Bride of Osiris

by Otis Adelbert Kline

  “We’ll give the chief a ring,” he said. “Are yez sure that’s the right bus?”

  “Positive. That’s a specially built body. I don’t believe there’s another just like it in Chicago.”

  “Some millynaire’s private gig, eh? We’ll run him down aisy, now.”

  They entered the garage office and obtained permission to use the telephone. Rafferty called headquarters.

  “Hllo, Chief. This is Dan Rafferty. Buell just spotted the kidnapers’ car.” He referred to his pad, then gave the license number and description. “It’s cruisin’ north on Wentworth Avenue now. Quiz the garage man and come right in? Yis sor. Good-bye.”

  He turned to the office man, a pale, slightly built fellow with furtive, shifty eyes.

  “Who owns that car that just backed out av here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Wait here and I’ll find out for you. The foreman hasn’t turned in the ticket yet.”

  He went out into the garage and they saw him question a workman in greasy brown overalls.

  “I don’t like the look av that bird,” said Rafferty. “He’s got a bad eye.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” replied Buell. “He was all ears when you were talking to the chief.”

  The office man came back presently, and they saw the workman walk toward the back of the garage.

  “Foreman’s down in the machine shop,” he explained. “Sent a man after him. I can’t leave the office, you know.”

  They sat down to wait. Presently the workman reappeared.

  “The boss’s busy grindin’ some valves on a rush job,” he said. “Says for you two guys to come on down if you want to talk to him.”

  They followed the man to the back of the garage. He opened a rickety wooden door and held it for them to pass. A dark stairway yawned before them.

  “Go ahead and I’ll hold my flash for you,” he said. “The stair light’s burnt out and we’re short of globes. You’ll find the boss in the front end of the machine shop.”

  Rafferty hesitated. Then, apparently reassured, he shrugged his shoulders and started down the stairway. Buell followed, and the workman came behind him with the light.

  Suddenly, just as Rafferty reached the foot of the stairs, Buell saw a cylindrical object flash out from the darkness at the right and crash on the Irishman’s skull. An instant later something struck him a terrific blow on the back of the head, strong arms seized him from behind, and he was forced to the floor, half dazed, yet struggling to shake off his assailants.

  The unequal contest was soon terminated. With hands and feet securely bound, a coarse gag in his mouth and a blindfold over his eyes he was half dragged, half carried for some distance, then lifted and thrown into what appeared to be a motor truck, for he heard the roar of the engine and felt the jolting of the vehicle as it whirled away.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MUFFLED FIGURE

  WHEN she was dragged into the car by her two abductors, Doris Lee fought gamely, but to no purpose. Buell’s leap to the running board and his subsequent battle with the pock-marked man, in which he appeared to be gaining the upper hand, brought hope of a speedy rescue. Then the man who held her swung his blackjack into play. Horrified at sight of Buell’s fall from the swiftly moving car, she attempted to scream, but a heavy hand was clapped over her mouth. She bit the hand, and her captor shook her roughly.

  “Easy, Spud,” cautioned the man with the pock-marked face. “Remember the boss said to treat her gentle.”

  “You can’t hold a wildcat and treat it gentle,” replied the man called Spud. “She bit clean through my hand. Pull down them side curtains and let’s get busy. We ain’t got much time.”

  They were out of the loop, now, and whirling along at breakneck speed, but Doris, crowded down on the cushions between the two men, could not tell in what direction. The pock-marked ruffian pulled down the shades, then took a light, tough cord from his pocket and bound her wrists.

  “Hold still, lady, and you won’t get hurt,” he said. “Pull at them cords and they’ll cut the skin from your wrists.”

  “Get busy with that gag and blindfold, Pock,” grunted Spud.

  ain’t getting’ enough jack out of this to pay me for losin’ a hand.”

  “A bite from that little mouth ain’t goin’ to hurt you none. Hold her head up a little higher.”

  They forced a gag into her mouth, tied a white silk muffler over her eyes, and lifted her to a more comfortable position in the rocking tonneau. She pulled at the cords that held her wrists, and they cut her cruelly. The gag half choked her and the blindfold was so tight her eyes ached, but she had no way of protesting and realized that it was useless to struggle further.

