.

  “Close your eyes again,” she said with a smile. “A drug unknown to science—related to cannabis indica—was injected into your veins. Its after effects are its worst feature. It will wear off shortly.”

  He shut his tired eyes again, noting as he did so that she was attired in a scarlet lounging robe of so fine a texture that it revealed the seductive curves of her body as she stepped away.

  “You are feeling better, I trust.”

  Holm opened his eyes. He must have dropped into a dreamless sleep, for now the girl was seated in a chair some distance away, her lips still curved in that same mocking smile. Over him was bending a tall man, gaunt almost to the point of emaciation. He was clad in a white surgical coat while over his thatch of snow white hair was drawn a knitted cap of white such as surgeons wear; below it the long, straggling locks hung in disorderly array.

  “I am Doctor Death,” he bowed as he introduced himself in a low voice.

  “You are Doctor Rance Mandarin,” Holm corrected, his voice suddenly returning to him. “I heard you lecture once, several years ago, on ‘The Ceremonies and Mysteries of Conjuration’.”

  A smile crept into the tall man’s sad, sunken eyes. He laid one bony hand on Holm’s chest in a gesture of approval.

  “I am pleased that you have remembered me so long,” he said. “However, in this place I prefer to be known by the title I have assumed—Doctor Death.”

  He turned to the girl.

  “My assistant you have already met,” he said with a kindly smile, “although not by name. Mr. Holm, my assistant, Miss Nina Fererra.”

  The girl acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow, then moved back out of the circle of Holm’s gaze again.

  For a moment the old man stood there gazing down at the detective. Then, drawing up a chair, he seated himself at the other’s side.

  “I read in the papers your solution of the murder of John Stark,” he said quietly. “It struck me as peculiar that you, out of a whole city filled with people, were the only one capable of solving the puzzle. I made a hasty investigation of your past, found out who you were and what you have been doing. I have need for another assistant; the work is too great to rest upon Miss Fererra’s shoulders alone. I sent her for you and—you came. We need not go into the details of your coming: the fact that you are here is sufficient.”

  HOLM clenched his fists and attempted to pull himself erect. He dropped back against the pillows with a groan.

  “Am I to understand that you are offering me a position on your staff?” he snarled.

  Doctor Mandarin nodded.

  “Exactly.”

  “Then,” said Holm angrily, “you can go to the devil! If the effect of this hellish stuff your assistant pumped into me wears off, it will give me more than ordinary pleasure to turn you over to the executioner.”

 
; Doctor Mandarin chuckled.

  “The anesthetic which Miss Fererra gave you was merely to put you in my power,” he said slowly. “That was followed by another and more subtle dose which, after considerable experiment, I derived from an obscure genus of Indian hemp. Its effect is far more lasting. In fact, you will remain paralyzed for the remainder of your life, unless I see fit to administer the antidote...”

  He stretched forth one lean arm to the table and, selecting a pipe from the bowl at his elbow, filled and lighted it. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at Holm quizzically through the smoke.

  “I am,” he said finally, “the greatest scientist the world has ever known. Compared to me Einstein is a pigmy in intellect. I say this, not in the spirit of ego, but as a statement of fact. And I, peer of all scientists, am about to destroy all other men of science—all scientific inventions. Let me illustrate.”

  Rising he stepped out of Holm’s range of vision. A moment later he returned, pushing ahead of him from the white enameled room a small operating table on which was strapped a dog on which he had evidently been experimenting, for the lower part of the animal was covered with a light rubber blanket. The dog stared up at him, a pathetic look in its liquid brown eyes, and moaned. Now Holm knew whence the sounds had come that he had heard in his delirium.

  “You—devil!” he gasped.

  Doctor Death paid no attention to him. Placing the table within the range of light, he turned to Holm again.

  “Watch!” he said. “You are about to witness that which no man has ever gazed on before and lived.”

