Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1

by Harold Ward

  Again he heard that shf! shf! shf! of shuffling feet and the sound of whispering. Horrible voices they were, low, menacing, toneless, ominous. Something seemed to be crowding about the opening, peering through at him squarely into the center of the beam of light.

  The hand pushed the door open a bit more. Now he caught a glimpse of a wrist—a long, slender wrist, boneless, sinuous and snakelike—a wrist as tiny as that of a baby. Again he had the feeling of being spied upon by unseen eyes. He knew that on the other side of the door something foul was glaring at him.

  Slowly the door slid open a trifle wider. Now he could see eyes gazing in at him—green-glowing eyes, sulphurous, venomous.

  He forced his benumbed legs to carry him a step forward. The hand disappeared from the edge of the opening and the horrible eyes drew back. He fought his fears as he moved slowly ahead until he stood beside the door and, laying one hand on it, shoved it back to its full width. Then he thrust his flashlight through the opening. Its brilliance pierced the aisle of darkness which opened up before him.

  He did not shriek at what he saw; his mind was too benumbed for that—too filled with blind, overmastering terror when he visioned the group of slouching, vermingray figures that crouched within the ring of light, their twisted, misshapen fingers held before their eyes in an effort to ward off the glare.

  Hideous, hell-creatures, they were—things made in the shape of men and yet shapeless. Their heads, bloated like huge balloons, were without form. Their eyes were lidless like those of a fish. They had no noses, while their mouths, stretched across the entire fronts of their faces, were fanged and stained as if with poison—drooling with gangrenous spittle.

  They were neckless, hairless, their huge heads set atop tiny, malformed bodies, their legs rubbery and ending in huge, claw-like feet while their arms, as thin as those of infants, ended in the twisted hands he had already seen, the nailless worm-like fingers almost scraping the floor. Bestial, macabre, gelatinous, their parchment skin was white and corpselike, mottled with decayed spots like great festering sores.

  Jimmy Holm stifled the scream that was in his throat and took a dozen staggering strides forward in an effort to force his bewildered brain to the belief that these awful atrocities were but the figments of his own imagination. They were too loathsome, he told himself, to be real.

  They drew away from him as he advanced. At the same time there came to his nostrils a horrible fetor—a mingling of rancid serpent stench with the cloying odor of decaying carrion and moldy charnel houses. The awful stench seared his throat as he stumbled forward; it cut into his nasal passages, invading his brain.

  He went amuck. He pulled the trigger of his gun. Why, he never understood. It was stark panic that caused him to start the attack. Again and again he jerked the trigger until every chamber was empty. He was certain of his aim. Yet his bullets went through the spongy bodies of the hell creatures without effect.

  For an instant they drew back. Then they came at him in a squealing, shrieking mass. They overpowered him with their weight, pawing at him, pulling at his arms, his hand, his legs. He screamed, his voice filled with agony and black, panicky fright. They fought each other to get at him their teeth gnashing, gathering in fresh hundreds from every side. The whole world seemed filled with them. The light was knocked from his hands as he went down. It bounced a little way to one side, its tiny beam a thin pencil in the hellish darkness.

  Then Jimmy Holm fainted.

  HE opened his eyes at the sound of a voice. It seemed to come from a great distance. The cavern was filled with light. The hell creatures were gone; he could hear them squealing and squeaking back somewhere in the darkness. Yet the horrible odor persisted; it gagged him, causing him to retch.

  “Back! Back! Damned things!”

  The voice was familiar. Jimmy Holm raised himself to his elbow and gazed with startled eyes toward the other end of the room where stood a man, his back turned, exorcising the accursed things that had attacked him. They were falling away before him. The effort was too much after what he had gone through and the young detective slumped back to the floor again, his head whirling...

  Something was pressed to his lips. He swallowed. It raced through his veins like liquid fire, but it braced him.

  Somewhere he imagined that he heard the voice of a woman... shrieking...

