Doctor Death Vs. The Secret Twelve - Volume 1

by Harold Ward

  The fight they had made was given in all its gruesome details a few days later. Their pictures were on the front pages of every paper in the land. Their heroism—the horrible deaths they had died—everything was told in full.

  Official Washington went wild. The nation went wilder. The censorship that had been placed upon the press of the nation had apparently been dissolved as the editors dared the chief executive to enforce his order.

  And Doctor Death, reading these things, raged and swore a mighty oath. Now, from some hidden fortress, the charming Egyptian by his side, he spent hours at the huge range finder he had hastily thrown together and searched the globe for the men he hated most—the scientists of note.

  The new range finder was vaster than any he had yet made. Cursing Jimmy Holm for tricking him, raving like a maniac, he threw the powerful rays of his machine into every corner of the civilized world. He was searching—ever searching.

  Then came the straw that broke the camel’s back. High up in the mountains of Colorado was the new mining camp of Diamond City. Few people even knew of its existence. Fewer still knew that Robert Fleming was hidden there. Yet it was in Diamond City that the greatest of all the new crop of scientific men was found dead. And, as in the case of Kennedy and Wentzell, the verdict had been failure of the heart.

  It was Fleming who had taken the place of Doctor Karl Munson of New York University when Death had struck that brilliant scientist down. He had been Munson’s understudy for years—a quiet, hard-working man whose intellectual attainments were in many respects even higher than those of his better known superior.

  Fleming had carried on where Munson had left off. Munson had been experimenting with genes, those little-known carriers of hereditary characteristics. It was Fleming who had developed an entirely new theory on evolution’s processes.

  Fleming had announced, as a result of his experiments, that the known theory of evolution was entirely wrong—that instead of beginning with single cells, it began with single genes.

  Of all the new crop of scientists—men who had come forth to take the place of those slaughtered by the sinister Doctor Death—none rated as high as did Robert Fleming.

  And now Fleming, too, had been struck down.

  There descended upon the heads of the luckless officials a mighty tirade of abuse. Press and public demanded that the holocaust of blood be halted, even though it become necessary to accede to Death’s demands.

  In desperation, the President called a meeting of the Secret Twelve. He laid the case before them. Holm was missing. That he had fallen a victim to the machinations of the diabolical old scientist was almost a certainty. Ricks, too, was gone. Nor could Nina Fererra be located.

  News of their disappearance was rapidly throwing the nation into a state of panic which would eventually lead to anarchy and chaos. Blake, head of the Secret Service, was named acting head of the secret organization over his own protests. He realized his inability to cope with the wily old madman. Yet, when his country called, he was ready to do his best. And so a statement was given out to the press that the war against Death would be carried on with renewed energy.

  Doctor Death was, like all egotists, a lover of the spotlight of publicity. So it was that he selected this psychological moment to send another open letter to the press which added to the confusion:

  My warfare against science and invention has just commenced. Again I assert that I was placed upon this earth for a specific purpose—that of restoring the world to its original state.

  Had the Creator wanted these things which I am warring against, he would have made them in the beginning. They are man-made—saddled upon us by these men of science.

  They must be exterminated. The hands of time must be turned back to the beginning. And I, Death, have been selected as the instrument to do this work.

  Others will die. The colleges are still turning out embryo scientists by the hundreds—young men who are stepping into the shoes of those I have exterminated. They, too, must pay the penalty for their disobedience.

  I, Death, have said the word. And what I promise, do I perform.

  Doctor Death.

  Tony Caminetti paced the floor of his ornate penthouse atop the magnificent Quiller Building where he held forth as king of the underworld. A cigarette hung moodily on his under lip and his eyes smoldered with anger. Again he had sent forth an order to the men and women of his kingdom to trace Death to his lair. And, even though he knew that they were doing their best, no word had come to him of their success.

  THE buzzer sounded. Caminetti stepped to the door. A peculiar door it was, grained and painted to resemble wood. In reality, it was of chromium steel, built like the door of a safe and strong enough to resist an army. He pulled aside a tiny slide and placing his eye to an almost invisible peephole peered out.

