Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1

by Harold Ward

  “It is not safe,” the old man responded. “Anubis was ill-tempered in life. Death has probably not improved him. There are but a few of us. Therefore, we come in here singly, so that should he rise up in his anger, there will still be some of us left to carry on the history and traditions of our sacerdotal craft.”

  And with this explanation Holm was forced to be content.

  THE old man hobbled along at a fair rate, leading the way down the long, gloomy passageway directly into the heart of the mountain. At the end of this passageway was another door toward which he motioned.

  “Watch yourselves,” he cackled.

  He threw open the door with an effort. There was a rush of wings and a horde of bats flew toward the light, screaming wildly and gnashing their bills together angrily. For an instant it appeared that they would extinguish the light with their wings. Holm, however, jerked a flashlight from his pocket and, pressing the button, attracted their attention. A moment later they were gone.

  “I am old—very old,” Hatasu quavered. “Yet I have never seen such a torch.”

  For an instant he stood there shaking his head sagely. Then he pointed into the darkness at the other side of the huge cavern which they had entered.

  “Our way lies here,” he said.

  They were half way across the cavern when Holm, feeling something against his foot, looked down.

  He leaped back with an oath.

  The rocky floor of the cavern was covered with a loathsome, gelatinous substance which came rolling toward them like the waves of the sea. It surrounded them, growing thicker and thicker, deeper and deeper; it was up to their knees, twisting, writhing, thrusting out snakish tentacles toward them as if striving to pull them down. It was soft, spongy, mucus-like, having no form and yet not altogether formless. It tripped them, halting their progress.

  Old Hatasu shrieked with laughter.

  “The souls of the dead waiting here to be released,” he shrieked. “The caves are filled with them—millions of them—souls extracted by Anubis and his followers. Have you seen enough?”

  Holm coolly examined the horrible mass with his flashlight. His grim face was a study as he bent forward in order to look at the oncoming flood more closely.

  “Can this be another trick of the imagination?” he said, half to himself. “Is Death pulling another ace out of the hole?”

  He turned to Hatasu. But the old man was only mouthing unintelligible gibberings which the interpreter translated as best he could in spite of his fright.

  “Hah!” Darrow said suddenly. “I understand it now.”

  He bent over and examined the filthy mass more carefully.

  “The old man is right,” he went on. “These are souls. There is no doubt about it, gentlemen, this is ectoplasm—the case in which the soul is confined. Puncture one of these casings and the soul would be released. Sir Oliver Lodge and I had many arguments regarding this. I have attended seances with him where the room seemed filled with this stuff. The medium told us that it was our souls going forth to meet the spirits who were communing with us. I always doubted it—thought that it was buncombe until now.”

  “I still think so,” Edgeworth said argumentatively. “You’ll have to show me.”

  Darrow halted. Knee deep in the filthy mass though they were—and the tide was rising steadily—he continued his argument in the tired tone of a professor attempting to teach a lesson to a surly youngster.

  “The soul is confined within the body of this gelatinous substance which, for want of a better name, is called ectoplasm,” he explained. “Ectoplasm may be roughly defined as the exterior protoplasm or sarcode of a cell. Now what is a protoplasm? A semi-fluid, albuminous substance which is regarded by occultists as the ultimate basis of physical life from which all living organisms are formed and developed.

  “Hatasu tells the truth. This sarcodic substance which surrounds us is that with which we will eventually have to deal—the souls of those who have long been dead. The charm of Anubis undoubtedly holds them here.”

  “Bah!” Edgeworth exploded.

  All of their pocket torches were in use now. As they turned them here and there the immensity of the cavern was revealed to them. It stretched in every direction as far as the eye could reach, ending in solid chunks of blackness where the light ceased. The floor was pitted here and there with holes. And from these holes, rolling up in a bubbling fluid, came the ectoplasmic mass. It filled the place, a solid, lump of gluey, whitish horror, writhing and twisting like some glabrous, cyclopean nightmare, reaching out for them, yet never touching them.

  It reached to the very ceiling of the gigantic cave, pressing against the sides, growing—swelling like a parasitic ulcer. And from the holes in the floor—from slits in the walls—even from the ceiling—came more and more of it until it seemed as if they were walking inside a world of semitransparent gelatinous hideousness.

  Hatasu chuckled and shrieked, gibbered and chortled as his skinny fingers reached forth and caressed the snakish tentacles that stretched toward them from a thousand directions.

  “Souls!” he cackled. “Souls neither in heaven nor in torment! The souls of those who will some day occupy their now empty shells when the prophecy of Anubis comes true.”

  Holm scowled.

  “Tell him to cease his chatter and lead on,” he growled to the interpreter. “Time presses.”

  The ancient high priest chuckled when the words were translated to him.

  “Some of these souls have been separated from their bodies for countless generations,” he chortled. “And yet you, who are young, speak of the passage of time. What is time and eternity when one is dead?”

  Nevertheless, he held up his skinny arm and muttered some cabalistic charm.

  The ectoplasm rolled away on either side, leaving a pathway ahead of them.

