Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1

by Harold Ward

  THE call from Doctor Death came to Craig just one hour after the resurrection of Carolyn Decker. Holm and Ricks, sitting at the extension telephones, listened in.

  The sinister Doctor was brief and to the point.

  “You have the money?” he demanded.

  Craig answered in the affirmative.

  “Drive to the entrance of Riverside cemetery,” he said. “An automobile will be standing close to the entrance facing north. You will drive, as nearly as you can estimate by your speedometer, one tenth of a mile past this car. You will then stop and stand beside your machine.

  “A man will approach you from the parked car. You will hand him the ransom money and continue to stand by the side of your car until he has returned to his own. You will say nothing to him. After he has reached his machine you may do as you please.”

  “May I bring a friend with me to act as guard?” Craig asked at Ricks’ suggestion. “The amount of ransom that I am carrying is large and—”

  Death chuckled.

  “That friend will, naturally, be Ricks or Holm,” he said. “Bring one or both for all I care. In any event, you will obey instructions to the letter if you value the life of the woman you love. I will not be in the ransom car. That much I promise you.”

  “How will I know your man?” Craig asked again.

  “He will be someone with whom you are well acquainted,” the physician answered shortly.

  There was a click and the receiver was hung up. Ricks, who had made an effort to have the call traced the instant it came in, had his report from the telephone company a moment later.

  The call had come from a booth in the union depot. It had been well timed. Trains were coming in and pulling out at just that moment. Several thousand people were in the depot. To attempt to locate the Doctor in such a crowd would be folly.

  Nor was it to be presumed that he would appear in public without some sort of disguise, knowing, as he undoubtedly did, that he would be recognized by the first person he met.

  Yet Ricks, always thorough, had every point in the city covered, had a force of men at the depot within three minutes after the call had been traced.

  A man who walked stiffly, lifting his legs mechanically, had been seen to shuffle out of one of the telephone booths at approximately one o’clock. A taxi driver had seen him enter a waiting car which had been rapidly driven away.

  Unfortunately, the driver had neglected to secure the number.

  Ricks knew and Jimmy Holm knew what had happened. Again the sinister Doctor Death had resorted to metempsychosis. For the nonce he had borrowed the body of someone from the grave in order to carry out his hellish designs.

  Meanwhile, immediately upon receipt of instructions from Doctor Death, arrangements were made to trace the car at the cemetery as soon as the ransom was paid. Yet every effort must be made to keep Death from knowing that his car was being shadowed lest harm befall Carolyn Decker. It was finally decided that only four men should know the plan—Holm, Ricks, Blake and young Craig.

  It was finally decided that Jimmy Holm was to start out immediately on a motorcycle and locate a parking place somewhere in the vicinity of the cemetery entrance. He was to have his machine faced toward the north and was to await until the ransom car had passed on its way back with the ransom money. Then he was to follow at a discreet distance, lights extinguished. After he found where the car went, he was to return and report.

  This post of danger had been demanded by Holm. Ricks, after considering the matter, agreed. Meanwhile, Blake and a force of Secret Service agents and policemen were to await instructions at headquarters so that, the moment Holm reported by telephone, they would be ready to move.

  Luckily there was a great many trees and bushes along the roadside so that Holm had little difficulty in finding a spot for his machine where he could see and yet be out of sight.

  Shortly before two o’clock a large closed car drove up to the cemetery entrance and, backing around, faced to the north under the light, the engine running. Five minutes later Craig, Ricks in the seat beside him, drove up. They slowed down as they passed the parked machine, driving a little distance beyond, then stopping. Both men climbed out and stood beside the parked car.

  The door of the ransom car opened and a man stepped out. Holm gasped with astonishment as he caught a glimpse of his face.

  It was Horatio Hallenberg!