  It was one of his guards. Two guards, shifty-eyed and suspicious of all who set foot upon the sacred precincts of the Quiller roof, were always on duty.

  “Come in!” Caminetti barked hoarsely. The guard opened the door and closed it behind him carefully.

  “Willy the Rat’s outside, boss,” he rumbled. “He says that he knows something that you want to hear about. Wouldn’t tell me the dope.”

  Caminetti’s eyes sparkled.

  “Bring him in! Quick!” he snapped.

  The big guard darted through the door into the reception room. A second later he reentered, his ham-like hand grasping the arm of a thin, weasel-faced man in natty checkered suit.

  “We frisked him, boss,” be rumbled. “His rod’s parked outside.”

  Caminetti nodded and jerked his thumb in the direction of the door. He waited until the guard had left the room. Then he turned to his visitor.

  “Sit down!” he said.

  WILLY THE RAT dropped into the nearest chair, awed by his proximity to greatness. Then, mustering up his courage, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.

  “Jeez, boss! I guess dat I’m t’ick headed. D’ idee never flashed into me dome, till I glimmed d’ piece in d’ poiper, dat wot I seen might have anyt’ing t’ do wit’ wot you’re lookin’ for. If I’d had d’ least idee, I’d sure’s hell been here sooner.”

  Tony Caminetti stopped his pantherish pacing and, leaning one hand on the table, gazed at his visitor with eyes that blazed.

  “Commence at the beginning and talk—and talk. damned fast!” he snapped. “Cut out the preliminaries. I’ll be the judge of whether you’re right or wrong. The lives of better men than you may depend upon the speed with which you tell your story.”

  Willy the Rat swallowed hard and nodded his head in solemn agreement.

  “Dat’s wot I tol’ meself,” he said. “Dat’s why I came here. I t’ink, boss, dat I know w’ere d’ big dick, Ricks, is—or was. Leastways, I—”

  Tony Caminetti cleared the room at a bound. Seizing the luckless Rat by the shoulders, he shook him until his teeth almost rattled.

  “Damn you! I told you to talk fast!” he snarled.

  Willy the Rat turned frightened eyes up at the other.

  “Jeez, boss! Lemme tell you in me own way,” he wailed. “Here’s d’ story. I’m goin’ along d’ street up in d’ twenties night before last about midnight when I sees a coupla dudes carryin’ a dame out to a car. I t’ink it’s just some skoit dat’s got oiled up and I’m about to paddle along on me way when I sees two more coming out wit’ a man.

  “Dere’s somet’ing familiar about dis guy between the two, and I steps back into d’ shadow and takes a peep. His mug’s partly covered wit’ a hankie an’ I don’t get a good look at him. See? But dere’s somet’ing about d’ back of his head an’ his general makeup dat I knows.

  “Dey has hold of his arms an’ are sorter carryin’ him along like as if he was oiled up, too. Nat’lly I guesses dat it’s some guy and his skoit dat’s been hittin’ d’ high spots and dat dere fren’s are takin’ ‘em home.

  “And dere’s somet’ing about one of d’ guys da
t was helpin’ carry him out, too, dat looks like somebody I knows.

  “Well, boss, I t’inks it’s none of me business an’ I goes on me way. Den all of a sudden it comes t’ me dat dis guy wot’ helpin’ d’ other guy is Clancy Meggs, wot used t’ run wit’ d’ Holleran mob an’ disappears a year or two ago. Somebody tells me he’s got a good job up state somewhere in a meshuga house lookin’ after nuts. But I’d forgotten about it till den. But it was his mug, all right.

  “Den, in tonight’s poiper I sees dis little item and d’ whole t’ing comes to me as clear as ice.”

  He handed a newspaper clipping to Caminetti. It was a press dispatch bearing a Washington headline:

  INSANE ASYLUM BURNS

  Washington, D.C.—The private asylum for the incurable insane conducted near here by Doctor Jarvis Daniels burned to the ground last night. Little is known about the fire, as the building was in the center of a large area of timber and the blaze was not discovered until late today.

