Bride of Osiris

by Otis Adelbert Kline

  “Come on,” he said. “Now’s our chance.”

  They switched off the room light and locked the door.

  “We’ll search the house,” he continued. “Doris may be a prisoner here.”

  “Lead on, me bye,” replied Rafferty with enthusiasm. “Another iligant little scrap like that will take the rust out av me joints.”

  A SEARCH of the entire floor they were on proved fruitless. Every room was not only deserted, but bare of furniture as well. All windows were boarded up with heavy planking, spiked to the frames. They found a broad, banistered stairway at one end of the hall and a small spiral stairway at the other.

  “Must have been a rooming house at one time,” said Buell. “This is evidently the top floor, as the stairways end here. Let’s try the next one.”

  They noiselessly descended the smaller stairway, stopped at the next landing and opened the door that led to the hallway. The odor of tobacco smoke and the sound of voices greeted them. These apparently issued from an open transom at their left.

  “Wait here,” whispered Buell, “and I’ll take a peek through the keyhole.”

  He tiptoed softly to the door and looked through the narrow opening. Four men, a hard-looking lot, were seated at a table playing poker. There were glasses all around, and two half-emptied whisky bottles. The man opposite the door, a burly, bottlenosed ruffian with a tattered cigar gripped between his teeth, tossed a chip to the center of the table.

  “Open for a dollar,” he said.

  “Stay,” said the next man.

  The others threw in their hands.

  “Only one customer?” The burly one looked disgusted. “This game is goin’ flat. Wonder what’s keepin’ Pock and Bill.”

  “Dey went up to feed dem two amachoor dicks,” replied the man across from him.

  “Seems like they’re takin’ a hell of a long time to it. By the way, what’s the boss gonna do with them two?”

  “Croak ’em, I guess, if de chief dick don’t come across. Dey framed Verkler dis afternoon. ’Phoned in de number of his bus and he got pinched. Sproul wrote McGraw a note and offered to trade him, two men for one.”

  “Ain’t Sproul gettin’ awful generous?”

  “Not him. He got his orders from de big boss.”

  Buell rose and beckoned to Rafferty. The Irishman, bursting with curiosity, joined him.

  “What the divvil’s goin’ on in there?” he whispered.

  “Poker game. Now is a good time to search this floor.”

  Lights shone through the transoms above three other doors. All the rest were dark. They investigated the lighted rooms first. Two proved to

  be bathrooms. In the third, they saw a man seated on the edge of a bed taking off his shoes. Pour of the dark rooms proved to be unoccupied bedrooms. A fifth was bolted on the inside. A sleepy growl came from within as Buell turned the knob.

  “Whadda ya want?”

  “Pardon me. Got the wrong door,” replied Buell.

  “Why doncha look where you’re goin’ ?” was the polite rejoinder. “Wakin’ a guy up at this hour of the night.”

  Rafferty grinned.

  “Sure and that was a close call,” he said. “Yez got away wid it good, though.,”

  Buell tried the last door in a more gingerly manner. He found an empty bedroom.

  Again they descended the spiral stairway. This time they found three doors at the bottom. One was outlined with yellow light. Prom beyond it came a metallic clatter and an odor suggestive of cookery.

  “The galley—I mane the kitchen,” said Rafferty.

  He bent to look through the keyhole, but there was none. Then he found it was a swinging door. By pushing it open a little way he gained a view within. He let it carefully back into place, then rose.

  “Couple av slant-eyed Chinks polishin’ pots and pans,” he whispered.

  In the meantime Buell had tried the two other doors, a basement stairway-butler’s pantry.

  “Might as well explore this floor while we’re here,” he said. “Come on.”

  Beyond the pantry was a spacious dining room, elegantly furnished. From another room still farther on, light filtered through the portieres that spanned the double opening.

  As they neared the portieres a bell tinkled in the room beyond. It rang again, long and insistently. Looking between the portieres, Buell saw a large living room, comfortably and tastily furnished. It was lighted by a single, shaded floor lamp. At the far end a servant in livery was opening the door. He admitted a man whose beaver hat and fur-collared topcoat were powdered with snow.