  After what seemed at least an hour of fast driving, every minute of which held both mental and physical torture for the girl, the car came to a sudden, shrieking stop.

  The two men helped her out and she heard it speed away. Then they piloted her down a short flight of steps and paused before a door at which one of them knocked—a series of timed taps that revealed the use of a code of some sort. She heard the door open, was led forward through several more doors, and came to a stop at sound of a voice in front of her.

  “Stop. You two can go no farther. Give the girl to me. It is the command of the High One.”

  “Where d’ya get that boloney, black boy?” It was the voice of Spud. “We ain’t givin’ this girl to no nigger.”

  She heard the voice of Pock. “It’s all right, Spud. You’re new at this game. The man’s a eunuch and what he says is true. We can’t go no farther. Ain’t allowed.”

  “All right, you win. You been here a long time so you ought to know your onions.”

  Doris felt a large hand on her arm, and drew back with a shudder. The sound of retreating footsteps gradually dying in the distance told her the two men had left.

  “Fear not, glorious one,” said the voice beside her. “The skin of Barsar is black, but the heart is loyal and his arm is strong. He will guide and guard you safely to the blessed portals of Karneter.”

  He removed the gag from her mouth, which was a great relief, and she requested that her bandage be loosened. This also was done. Then she heard a humming sound like that of hidden motors and her guide led her forward a few paces. Again the motors hummed and there was a sound behind her as if a heavy door or gate had slid into place.

  Once more her guide led her forward. Presently she found herself descending a stairway. And such a stairway! She thought they had traveled at least a mile down those steps when they reached a level floor once more.

  Again she heard the droning hum of motors. As they progressed this humming sound recurred at regular intervals for a considerable distance.

  Then her guide stopped.

  “Barsar can go no farther,” he said. “From this point others will guide you.”

  Another came, a woman this time, to judge from the sound of her voice.

  “Come, glorious one,” she said, placing her hand on Doris’ arm. “Let Thansor guide you through the portals of Karneter, the blessed.”

  The motors hummed once more. Then they walked forward and descended a flight of steps. At the bottom the guide helped Doris into what was evidently a vehicle of some sort, for it contained a cushioned seat and moved away noiselessly, swaying slightly from side to side.

  For twenty minutes she rode in the soundless, swinging vehicle. When at length her guide helped her out, they climbed a flight of broad, stone steps, and entered a room which,

  judging from the echoes of their footsteps on the hard floor and the time it took to cross it, was quite large. There was a pungent fragrance in the air that reminded her of incense.

  Passing into what was evidently a carpeted hallway, she was led for some distance farther, then a door was thrown open and she was piloted through it. It closed with a metallic clang.

  “Sisa! Tirabel!” her guide called. “The glorious one has come. Attend her promptly, for the Lord of K
arneter will soon be here.”

  The door opened and Doris heard the departing footsteps of her guide. Gentle hands on each side of her led her to a cushioned seat. Deftly, swiftly, the hands removed her bonds and blindfold. When she opened her eyes she saw that she was attended by two girls attired in garments of strange design—clinging, translucent fabric of light blue trimmed with gold. Their bare feet were shod with sandals of light blue leather. Both girls were quite pretty, each in her own way. The girl who had just removed her blindfold stood beside her. She was tall and willowy, with an olive complexion and glossy, jet-black hair. The other, the one who had removed her bonds, knelt before her, gently rubbing her wrists. She was smaller, more inclined to plumpness, and had a pink and white complexion and fluffy auburn hair. She was the first to speak.

  “I am Tirabel, glorious one,” she said. “Sisa and I have been sent here to minister to your wants. You must be tired after your journey to Karneter. Sisa will prepare a refreshing bath while I help you with your clothing.”