  URGED on by the impatient Holm, Hatasu led the way across the cavern to the other side. And still they walked through a ectoplasmic tunnel which closed behind them as they progressed and opened ahead of them as if a wedge had been entered and was forcing the horrible mass apart.

  There was no odor, no smell of death and decay. Yet Jimmy frankly admitted that he was afraid—horribly so. He could tell that the others were, too. A nameless fear crept over them—a fear that was not lessened by the old high priest’s ominous cackling. They were terrified and yet there was nothing tangible to fear.

  Yet upon old Hatasu it appeared to have no effect. His head was outthrust upon his skinny neck and his cavernous eyes roved here and there taking in every detail.

  At the end of the cavern was a narrow flight of stairs. Hatasu led the way down the stone steps and into another cavern much larger than the one they had quitted. Turning the corner, the old man stopped and waited for them, his beady orbs glittering with excitement.

  “Behold!” he shrieked. “Behold death in all its forms! How many men, working steadily, did it take to hollow out this great cave—and how long did it take them, think you?”

  “I have no idea,” the interpreter snarled.

  “I will show you,” Hatasu chuckled.

  He stepped inside so that they might gaze beyond him. The cave was enormous, acres wide and extending down for hundreds of feet.

  It was filled, almost to the very top, with corpses!

  There were not hundreds or thousands, but literally millions of dead men and women piled in the place, all mummified and fairly well preserved, their parchment-like skins stretched tightly over their bones, their jaws open, their white teeth gleaming beneath the light of the torches—ghastly caricatures of humanity.

  THEY had been hurled into the cavern indiscriminately, with no effort made to straighten their cramped limbs or erase any of the horror that goes with death and dissolution. They lay at every angle, arms and legs outsprawled. The huge cave was a Gargantuan charnel house.

  Hatasu hobbled close to the foot of the pile and, taking the blazing torch from Jimmy’s hand, indicated that the others should
come closer.

  “See?” he said, pointing his skinny finger down at the nearest corpse.

  There was a gaping spear wound in the chest just over the heart!

  “Slaves! All slaves captured by the early Egyptians in the wars,” the old man cackled. “Anubis, the jackal-headed, brought them here and put them to work.

  “When they grew too old for labor, or were incapacitated for some reason, he put them to death and had them hurled into this pit. Few, if any, died natural deaths.

  “Because he, Anubis, was the god of mummification, they were mummified at his touch. And thus you see them in this condition.”

  “And yet you scoff?” Darrow demanded of Edgeworth.

  The young scientist calmly lighted a cigarette and puffed languidly.

  “What I see, I see,” he answered. “I know that these men are dead—mummified. Yet, simply because that old jackass tells us that Anubis mummified them by touching them is no sign that it is true. Nor am I willing to believe that the touching of a charm of some kind will bring them all back to life again.”

  “Hopeless!” Darrow snorted, following after the remainder of the party.

  Still cackling, Hatasu led the way into another chamber almost as vast as the one they had left. This, too, was filled with the dead. Only here the parchment-like forms were laid end to end, side to side, stacked up carefully like cord wood.

  And in the breast of everyone of these, too, showed a spear wound.

  “The overseers and architects of this vast sepulcher,” the old man explained. “They were also put to death by Anubis when their work was completed so that they would not reveal the secrets of the place. It is because their shells were not destroyed that their souls linger in these caverns, incased in the skins in which they left the bodies.

  “That with which these caves are filled is the souls of these men, my friends. What think you of this plan to secure the key which will restore the essence of life into their withered bodies? There are many fierce men who lie sleeping here waiting but the contents of the mystic talisman to bring them back from their long slumber—men who were warriors in their time—fierce gladiators from a hundred different climes. And yet you say this man who has named himself Death seeks to restore them? What colossal delusion of power!”

  He waited until the interpreter had completed the translation, his withered mouth working spasmodically as if chewing over the words that he had spoken. Finally he turned away.

  “To the tomb of Anubis!” he said.

  Wagging his withered head, the old man preceded them to another stair and descended. Now the ectoplasm was left behind.

  He stopped suddenly and pointed downward.

  “Look!” he said.

  Impressed upon the stone floor was the mark of a human foot.

  “Anubis stepped here on his way to his tomb,” the old man said reverently. “This far may the souls of his victims come and no farther.”

  He stopped suddenly. Then, with a little cry he darted forward.

  Upon the stone floor lay a man. He was a little man—an old man—almost as old as Hatasu. Like the high priest, his face was a mass of wrinkles. His fur coat had been stripped off and lay upon the floor beside his withered body.

  For a moment Hatasu mourned.

  “Atoua,” he said. “He was my friend—my assistant. He is the man I sent to guide this man who calls himself Death into the tomb.”

  Just beyond where the body of the dead priest lay was a great door carved out of an apparently solid piece of stone. Hatasu halted before it and turned to the others.

  “On the other side of this rock lies Anubis, the jackal-headed,” the old man said in an awed whisper. “And, if I mistake me not, there too, may be found the ghoul—the despoiler of tombs—this man that you call Death.”

  Upon the door hieroglyphics were carved in bold relief. Holm held his torch so that the beam fell upon them. The scientists crowded about while one of the Egyptians translated aloud:

  Here sleeps Anubis.