  “Is Sproul in?” he asked, as the man relieved him of topcoat and hat.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Sproul is expecting you, I believe, sir.”

  The servant strode pompously to a curtained doorway at the right. As he drew back the hangings a shaft of light flashed into the living room.

  “Mr. Melvin to see you, sir,” he announced.

  “Veil, show him in,” came a querulous, high-pitched voice from the other side.

  The visitor entered. As the light struck full on his face, Buell recognized the man who had blackjacked him in the limousine on the night of Doris’ abduction.

  “Runnels.” It was the querulous voice again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Go into the entryway and close the inner door. I vant to speak privately mit dis gentleman.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

  Buell waited until the servant had shut himself in the vestibule.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered.

  They tiptoed stealthily to the curtained doorway and peered within. Two men sat facing each other across a massive walnut table. One was the visitor. Buell gave a start of surprize as he saw the half-turned profile of the other. It called up a vision of a cafe—two men seated at a table edging the dance floor. One wore a square-cut beard and smoked long, Oriental cigarettes. The other, middle-aged and portly, toyed with a highball glass, even as he now toyed with a small golden inkwell., Buell saw the connection now. Sproul was the agent of the black-bearded man and this other, the man called Melvin, was a minion of Sproul.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE FATE OF A RENEGADE

  “VELL, Melvin, haff you decided to stick mit us?” Sproul pushed the inkwell from him and folded his pudgy fingers.

  “Stick, hell! I told you what I’d do last night. I’m through. I agreed to help you pull this job—you and Pock. Pulled it slick, didn’t we? Gimme my jack and we’ll part friends. You don’t need to come this ‘Stick with the gang’ stuff on me. I’m no squealer. You know that.”

  “It ain’t that you’re a squealer.” Sproul plucked at his watch-chain and drew a small emblem from his vest pocket—an emblem similar to that which Buell had torn from the man with the pock-marked face. The burnished disk glittered in the light as he held it aloft. “Ven you got vun of dese you swore a certain oath. Are you going to keep it?”

  “Certainly I’m going to keep it. I’ve done my part. All I want is a square deal. You know the penalty for kidnaping. Even if I wanted to squawk do you think I’d be damned fool enough to put my own head in the noose?”

  Sproul leaned back heavily, replacing the charm in his pocket.

  “That ain’t the point, Melvin. Mit us the law of nature holds. All life is progress. You can’t stand still—you can’t go back. To do so is death.”

  Melvin half rose in his chair, his lips drawn back from flashing teeth.

  “You dare to threaten me?” he snarled. He did not see what Buell and Rafferty saw—a pudgy thumb pushing a button on the table leg. “Do you mean to say you’ve got the brass to sit there and threaten Spud Melvin, champion gunman of the toughest ward in Chicago?”

  Sproul raised a deprecatory hand.

  “Now, now! Vait a minute. Sit down. Did I say I vos threatening you?”

  Melvin sat down. As he did so, Buell noticed two sections of a built-in bookcase at his back, opening up like doors—slowly, soundlessly. Within the
dark opening a grinning, ebony face appeared., Then a giant negro, naked save for turban and loincloth, stepped silently out. In his hand was a huge simitar. Like a great black leopard stalking its prey, he crept up behind the unsuspecting man and stood with weapon upraised.

  Sproul, cool as a cucumber, picked up a pen from the table and balanced it on his middle finger. Not by the slightest flicker of an eyelash did he betray his knowledge of the negro’s presence.

  “Melvin,” he said. “I don’t threaten yon. A power greater than either of us—greater than I can tell you, threatens. As the humble mouthpiece of that power I giff you this last chance. Are you mit us?” Melvin leaned forward, tensely alert.

  “Sproul,” he replied, “I recognize no power on earth except the power of Spud Melvin to fight his way through. I’m giving you this last chance to play square with me. Either come through with my dough

  or beat me to the draw. You always carry a gun and you know my speed. What’ll you have?”