  It is presumed that Doctor Daniels was a victim of the blaze as well as all of the inmates. The ruins are still too hot for a search to be made, according to Captain Swartzling of the state police, who is in charge of the investigation.

  Caminetti raised his cold eyes from the printed sheet.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Jeez, boss!” the Rat walled, “don’t youse get d’ connection? Dis Meggs is workin’ for dat meshuga house dat dis here Daniels runs. See? An’ if it was d’ big dick, Ricks, dat dey were carryin’ out, den he was put in dat joint dat burned. I knows dat youse ought to kick seven bells out of me for not tellin’ youse before, but hones’, it’s de foist dat I gets d’ connection w’en I reads dat pulper.”

  The Rat expected a rebuke. Instead, he saw the king of the underworld dart to the telephone and call a number familiar to every inmate of that kingdom without the law. And when the connection was made, the man he called for—the man to whom he blurted forth his story—was the man the underworld hated worse than any other in the city.

  It was Commissioner Quigley. The Rat cringed as Caminetti spoke.

  Chapter XXI

  Hell’s Mouth Invaded

  COMMISSIONER QUIGLEY’S reaction to Tony Caminetti’s hurriedly explained story over the telephone fairly swept the king of the underworld off his feet. The big policeman harbored no false illusions about this shifty-eyed gang chieftain who lived in feudal magnificence atop the Quiller Building. He knew that Caminetti was as bad as he was reported to be—and worse.

  Yet Caminetti was a man whose given word was his bond; he had said that he would work with the forces of law and order until the sinister Doctor Death was scotched. He had pledged this same word before and had kept it scrupulously. Until the word was given that would release him from his agreement, he and the law were one.

  He had barely completed his story when, with a choppy command to hold the Rat for further questioning, the Commissioner had slammed up the receiver. And Caminetti, knowing Quigley, understood the reason.

  As he turned from the telephone, Quigley shouted a command. From every side men leaped to do his bidding. He raced down the steps of the city hall and sprang into the car which was waiting at the curb, its engine purring. He barked an order and the machine leaped ahead like a live thing, its siren shrieking a warning that split traffic apart like a wedge.

  Two motorcycle policemen swung around him and took the lead. Behind him followed half a dozen squad cars, packed to overflowing with grim-faced, broad-shouldered men in plain clothes.

  By the time he reached the Quiller Building, it was already surrounded. Additional cars were arriving at frequent intervals. They came from the Bronx, from Harlem, from Brooklyn—the picked men of his command. Regardless of where they were stationed or what they were doing, they leaped into action at the terse order that came hurtling over the ether.

  “The Commissioner wants you!”

  Inspector Evans was already in charge. He brought his hand to a snappy salute as Quigley leaped from his car.

  “Any orders, sir?”

  The Commissioner nodded.

  “Carry on as you have been doing, sir. No one—even though he be the President of the United States—is to enter or leave this building without an order from me. Above and including the tenth floor, every person must remain wherever he now is. Station your men in every hallway, on every fire-escape and on every stair landing. Hold every elevator on the lower floor except the express which goes to the roof. In that, place several good men with positive orders to bring no one up or take no one down without a personal order from me. By that, I mean that I’ll give the order in person. Writing doesn’t go.”

  Inspector Evans nodded.

  “Something big, sir?” he inquired.

  Quigley took a step closer and dropped his voice to a whisper.

  “On the roof of this building, in Tony Caminetti’s penthouse, is a man who has a clew to Doctor Death. And Doctor Death, as you are probably aware, is not a man to take chances with. Until I’ve heard this man’s story, I’m guarding him as I would the King of England.”

  Evans nodded again.

  “Hell! So would I!” he blurted.

  Quigley dashed into the elevator and shot to the roof, a squad of detectives surrounding him. Through the outer door and into the reception room of Tony Caminetti’s pent home he raced, the others a pace behind. The big guards in the outer chamber leaped to their feet, recognizing the head of the police department.

  “The devil!” one of them remarked out of the corner of his mouth to his companion, “it’s a big time stuff for d’ boss when d’ Commissioner himself comes to pay his respects.”