  WHILE she was being made ready for the bath, Doris had time for a detailed observation of her surroundings. She occupied a suite consisting of three rooms and bath. It was furnished lavishly, gorgeously, the predominating colors being blue and gold. Hangings were of blue velvet fringed with gold and decorated near the top with an irregular sprinkling of silver stars worked into the fabric. The lacquered furniture was grotesquely carved, representing lions, leopards, human-headed animals, and queer monstrosities that could scarcely be said to resemble either humans or animals.

  After a luxurious scented bath in a sunken marble tub, and a brisk rub-down at the hands of Sisa, Doris was arrayed in light blue clothing and sandals similar to the costumes of the two girls but more richly ornamented. Then Tirabel bound her fluffy golden hair with a band of blue velvet which supported a glittering silver star above her forehead.

  The two girls surveyed their handiwork with open admiration.

  “Is she not lovely, Sisa?” murmured Tirabel.

  “Almost too lovely to be real,” replied Sisa. “Our mighty lord would not have chosen her, otherwise. It must be that she is the most beautiful woman in the upper and lower worlds.”

  Suddenly a loud knocking sounded at the door. Sisa opened it, and was confronted by a gigantic woman who wore metal breastplates and wristlets and a cuirass of chain mail. A huge simitar was belted to her waist and she carried a long spear. The light glinted from her burnished helmet as she stooped to pass through the doorway. She was as generously proportioned in width as in stature and the muscles of her bare arms stood out like those of a trained athlete. Grounding her spear, she looked down at Sisa and said in a deep, almost masculine voice:

  “News comes that the High One has arrived. Is all in readiness?”

  “All is ready,” replied Sisa.

  “Then depart, that the glorious one may receive her lord alone.”

  Bowing low before Doris, Sisa and Tirabel took their departure. The giantess backed out after them and Doris noticed an iron-barred gate standing ajar just beyond it. When the door was closed once more she heard the clang of the gate as it swung into place

  She pondered the words of the giantess: “That she may receive her lord alone.”

  Someone, a man, a ruler of some sort, was coming to her rooms. Evidently she had been abducted by his order. Why? For what purpose? She shuddered as she thought of the possibilities.

  Rushing to the nearest window, she drew back the blue silk curtains and looked out. It was barred with heavy rods of steel. Beyond, she saw what looked like a tropical garden, bathed in moonlight. She ran to the next window, then the two remaining ones. All were similarly barred. There remained only the door. Hurrying across the room, she opened it softly. The gate was in place, fastened with a huge padlock. Just in front of the gate stood the armed giantess. She shut the door without heed to the noise it might make, made a last, hopeless circuit of the rooms, and returning, sank down on a blue and gold couch in utter despair.

  Tears came presently, and she buried her wet face among the soft cushions, weeping helplessly—hopelessly. Minutes passed—more than thirty of them—and with them the flood of her tears. Complete exhaustion claimed her and she lay back languidly, only keeping her eyes open and her faculties alert by a supreme effort of will.

  The minutes dragged on in dreary procession. She was nearly asleep when suddenly she heard the grating of a key and the creak of the metal gate. Then the door opened softly and a tall figure, muffled from head to foot in a dark blue cloak, stepped into the room.

  Too paralyzed with fear to so much as lift a hand, Doris gazed at the cloaked figure in wide-eyed horror. Above the folds of the cloak which concealed the lower part of the face, she saw a pair of eyes—glittering, cruel, hawklike—regarding her steadily. Heavy black eyebrows that met in a straight line above the nose added to the fierceness of their expression.

  She caught her breath sharply, then screamed in mortal terror, as the figure came swiftly toward her!

  CHAPTER 5

  A STRANGE ROOMING HOUSE

  BUMPING about in the rattling, roaring motor truck, Buell’s body soon became a mass of aches and bruises. His head throbbed terrifically from the blow he had received in the garage and the gag all but strangled him.

  After what seemed an age of relentless jolting, the vehicle came to a stop. He was dragged out, swung to the shoulders of three men and carried up a short flight of steps. A door opened, and then several more as they progressed, and he was taken up what was evidently a winding stairway, the steps of which creaked when trod upon. Two more stairways were mounted, then he was carried a few steps farther and a door opened. His captors lowered him to the floor. Then they left him without a word. He heard them close and lock the door and walk away, their footsteps dying in the distance.