  Sproul twirled the pen between thumb and forefinger with an air of unconcern.

  “I haff said my say. I’m through.”

  “Then so am I,” rasped Melvin. “See, here’s my hand above the table. I’m giving you a chance.”

  Sproul dropped the pen. The heavy simitar flashed downward, shearing Melvin’s skull to the bridge of the nose. He slumped forward without a sound.

  “Take him out, Barsar,” cried Sproul. His voice was again high-pitched and querulous. “Don’t pull the blade out until you get him off the rug. I don’t vant blood all over it.”

  In a moment the negro had disappeared in the opening with the body of Melvin. The bookcases slid back in place as slowly and noiselessly as before.

  Sproul coolly selected a cigar from a lacquered humidor on the table, lighted it, and puffed reflectively. Suddenly he cocked his head to one side in a listening attitude. At the same moment Buell and Rafferty heard the clatter of heavy shoes. Someone was running toward them from the back of the house.

  “Quick,” said Rafferty. “Duck behind this sofy.”

  A large, overstuffed davenport slanted across the comer of the room nearest them. They barely had time to leap behind its broad back when a man dashed past and entered the library.

  “The dicks is gone!” he gasped. Tied up Pock and Bill and locked ’em in the room.”

  Buell recognized the voice of the bottle-nosed man.

  “Himmel! They must be in the house yet. Haff you searched?”

  “The boys are lookin’ around now.

  “Look eferywhere. Look in the basement—on the roof. They couldn’t pass the guards. Mein Gott! It will mean our heads if they are gone! Go! Hurry! Don’t stand there like a verdammte esel! Ach! I must tell the High One.”

  Again the fellow hurried past the davenport. They heard a door slam in the rear, and the muffled clatter of shoes on the stairs.

  Buell poked his head above the davenport, then lowered it hurriedly. The butler was coming toward the library.

  “Did you call me, sir?” he asked.

  “Call you? No. Go back to the vestibule, lock the doors on both sides of you and have your veapons ready. The detectifs are loose.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

  As soon as the butler closed the door, Buell and Rafferty emerged from hiding and approached the library. Looking between the curtains, Buell saw the two bookcase sections slowly swinging into place. Sproul was not in sight.

  “He’s gone,” cried Buell, “through that hole in the wall. Come on.”

  They dashed into the library just as the sections settled into position. Buell pressed the button on the table leg and they swung slowly forward once more. An inspection of the dark opening revealed a small landing and a narrow stairway, descending steeply in front of them.

  They stepped! within. Voices came from the direction of the dining room.

  “How’re we gonna shut this thing?” inquired Rafferty. “Them roughnecks are comin’ from upstairs.”

  Buell, looking around hastily, noted a small button on the ceiling, similar to that on the table leg. He pressed it, saw that the doors were closing, and led the way down the narrow stairs.

  CHAPTER 7

  WALLS WITH EARS—AND VOICES

  THE two detectives, expecting to arrive in the basement with a comparatively few steps, were surprized to find that the stairway led on and on as if headed for the very center of the earth.

  “Mebby this is the way them two Chink cooks came up,” said Rafferty. “A couple av miles more and we’ll be in their connthry.”

  “Can the comedy,” advised Buell, who was a few steps in the lead. “I see a light ahead of us.”

  A hundred feet more and they were under the light, standing on a small, square landing. Facing them on three sides were stone walls. The floor and ceiling were of solid concrete. Their way was blocked in every direction except that from which they had come.

  Rafferty, always inquisitive, tapped on the wall with his knuckles.

  “Now what the——?”

  He was interrupted by a voice, the deep, sepulchral tones of which sent cold chills racing up and down his spine and rendered him momentarily speechless. It echoed through the small enclosure without seeming to come from any particular part of it.

  “What seek ye here?”

  Buell was rendered as tongue-tied as his garrulous companion for a moment. Then a happy thought struck him.

  “We have a message for the High One,” he said.

  There was a sound like the whir of a powerful motor, and the wall in front of them slid swiftly upward, revealing a dimly-lighted passageway beyond, but no sign of a human being.