  He opened his eyes again. A man was bending over him, a man who was tall and gaunt almost to the point of cadaverousness, a man whose eyes were set so deeply in their sockets that he looked like death...

  “Feeling better, Jimmy?” he asked.

  Jimmy Holm jerked himself to a sitting position.

  “Doctor Death!” he exclaimed.

  The thin man bowed mockingly.

  “At your service,” he responded. “And just in time to keep my little pets from putting the quietus on you. You were foolish to arouse them, Jimmy. I knew that you were coming, but I had not counted on your making your entrance so dramatically.”

  He raised Jimmy Holm to his feet.

  “However,” he went on smilingly, “you are welcome.”

  He stretched forth his hand and caught Jimmy Holm as the young detective staggered and would have fallen to the ground. The terrors of the past half hour had been too great for him.

  Chapter IX

  Death’s Bargain

  JIMMY HOLM recovered consciousness slowly. For a moment he lay there thinking. Had it been a dream? Had he, in reality, seen the bizarre creatures of the darkness or was it his imagination?

  He opened his eyes and stared into space, unable to realize for the moment where he was. Then he tried to pull himself into a sitting position, only to fall back when wire-tight ropes yanked at his arms, spread-eagled above his head.

  Then a woman came into the picture. This time he was certain that he was dreaming. A sad smile hovered over her full red lips while her amber-colored eyes, slightly inclined to the oblique, appeared to be trying to convey a message to him. She rushed forward, her arms outstretched. Dropping to her knees beside the couch on which he lay, she pressed her lips against his in a long, lingering caress.

  “Nina!” he whispered.

  “Jimmy!” she exclaimed. “Dear Jimmy!”

  A shadow fell across them and the long, talon-like hand of Doctor Death seized her rudely by the shoulder and pulled her away.

  “Pardon my intrusion upon your lovemaking,” he said with a cynical bow. “However, when I desire to have you two meet, I will let you know. Meanwhile, Nina, you will retire.”

  The girl whirled on him, her eyes blazing with anger.

  “I refuse!” she snapped. “I—”

  Doctor Death extended his arm toward her. From the ends of his bony fingers sparks seemed to snap and sparkle as from an electric dynamo. She staggered backward, her slender white hands pressed against her eyes.

  “Jimmy!” she wailed as she tottered from the room.

  The young detective struggled at his bonds. His efforts were fruitless. He managed to turn his head slightly and gazed up into the cold, cynical eyes of the aged scientist.

  “Damn you!” he snarled. “You devil!”

  Death chuckled malevolently.

  “Swear if you enjoy it, my young friend,” he answered, seating himself in a nearby chair. Then, while Jimmy Holm gave vent to his rage, the old man filled and lighted a pipe, smoking with apparent enjoyment. At the conclusion of the tirade, he arose and left the room.

  HOLM sank back against the cushions to which he was tied and twisting his head to either side, made a hasty survey of his surroundings. From what he could see, he was in a huge room as magnificently furnished as the one in which he had found himself when he entered the house. Expensive rugs were on the floor. On a nearby table were several books with costly bindings. Others filled the shelves along the walls. Again he imagined that he heard a woman scream. The sound was indistinct—muffled. He was not certain whether the voice was that of Nina or not.

  The door opened and Doct
or Death entered again. He was clad in a neatly starched white surgical coat while over his magnificent thatch of snowy hair was pulled a knitted white cap. He seated himself by the side of the davenport and once more filled and lighted his pipe.

  “Tobacco is a wonderful solace,” he said, leaning back against the cushions with evident enjoyment. Then, as Holm made no answer, he gazed at him quizzically.

  “Need I remind you that I am the greatest scientist the world has ever known?” he said in the tired voice of a parent chiding an unruly child. “Why, then, do you fight me, Jimmy? You know that I will triumph in the end. I am destined to change the universe.

  “Egotist, do I hear you say? I repeat that it is not egotism that prompts me to make that assertion. It is merely a statement of fact. Einstein knows that he is great. The world knows it. Yet has the world ever given to Einstein the attention that is now—and was in the past—paid to me? I tell you now, as I told you once before, that I, king of all scientists, have been placed upon this earth to destroy all other men of science and all scientific invention.”