  Walking slowly, stiffly, his limbs moving with mechanical precision, his eyes staring straight ahead, the dead Secretary of the Treasury shuffled down the road to where the other car stood, the two men standing beside it. Stopping a pace away from them, his hand went out like that of an automaton. Craig handed him the package of bills. Turning on his heel like a soldier on parade, he marched back to the other car.

  Stopping beside it, he tossed the package to someone inside. Then he toppled over and lay prone alongside the roadway.

  The curious, wraith-like vapor that had emanated from the body of Orla Lambosky seemed to leap from Hallenberg’s body and into the car, where the vague outline of another form could be seen at the wheel.

  The idling engine was galvanized into life. The machine darted forward, passing Holm at sixty miles an hour.

  For an instant the young detective was frozen in his tracks. Then, as he saw Ricks and Craig running toward the body of the murdered Secretary of the Treasury, he kicked the starter of his motorcycle and swung in the wake of the ransom car.

  It was with difficulty that Jimmy Holm followed the machine ahead. It skirted the city, swinging onto a main thoroughfare where there was considerable traffic, finally turning off onto a side road. From the side road it swung into a narrow lane—a twisting, abominable dirt trail filled with washouts and gullies; it curved around the hills and through narrow valleys filled with ruts.

  UNABLE to see his lights, Holm took several bad spills and finally, deciding that it was best to play safe, ditched his machine behind a bush and took up the chase on foot.

  The condition of the road made this task not as difficult as might appear. The car ahead seemed to merely creep along, so filled was the trail with washed-out ruts, rocks and bushes. Then the moon came out in all her silver majesty, lighting up the surrounding country almost as brightly as day.

  Holm lost all sense of direction by the time he had proceeded a mile. He finally oriented himself by means of the north star, deciding that the general direction was north and slightly east.

  The country grew rougher and rougher. It appeared to be all hills and ravines with apparently not a level place anywhere, the hillside covered with great outcroppings of limestone and stunted trees.

  Suddenly, rounding a hill, he saw the outlines of a house in a small grove of trees. He hurried on until he found himself at the edge of a small clearing. In the center, a background of low, wooded hills showing behind it, was a low rambling house, apparently built into the side of a sort of foothill. Off to one side was a small outbuilding, apparently a garage, for there was no sign of a car in the yard. From all indications the place was unoccupied.

  Holm hesitated. This was certainly his destination, for the trail ended here. And, from every indication there was no possible outlet, the house being located in a sort of valley surrounded on both sides and rear by wooded hills, making a sort of “U” with the house inside the circle.

  Yet why the desertion? Certainly someone must be home since, in spite of Doctor Death’s ability, Holm was unable to force himself to the belief that he could steer an automobile without someone at the wheel. And, too, the wraith-like vapor that had emanated from the body of the walking dead man was, as Holm knew only too well, the life of someone being transferred from the dead body of someone, living or dead, inside of the car.

  The thought caused a chill of horror to race down his spine. He braced himself and, squatting behind a bush, settled down to a campaign of watchful waiting.

  It was close to four-thirty, according to the illuminated dial of his wrist watch. For half an hour he
debated whether to wait for daylight or to return to the city and report. Then came the thought of Nina Fererra. Possibly she was somewhere inside that apparently deserted house.

  A MAN in love lacks discretion. Jimmy Holm was in love. The passing of the moon under a cloud made up his mind for him. He took the middle course and, darting from bush to bush, approached the house.

  There was something sinister and repellent about the place—something that seemed to warn him to turn hack. He put it down to his nerves and cautiously approached the front door.

  Closer investigation disclosed the fact that there was a narrow tumbledown porch. Instead of stepping onto it, Holm skirted the house, passing around to the left until he reached the bill in the rear. Then, finding that the building was set back into the hillside, he turned and negotiated the other side. It was on this side of the house that the garage was located. He walked down the path and tried the door. It was locked.

  Turning, he looked back at the house. Again the feeling of repulsion swept over him. He shuddered in spite of himself. There was every indication that the old place was abandoned. Yet he was certain that it was tenanted.