  “Proceed,” said the mysterious voice.

  Buell went ahead with inward misgivings but no outward sign of trepidation. Rafferty, close behind, seemed actually to be enjoying himself. He looked back as the wall dropped into place once more.

  “Begorry, this is gettin’ interestin’,” he said. “Sure I’ve often heard that walls had ears, but I niwer even dreamt that they had voices.”

  Some distance farther on they reached another blank wall. They were interrogated in the same manner, gave the same answer, and were allowed to proceed as before.

  They had passed a third, a fourth and finally a fifth wall when Rafferty began to show signs of misgiving.

  “Mark me words there’s somethin’ spoiled in Copenhagen,” he said.

  “It’s beginning to look that way,” replied Buell.

  “Sure, it’s all too aisy to be true. I’m beginning to think this place is a damned sight aisier to get into than out off,”

  They reached a sixth wall presently, and were interrogated as at the previous ones.

  “What seek ye here?”

  A peculiarity that Buell had noticed was that the voice at each wall not only repeated the same words as at the first one, but spoke in exactly the same tones, as if one man were conducting all the questioning.

  “We bear a message to the High One,” replied Buell, waiting for the wall to rise. He heard the whir of hidden motors, but the wall remained where it was. What could be happening? he wondered. He turned and saw that another wall had been lowered close behind them. They were hemmed in a narrow boxlike space.

  Both men looked around apprehensively. There was no sign of a person or even an opening in any direction.

  The stillness was suddenly shattered by a horrible shriek of demoniac laughter, which echoed and re-echoed from the walls of their prison.

  “Laugh, you blisterin’ hyena,” shouted Rafferty. “Remimber he who laughs last gets the most fun out av it.”

  A horrid cackle answered him.

  At the same moment Buell became conscious of a peculiar acrid odor permeating the enclosure and growing stronger every minute. With the coming of this odor it seemed that the room was beginning to rock gently to and fro as if it were swinging on the end of a long rope. Noting that the light was growing dim, he looked upward toward the small incandes
cent globe. A cloud of thick yellow vapor had partly obscured it.

  “Fire!” he shouted. “The room is on fire!”

  He could not hear the sound of his own voice. Instead he saw with horror that flaming letters were issuing from his mouth, spelling out the words and disappearing with puffs of yellow smoke.

  The room was beginning to rock with more and more violence. In attempting to steady himself he collided with Dan Rafferty, who was similarly employed.

  “Steady, me lad.” The flaming words issued this time from the mouth of Dan Rafferty, visible but not audible.

  With a supreme effort, Buell pulled himself erect. Suddenly he felt himself growing very rapidly. He was as tall as the Woolworth Building. Far below him Rafferty, looking no bigger than an ant, was holding out both hands and endeavoring to balance himself as if walking a tightrope. He felt himself growing smaller once more. Down, down he shot, with a swiftness that was appalling. The wind whistled past his ears and a sinking feeling similar to that experienced by some people in rapidly descending elevators attacked the pit of his stomach.

  The next instant Dan Rafferty assumed gigantic proportions and Buell felt as small as an insect. The room began whirling, slowly at first, but gradually gaining momentum until an appalling speed had been attained. He kept to his feet with difficulty that increased as the whirling grew swifter. At length, reaching the limit of his endurance, he fell to the floor. A shower of multicolored sparks dropped around him. Thai all went black. . . .

  WHEN Doris Lee cried out in terror, the muffled figure approaching her couch stopped. Then a voice issued from the cloak.

  “Come, Thansor, attend the girl. She seems hysterical.”

  A pudgy female, attired in a stiff blue robe trimmed with silver, came through the door. She threw back her cowl as she entered, revealing a shaven head and a round, moonlike face, the fat, puffy cheeks of which almost hid her tiny pig eyes.

  She approached the couch and placed a moist, plump hand on Doris’ brow.

  “Be not afraid, glorious one,” she said. “I am Thansor, who piloted you through the gates.”