  He waited until Jimmy Holm’s outburst had subsided.

  “In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth,” he continued. “Then he made man—made him in his own image and likeness. It was his idea that there should be heaven on earth. But, unfortunately he gave man a brain. This brain has been developed throughout the centuries until now man has reached a stage where he believes that he is greater than the God who created him.

  “God never intended that man should fly. Else he would have given him wings like the birds. God never intended that man should live beneath the waves, else he would have given him fins like the fishes. God never intended that man should send out his voice upon the ether. These and a thousand other things has man done in an effort to improve upon the work of his Creator.

  “Because of all these things, God’s plan has gone amuck. Satan and I have formed an alliance. Together we will rule the world. With the devil’s power, I will go forth and destroy, using my brain to tear down what man, using his God-given brain, has accomplished.

  “Through my efforts, the earth will be restored to its original state. Man will dwell upon it again in primitive simplicity. And I—I, Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, will be hailed as the savior of mankind—second only to Ahrimanes himself.”

  HE stopped, his eyes wearing a peculiar, far-away look. For an instant Jimmy Holm was sorry for the man. He remembered the wonderful brain that had once been Death’s. Then he recalled the diabolical cruelty of this creature in whose skull the maggots of madness were holding carnival. The thought caused him to shudder.

  But already Doctor Death’s mood had changed.

  “You have just witnessed my latest experiment,” he chuckled. “It almost resulted disastrously for you. Have you any idea, Jimmy, what those creatures were that attacked you there in my room of corpses?”

  “God, no!” Holm answered with a shudder.

  Doctor Death leaned forward, his bony forefinger tapping against the other’s chest the better to emphasize his remarks.

  “I am an artist in malignancy,” he said. “You remember that I was always interested in elementals—primal earth forces—things without form, faceless, eyeless—things born beyond the veil and yet unborn. Spirit forms that have never evolved.

  “Elementals hate humans. Why? Because humans have evolved. Occasionally it becomes possible—although it is very seldom that such a thing happens—for an elemental to break through the veil and to manifest itself upon the human plane. As you will recall, I was able to control these elementals in the form of whirlwinds—vortices. You have tasted my power over them. Only a few nights ago at the house of Harmachis, the Egyptian, you found that I had developed this power to an even greater degree than ever before. Why? Because of my alliance with the devil. The elementals are his creatures.”

  He stopped and, selecting a fresh pipe from the bowl on the table at his elbow, filled and lighted it. For a moment he smoked in silence as if collecting his thoughts.

  “The thought came to me some time back,” he said finally, “that, lacking other methods of accomplishing my purpose, I might develop a vast group of elementals into something resembling humans. By turning this force loose upon the world, I could destroy humanity if need be. I, therefore, commenced the development of these elementals. You have seen the result. My advanced elementals live on carrion where the ordinary elemental exists on the vitality of humans.

  “Now,” the old man went on excitedly, his eyes again blazing with a fanatical light, “fate has placed in my hands a quicker instrument of accomplishing my purpose. Listen, my young friend. And, having listened, perhaps you will believe me when I say that my work cannot fail.

  “When you and your crew of officers destroyed the work of a lifetime a few months ago, I commenced planning for another coup.

  “You know my ability to transfer my soul—my ego, as it were—to the body of another. The fact that I, by so doing, secured control of the United States Treasury is no news to you. Unfortunately, I left myself open to attack; Nina caught me off guard. For the nonce her will was stronger than my own. But we will let that pass.

  “I needed to rehabilitate my fortunes. I intended to do so by dipping into the Treasury of the United States. Instead, foiled in that, I chanced by accident upon something so colossal—so gigantic, that my plans were changed in a minute.

  “I had just done away with Hallenberg when the Egyptian minister came in. Naturally he thought me Hallenberg. He informed me of the discovery of a clew to a formula for resurrecting the dead of Egypt—”

  “I already know that,” Jimmy interrupted.