  Jimmy Holm’s skin tingled. It seemed to him that his bed heaved dizzily like a ship in a storm. He fought off the vertigo.

  There was no magic involved, no spell, no pentacle. Yet out of nothing evolved a great shape—a formless, indistinguishable shape like a grotesque statuette. It seemed to come from nothingness like a vast cloud of smoke, growing bigger and bigger until it filled the room. Shapeless though it was, it had the semblance of a man—a man with draping, widespread arms. It was colossal, diabolical, uncanny. The dog shrieked.

  The thing hovered over the wailing puppy, bending lower and lower. Its great mouth drew closer and closer to the little animal.

  Then, suddenly, it struck. Dog and table disappeared. Gone, too, was the monstrous thing.

  Jimmy Holm gazed with startled eyes at the spot where the table had been.

  Doctor Mandarin chuckled.

  “Did I not promise to show you something that no other man has ever gazed upon and lived?” he demanded. “It is an air elemental. I have an army of them under my control. You know, now, what happened to Atherstine and to Spafford. With these things I can destroy the world if I desire. What government would not be prepared to offer, not millions, but billions for my services? The nation that I elected to serve could rule the globe. But I will never sell my services.”

  Mandarin sat down beside the couch and smoked for a moment in silence.

  “I am master of the occult,” he said finally. “I could, if I so desired, turn my great knowledge to base uses. Instead, I have elected to devote it to my work of remodeling the world. But, I think I hear you say, is not murder base? I answer, bah! What is human life? Nothing. We are but cogs in the Creator’s vast machine.

  “God gave us a world on which to live—a beautiful world. He made it perfect. And we, His creatures, have attempted to improve upon His work. Millions of men have died fighting for a principle; nations have gone to war over a scrap of paper. Think you, then, that the deaths of a dozen—yes, a hundred men—will be counted against one who seeks to bring the world back to its original state?”

  Again he hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. Then:

  “I, the greatest of all scientists, know that I have been given the brain with which to accomplish these things. I am but an object to the end. Alone I can do great things. But with the help of others, I can do more. I have already commenced the work of recruiting a group of people to aid me. I am an old man. Soon I will be taken to my reward—perhaps. On the other hand I may stumble upon the secret of everlasting life.

  “Men have sought for it before and some have come close to finding it. Be that as it may, I must have young people to assist me now and, if it is fated that I should die before my task is finished, they must carry on. To that end I have commenced the task of forming a small group. Miss Fererra is the first. You the second.”

  “But,” Holm gasped, “I told you that I am against you—that I am sworn to nip this preposterous thing in the bud.”

  Doctor Mandarin shrugged.

  “Did I not say that I am the world’s greatest scientist?” he exclaimed petulantly. “Do you think, then, that I would be fool enough to overlook any contingency?”

  RISING, he walked slowly into the white enameled laboratory again. When he returned there was a small leather case in his hand. From it he extracted a hypodermic syringe filled with a dull, brownish liquid.

  “The antidote for the paralysis serum which I injected into your veins,” he said. “In a moment I will use it. You will sleep for a few hours. When you wake up, you will be entirely normal in every way.”

  He drew back Holm’s sleeve and, rolling up his shirt, pierced the flesh of the forearm with the needle point and drove the plunger home.

  A feeling of lassitude swept over Holm. He was suddenly transfixed by the glare of the cavernous eyes. They seemed to hold him in their awful power. They dissolved and in their place appeared a face. A human face. Hard, crafty, ruthless. He tried to close his eyes against it, but in vain. It danced before his vision. The lips were speaking. As from a great distance he heard what they said:

  “Sleep! Sleep! I command you to sleep! I, Death, will it! When you awaken all memory of your past will be gone. My thoughts are to be your thoughts. My ideas will be your ideas. Only that which I will to remain will remain... sleep... sleep...

  Jimmy Holm slept.