  Buell’s hands were bound in front of him, and he was testing the strength of his bonds when a loud, blood-curdling groan suddenly shattered the comparative stillness. He lifted his hands and dragged the gag from his mouth. Then he pushed back the blindfold, yet all was black around him.

  A series of grunts in the direction from which the groan had come was followed by a string of forceful and picturesque Celtic invective.

  “Rafferty,” he called, “is that you?”

  “Heaven be praised, yer alive then, Buell,” came the response. “I thought maybe the dirty divvils had kilt you.”

  “Not yet. They put a goose egg on my head and trussed me up like a fowl on a spit.”

  “Goose egg, is it? The bump on me head feels as big as wan av thim dinnysaur eggs. Sure, I’d give me month’s pay for wan good poke at the lubber that hit me.”

  “That makes it unanimous,” agreed Buell, raising his bound hands to his throbbing head.

  “Wonder what they’re—hullo!”

  Rafferty paused to listen. “It’s company we seem to be gettin’.”

  The sound of approaching footsteps grew momentarily louder. They paused near at hand. Then came the murmur of gruff voices, the jingle of keys, and the grating click of a lock. Buell was momentarily blinded by a flood of yellow light as someone pressed a switch.

  A man grasped him roughly by the arm and jerked him to a sitting posture. He blinked and looked into the leering eyes of the man with the pock-marked face. Standing near by was a second ruffian, holding a tray of food and steaming black coffee.

  “Set the chow down beside ’em, Bill,” said the pock-marked one. “They slipped their gags and blindfolds so I guess they kin eat all right with their mitts tied.”

  “I’ll dare yez to untie mine, the both of yez,” growled Dan Rafferty.

  “Shut yer face before I kick it in fer you,” politely responded the one called Bill.

  “It’s a couple av cowardly gutter-rats yez are,” replied Rafferty, undaunted.

  Buell saw the fellow’s face redden with anger. He put the tray on the floor and advanced threateningly, then drew back a heavy shod foot for a kick. Buell swung
his bound legs just in time to trip the ruffian, who fell, sprawling and cursing, into the tray of food. Then the pock-marked man struck him a heavy blow in the face that sent him back to the floor. A free-for-all scrimmage followed. Rafferty had rolled to the assistance of Buell, only to be set upon by the cursing, food-smeared bruiser. The pock-marked man rained furious blows on Buell’s unprotected face and body. He managed to roll out of reach for a moment, but the fellow plunged after him with an angry roar. The moment’s respite had given Buell an opportunity to draw back his bound feet, and he now planted them in the pit of the man’s stomach as he bent over. The force of that kick sent him clear to the opposite wall, where he fell, doubled up like a jackknife, the wind completely knocked from his body.

  Turning, Buell saw Rafferty suddenly slide his bound wrists over the head and shoulders of his assailant, pinning his arms to his sides in such a manner as to make it impossible for him to strike an effective blow.

  “Atta boy, Dan!” he cried. “Hold him.” Then he rose and hopped to the assistance of his companion.

  “Hold him, is it?” replied Rafferty, tightening his gorillalike arms until his captive groaned with pain. “Sure I’ll crack ivvery bone in his body if he makes wan move or lets out a peep. See if the cowardly spalpeen has a knife.”

  Buell searched rapidly with his bound hands. Prom one hip-pocket he extracted a blackjack—from the other, a wicked-looking case-knife. Then he promptly used the former on the ruffian, the latter on his comrade’s bonds.

  “I’ll just cut the knots,” he said, “and unwind the rest. We’ll need these ropes.”

  They worked so swiftly that in five minutes they had both men bound and gagged. The pockets of the one with the pock-marked face had yielded weapons similar to those of his companion, so both detectives were now armed.

  “A foine-lookin’ pair of cutthroats,” said Rafferty. “I’d like to see thim whin they come to, but I guess we’d best be lavin’.”

  Buell opened the door stealthily and looked out. He saw a long, dimly lighted hallway.