  The old man nodded.

  “I suspected as much,” he rejoined. “To make a long story short, the Egyptian minister told me in my character of Secretary of the Treasury that their secret agent in this country, Prince Harmachis was on the verge of locating the hiding place of the secret. When it was eventually located and secured, they were afraid to let such a force loose upon the world. And I—I was looking for just such a force with which to accomplish my purpose. See how Satan placed the instrument in my hands? I failed before. Now I cannot fail.

  “Naturally, I agreed to his request. He left, promising to tell me the moment that Harmachis had secured the secret. This he did. The rest was easy. But, you may ask, why did I want to secure this formula? Why? Because at one stroke I could resurrect all the dead of Egypt. With such an army I could sweep down upon the civilized world, destroy it at will, and turn back the hands of time thousands of years—back to the days before such things as science and invention were known.

  “That I succeeded in securing the secret is likewise known to you. You were with Ricks at the house of Harmachis, the Egyptian. What you did not know, however, was that, instead of the formula, Harmachis had secured only the location of the spot where it was hidden.

  “That hiding place is in Egypt. Where, is something that I do not intend to divulge. Suffice to say that through young Craig, I have enough money to carry on my preliminary work—to finance an expedition to Egypt and search out the formula, the secret hiding place which is now known only to me, for the man from whom Harmachis secured it did not know its worth. Craig will not need his million when the world returns to the condition it was in when God first created it. But I needed it badly. So I took it, as you are well aware.

  “And now to sum up. In order to carry on my work successfully, I am in need of assistance. I want young people—young men and women to help me to carry on my work should I fail—which is unlikely. I am an old man. I have not yet discovered the secret of eternal life on earth. My days, perhaps, are numbered. Mayhap, I will live forever. Who knows what great formula my brain will discover?

  “Nina was already in my power. My instinct told me that you would follow the ransom car last night and that, once again, you would be with me. I deduced that you would believe that the car would lead to me and that where I was, the
re Nina would be. You were correct in your surmise.

  “And, so, Jimmy, I once more offer you a place on my staff. I frankly admit my desire to win you over. I offer you power—more power than any man has ever had since the world began. And, in addition, I offer you love—the love of Nina. What do you say?”

  He leaned forward, his eyes glittering with excitement.

  “You can go to hell—to the devil that spawned you—damn you!” Holm growled.

  Chapter X

  Monster of Torture

  DOCTOR DEATH shook his head sadly. Then, stepping to the end of the Davenport upon which Jimmy was bound, he pressed a button. Holm felt the cushions slide from beneath him as the couch, divided lengthwise, slid apart.

  Then, as his weight came against the ropes with which he was bound, he gave a scream of pain.

  He was spread-eagled. The ropes, tied to his wrists and ankles, jerked wire-tight, leaving him suspended in midair in the form of the letter “X.”

  The pain was excruciating. It stabbed into his vitals like hot needles, searing into his flesh, tearing his muscles from the bones. He gritted his teeth against it. Death, bending over him, grinned fiendishly. Turning away, he pressed another button.

  The door opened and a man entered. His movements were lifeless, jerky, automatic. He stared straight ahead with eyes that were glassy and unwinking.

  The man was a corpse—a Zombi—one of the strange, weird, undead things that the sinister scientist raised from the tomb to do his bidding. Doctor Death muttered something to it. The thing whirled and, lifting a book from the shelf, laid it upon the middle of the suspended man. He repeated the operation a second time and then a third.

  “I am leaving for a few minutes,” Doctor Death said gravely. “I have set in motion this human, machine-like shell. You are well aware, Jimmy, that he will continue placing book after book upon you until you are covered with them or I command him to cease. One book, I know, weighs but a few ounces—a third of a pound, I would say. But, given enough of them and you will be literally torn to pieces beneath their weight. The cords about your wrists will pull your arms from their sockets; those about your ankles will fairly tear you apart.