  May his rest be easy until the day of awakening. Let those who follow him to the tomb beware!

  Chapter XXII

  Devil’s Henchman

  WHY had Death killed Atoua? Holm believed that he knew. The old high priest had, at the moment of entering the tomb, discovered that the scientist was an impostor. He had turned to run away—to summon help, only to be stricken down by the monster who was even now on the other side of the stone partition.

  One human life more or less meant nothing to Doctor Death. And Jimmy Holm, knowing the terrific speed under which the sinister old scientist was working, believed that he had visioned the whole scene.

  It was Hatasu, however, who solved the problem. Standing by the side of his old friend, gazing down at the withered body, his wrinkled face filled with sorrow, he gave a sudden exclamation.

  Stooping, he picked from the floor a tiny brass key. That it had fallen from the dead priest’s hand was evident.

  For a moment the old man chattered volubly, working himself into a high pitch of excitement. The interpreter listened closely. When the high priest had finished his harangue, the interpreter turned to Jimmy, his eyes glistening.

  “He says,” he exclaimed, speaking rapidly, “that the tomb is sealed forever. That this key which fell from Atoua’s hand held in place certain mechanism on the other side. The door works up and down very slowly. It is his idea that Atoua, discovering that Doctor Death was a fraud, removed the key and started the door downward, intending to seal the impostor in the tomb.

  “Death struck him down, probably with the power of his thought. But he had gotten through the door—probably carried along by his own momentum. There is no way to open the door again from either side without this key. It has automatically locked itself.”

  Edgeworth chuckled.

  “It would appear, then, that our problem is solved,” he remarked. “Our enemy is sealed in there until the end of time—or until someone brings enough dynamite here to blast that stone door open. Which, I might add, will be far from an easy task. It must weigh tons. The thing for us to do is to go on our way rejoicing and forget that such a man as Rance Mandarin, alias Doctor Death, ever at any time existed.”

  Holm whirled on him, his eyes blazing with wrath.

  “The woman I love—the woman whom I intend to marry—is on the other side of that partition,” he snapped. “And I’m going to find a way to get through if I have to batter down that door with my bare fists.”

  Doctor Edgeworth elevated his eyebrows quizzically.

  “You would risk the lives of the most prominent scientists in America—in the world—for the sake of one woman?” he said sarcastically. “You forget that women are cheap—that they can be had for the asking. What is one woman, more or less, then, when it comes to saving the brains of the nation? No, by God! I, for one, vote that we go back and call it a good day’s work!”

  As he turned to the other scientists, Holm’s fist caught him full on the point of the jaw. He went down like a log.

  “If anyone else has a similar idea, now is the time for him to speak!” the young detective snarled, his fists doubled, his body quivering with emotion.

  “My learned, though somewhat impetuous, young colleague forgot one thing,” Darrow interposed. “If Death succeeds in finding the secret of Anubis, barred doors will mean little to him. The men who built that barrier will be his to command. They can easily solve the problem of the mechanism—of getting it open.”

  “You still believe that there is such a secret?” one of the others inquired.

  Darrow nodded.

  “More than ever,” he responded. “Everything that I have seen proves it to me.”

  Darrow’s suggestion was received by Hatasu, when it had been translated to him, with sage nods of his head.

  “The high priest agrees with you,” the interpreter said. “He asserts that, once the secret is in the possession of the impostor he will have little difficulty in getting the doo
r open.”

  “We cannot be far behind,” Blake of the Secret Service spoke up. “I note that Atoua’s body is still slightly warm. Rigor mortis has not yet set in. He has been dead only a short time.”

  Holm whirled on the interpreter.

  “Ask him if there is any other entrance!” he commanded.

  The high priest listened to the translation intently. Then he pursed his brow in thought. Finally his eyes lighted up.

  “He says that somewhere—he believes that he can find the spot, although it has been ages since he last visited it—there is an air shaft which runs into the tomb for the purpose of ventilation,” the interpreter finally announced. “He says that it is high up and very steep and narrow, however, with several turns and twists and that only a young and slender and agile man can negotiate it. However, it might be done. Once inside, the key can be inserted in its proper place and the mechanism worked again.”

  Holm seized the key from Hatasu’s withered palm and dropped it into his own pocket.

  “Tell him to lead the way!” he snapped. “Time is precious to us now.”

  Ricks laid a restraining hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “I agree with you,” he asserted. “Yet there is something that we must take into consideration. You will be at a disadvantage. For, even though you gain the inside of the tomb, you must still combat Death and overcome him—at least until you have gotten the key back in place and have raised the door again so that we can come to your assistance.”

  Holm nodded.

  “I realize all that,” he said hotly. “I also realize that Nina is in there—and that it’s up to me to get her out. She is depending upon me. The other day when I broke out of the cave where he had me confined, I called to her that I’d come back and get her. English, the sailor, was holding her, but she waved to me. She knew that I’d keep my word. And, by God, I’m going to do it! Death has never gotten the best of me yet—for long.”

  Ricks shook his grizzled head.

  “Right!” he snapped. He turned to Hatasu.