  Then a thought suddenly flashed across his mind. Both men in the ransom car had been dead. He had once before witnessed the diabolical ability of Doctor Death to cause the dead to walk and obey his commands. Such must be the case now. The house was untenanted by the living; the ransom money had been handled by dead men.

  He laid his hand cautiously on the knob of the side door. It was locked. Again he skirted the house and, stepping onto the front porch, tried the door. It yielded to his touch.

  The interior was in darkness. Drawing his gun, he took a pencil flashlight from his vest pocket and, stepping across the threshold, pressed the button.

  Jimmy Holm gasped with astonishment at what the tiny beam of the pencil flashlight disclosed. The room was out of place in this ancient, tumbledown house. The floor was of some sort of hard wood, carefully sanded and waxed. Scattered here and there were beautiful oriental rugs. In the center was a huge table, one side of it filled with books, while the other was littered with writing materials; a small desk stood close by; on it was a portable typewriter.

  The walls were lined with open bookshelves. He glanced at the titles. They were largely along the line of medicine, metaphysics and psychology. Of fiction there was nothing. Here and there were costly etchings on the walls. In one corner stood several mummy cases.

  The door leading into the adjoining room was ajar. He tiptoed in, unable to resist his curiosity. The furnishings matched those of the room he had just quitted. He crossed the hall and entered still another room. He stopped at the threshold, his eyes fairly bulging with astonishment, led on by a compulsion seemingly outside his will.

  The room was one of the most splendidly equipped medical laboratories he had ever laid eyes on!

  The walls, painted white, were lined with shelves on which stood bottles and beakers, test tubes, Bunsen burners—everything necessary for the most delicate experiments. There was even an adjustable chair.

  Then, as the beam of the tiny flash swung in a half arc, he leaped back with an exclamation of horror.

  It disclosed the face of a dead man!

  Recovering his courage, he turned back and made a more thorough examination. Near the dissecting table was a smaller table on which lay knives and other instruments. Beside them was a pair of rubber gloves; they were thrown carelessly aside as if the operator had been stopped in the middle of a delicate experiment.

  Jimmy Holm trembled with an inexplicable terror. He wanted to turn and rush from the infernal house. But, at the same time, something held him there—something stronger than his own will that told him to continue his explorations.

  Walking on tiptoe, he negotiated the narrow stairs to the upper floor. Here he was again treated to a surprise.

  With the exception of one room in which was a cheap bed and mattress, uncovered and bare, the entire upper floor was dust-covered and unfurnished.

  Turning, he tiptoed downstairs again and hurried through the hallway. Something told him to take a second look inside the laboratory.

  He stepped inside the door, the beam of his flashlight playing over the face of the dead man on the dissecting table again.

  The floor gave way beneath his feet.

  He landed with a jar on something soft—a pile of something that seemed to roll away from him as he struck. His flashlight dropped from his hand and bounced a little distance to one side, while his gun rolled in the other direction.

  He stretched forth his hand to recover the light. It came in contact with something cold and clammy.

  He leaped to his feet with an exclamation of horror.

  The flashlight revealed everything distinctly.

  He was in a pit filled with dead men!

  Chapter VIII

  Creatures from Hell

  FOR a moment Jimmy Holm stood there, an intangible nameless dread creeping over him that seemed to paralyze his faculties. Then, getting command of himself by a mighty effort of will, he turned the beam of his flashlight upward. He was in a huge pit at least thirty feet deep.

  It was apparently without an exit except through the top which, shaped like a bottle neck, was covered with the trap door through which he had fallen. Evidently this trap was fastened on spring hinges, for it had leaped back into place, sealing him securely in the pit with the dead.

  The dead! He recalled the cave in which Doctor Death had had his headquarters before—a cave connected by a tunnel with a nearby cemetery—a cave in one part of which he had piled hundreds of cadavers upon which he experimented at his leisure.