  “Leave it t’ Tony t’ do d’ right t’ing at d’ right time,” the other answered, glowering at the squad of detectives who, sweeping into the room in the wake of their chief, were mounting guard at every exit.

  “He brought his lap-dogs along,” he added in an undertone to the other. “D’ Rat’s in dere wid’ ’em, too. I’ll bet he’s in for a fryin’ an’ I don’t mean maybe.”

  TONY CAMINETTI, pacing the floor pantherishly, looked up as the door opened and Quigley entered.

  The Commissioner nodded and turned to Willy the Rat, cowering in an overstuffed chair several sizes too large for his body.

  “This the man?” he demanded.

  Caminetti nodded.

  “Tell the Commissioner the story you told me!” he snapped.

  Willy the Rat swallowed hard.

  “Yes, boss,” he answered meekly, frightened in spite of his obvious effort to keep cool and collected. “It was dis way, boss—I mean, Commissioner. I was comin’ down d’ main drag in d’ twenties—”

  “What number?” Quigley interrupted.

  Willy the Rat scratched his head.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “I t’ink dat it was d’ twenty-eight-hun’rd block. I sees a coupla guys—”

  He stopped suddenly, a look of surprise creeping over his weasel-like face. It changed to a grimace of pain as he clapped his hand to his chest.

  “Me heart!” he exclaimed.

  The Commissioner and Caminetti leaped forward and caught him as he fell, carrying him to a nearby couch.

  “A doctor! Quick!” the Commissioner barked, racing to the door.

  “One on the next floor, sir!” one of Caminetti’s guards responded. “I’ll get him.”

  Inside of two minutes he was back, a small man with carefully trimmed Van Dyke in his wake.

  “Doctor Brothers!” he announced.

  The physician nodded curtly and bent over the unconscious man on the couch, unbuttoning his vest and shirt. He applied the stethoscope.

  For what seemed an age the room was filled with an ominous silence. The Commissioner and Caminetti leaned forward as the medical man finally removed the apparatus from his ears and looked up.

  “Dead!” he said positively. “Heart failure.”

  There was a bitter, hard look on Commissioner Quigley’s f
ace as he turned to Caminetti.

  “Death!” he said bitterly. “Death, looking in at us from some hidden fortress, has struck again. I was afraid of that.”

  Now it was on the block mentioned by Willy the Rat—“D’ twenty-eight-hund’rd block in d’ twenties, I t’ink”—that the police phalanx descended, sweeping through the buildings in search of the meager clew. They asked questions, bullied, cajoled.

  From the Swedish superintendent of one of the larger apartment houses they obtained their first information.

  One of the apartments on the sixth floor had apparently not been occupied for several days. At least, he had seen no sign of activity about it, nor did the occupants answer their telephone. He had rented it to two women only a few days before. Their rent was paid in advance. If they wanted to go away somewhere, that was their business.

  Quigley hustled him into the elevator, pass key in hand. An instant later they were inside Nina Fererra’s new apartment. On the dining room floor lay the body of a middle-aged woman, bound and gagged.

  One of the detectives leaped forward and jerked the heavy cloth from around her face. The glassy, bulging eyes and swollen, mottled face told their own story,

  The towel with which the woman was gagged had been stuffed so tightly into her mouth that suffocation had resulted.

  There was no question as to identification. A picture of Jimmy Holm occupied the place of honor on the piano. A hundred other articles testified to Nina’s occupancy.

  And now commonplace police methods were brought into use. Fingerprints were found—compared—analyzed—sorted. One of them was identical with that in the police files of one Meggs, arrested at one time as a member of the Holleran mob.

  And Meggs, according to the story told by the late lamented Willy the Rat, had been last employed in the meshuga house—the insane asylum kept by Doctor Daniels.

  Commissioner Quigley was out of his jurisdiction outside of New York City, as he well knew. But Thomas Quigley was not the man to allow red tape to interfere when the lives of his men were at stake. And just now two of his most trusted officers—to say nothing of Nina Fererra—were, he believed, in the hands of the most bloodthirsty fiend in America—Doctor Death.