  Chapter VII

  Death Claims an Ally

  HOLM stretched and yawned. Then came true awakening—and memories—vague, indistinct, yet memories, nevertheless. He sat up with a start, his every nerve tingling with suppressed excitement.

  Who was he? What had happened to him?

  Something told him that his name was Jimmy Holm and that, at some time in the past, he had gazed into a pair of green-ish eyes that bored into his brain like gimlets of hell. There was a man... an aged man... He had said that Jimmy was to forget. Forget what?

  Obviously, then, it was his duty to obey... He must concentrate his mind in an effort to subjugate himself to this man’s commands... This man was the master and obedience was essential. For some reason he felt no curiosity regarding himself. He was but a tiny cog in a great wheel, subservient in every way to the master mind.

  Doctor Death! He remembered now that this was what the man called himself. It was a splendid name, even though a grim one. Doctor Death killed people in many curious ways. Well, why not? Doctor Death was the master. His brain was the brain of all brains. His word was law...

  Who was Doctor Death? But did that matter since Doctor Death was everything—the beginning and the end? Doctor Death was the mouthpiece of the Almighty, the leader of God’s hordes upon this earth. It was an honor to work with him...

  What was it that Doctor Death had said about the world? That it had moved too fast, that it had violated God’s laws, that it must return to the days of hand-made simplicity... Doctor Death was right. Airplanes, automobiles, electricity—the thousand and one things that were in daily use—wrong. All wrong. They must be eliminated. The men who made them, the men whose brains made them possible, must die. He, Jimmy Holm, was one of the chosen instruments to bring the world back to normalcy. He was glad. Doctor Death had so stated and was not Doctor Death always correct?

  He gazed about curiously. The room was strangely unfamiliar. It was a huge, Oriental-appearing chamber with stone wails, covered with lavish trappings and rich draperies. On the table in t
he center of the vast room was a huge vase of freshly cut flowers. Rare books were in the cases along the walls, rugs of exquisite workmanship were spread upon the floor. Light came from a cluster of concealed globes in the ceiling.

  A movement beside him brought his meditation to a sudden close. A man walked into the room carrying a tray. His movements were jerky, lifeless, automatic. He stared straight ahead unwinkingly, his eyes glassy.

  The man was dead. Holm knew it, yet he had no fear. It was the most natural thing in the world to be waited upon by a corpse. Doctor Death had so willed it and Doctor Death’s commands were immutable. He was merely filled with interest as he watched the Zombi jerkily lay the table by the side of the bed. He munched the buttered toast and the crisp bacon and eggs, swallowing the coffee leisurely, vaguely wondering whether the cook, too, was a cadaver. The thought intrigued him. He was amused, rather than horrified. Doctor Death was a wonderful man... And he was to be Death’s assistant...

  The Zombi prepared the bath and laid Jimmy’s clothes neatly on a chair. Now, as the detective shaved, the dead thing removed the breakfast dishes, put the room in order and left, carefully closing the door behind him. Holm completed his toilet, selected a cigar from the humidor on the table, lighted it and picking up the newspaper gazed at the headlines.

  The paper teemed with the name of Doctor Death. Various articles told of the activities of the mysterious murderer, of his methods and of his threats. The entire police force of the continent was searching for him. The President had ordered the Department of Justice and the United States Secret Service to drop everything else in an effort to apprehend him. There were interviews with the big men of the world. They were a unit in their declaration that the man who called himself Death was a deadly menace to civilization—yet the most dangerous maniac that had ever walked the globe.

  Played up in the feature column was the story of the disappearance of Detective James Holm. Holm, the supernatural detective, the writers called him. The theories of the young detective were given, together with a statement in bold black letters from Inspector Ricks advancing, as his belief, that young Holm had been removed by the same method, that had snatched Atherstine and Spafford from life. Why? Because the mysterious Doctor Death had recognized in Jimmy Holm an antagonist to be feared. With Holm alive, he was in danger.