  For Doctor Death was one of the few living men who had studied the unholy art of devil worship. By means of some sort of fluid which he injected into their veins, he was able to exercise over the dead a certain telepathic control. This fluid responded to his thought waves like the human brain; by means of it he was able to cause the dead to obey his every command.

  Yet it was not with every cadaver that Doctor Death could work. Perhaps not over one in a thousand responded to his commands. As a result, it was necessary for him to have dead bodies in great numbers in order to find subjects upon which to conduct his hellish experiments.

  The thought brought little solace to Jimmy Holm. Yet it calmed his quivering nerves to a certain extent. He forced his muscles into obedience and again turned his flashlight on the pile of pitiful corpses on the floor. It was apparent that they had been thrown into the pit indiscriminately; they were heaped in a great pile, upon the apex of which he had fallen. Even now the heap quivered and rocked as the bodies beneath were pressed down by the changing weight on top.

  Some were naked, some were clad in the cerements of the grave. Some were in rags, some in the richest finery. Doctor Death had played no favorites in robbing the tomb.

  The pit was as still as the tomb—so quiet that Holm could almost hear the beating of his own heart as it pounded madly against the walls of his chest. Getting a grip on himself, he rotated slowly on his heel, allowing the beam of his flashlight to play over the smooth stone walls.

  He was well enough acquainted with Doctor Death and his methods to realize that, somewhere, there was a hidden entrance to the charnel pit, through which the sinister old scientist could remove the subjects for his experiments.

  That this huge pile of cadavers had been secured for the purpose of dissection was absurd. No, Death was again conducting one of his hellish probations. The laboratory upstairs was merely a blind or a workshop for his moments of recreation.

  Somewhere, deeply buried beneath the earth was another place where he could carry on his work unmolested and undisturbed. And the entrance to that room, Holm was sure, was through this pit. He still believed that Doctor Death was absent from the old house. If he could find that second exit, there was a possible chance of making his escape before the sinister Doctor returned and of learning the whereabouts of Nina.

  He curse
d himself for a fool for blundering into the trap—for he was certain, now, that a trap it was, set by Death himself. He had promised Ricks that he would follow only far enough to learn the destination of the ransom car. But carried on by his concern for Nina, he had allowed himself to blunder. That mistake, he told himself bitterly, might mean disaster, not only to himself, but to the world at large.

  HIS light came to rest upon a spot which seemed smoother than the others. For a moment he stood there examining it. Then he took a step closer.

  He leaped back with an exclamation of horror.

  Something was moving on the other side of the wall.

  The black slugs of fear crawled like maggots through Jimmy Holm’s brain. Yet he forced himself to extinguish the light for an instant. Then, his body poised for combat, he stood there in the darkness, his every faculty alert.

  “Shf! Shf! Shf!”

  It was the shuffle of feet. Then he imagined that he heard whispers.

  Unable to stand the darkness longer, he again pressed the button of his flashlight and flooded the spot from which the noise had come. The whisperings suddenly ceased and again the silence was unbroken save by the beat-beat-beat of his own heart.

  His toe came in contact with something that scraped across the stone floor. He leaped sideways a pace, his flash forming an arc of light downward.

  It was his revolver.

  He picked it up and cocked it. It gave him a feeling of security. Again he turned his attention to that part of the wall from which the noises had come.

  Again he heard that ominous shf! shf! He brought his gun to a level with his eyes, his whole body quivering with terror.

  A door was slowly opening.

  HIS eyes almost bulging from his head, Jimmy Holm saw a long section of the stonework slide slowly an inch or two to one side. Then a hand was inserted in the opening—a horrible hand, twice as large as an ordinary man’s—white with the sickening pallor of death, the fingers writhing and twisting like a nest of snakes. They slid around the edge of the door bonelessly, pushing it open a tiny bit farther.