The Empty Coffins

by John Russell Fearn

  “You have forgotten my housekeeper,” Peter interrupted, still trying to gain time. “She will say plenty!”

  “You don’t think an old fool like that is going to upset things, do you?” Meadows asked. “By this time I imagine my men will have taken care of her.”

  He turned and signalled to his assistants. They came forward quickly and seized Peter’s arms. He struggled fiercely, but without avail. Meadows stood watching as his arms were bound tightly to his sides and his ankles were lashed together.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  FINAL DELIVERANCE

  “I am afraid, Peter, that this is the end of the line,” Meadows said, shrugging. “I regret it, be­lieve me, but—”

  “You don’t regret anything!” Peter cried sav­agely. “You’re damned glad to do it! You filthy, no-account—!”

  He broke off as the doctor administered a stinging slap across the face.

  “I don’t have to take that from you, my boy, and I don’t intend to!” he snapped. “All right boys, haul him up.”

  Peter was whirled around before he could say any more and carried to a cradle nearby made of chain. The chains were fitted about his neck, waist and ankles so that when a switch on the control panel was pulled he rose horizontally into the air and remained there, hanging exactly over one of the enormous glass bowls.

  “Usually,” Meadows said, coming across to Peter and feeling the point of the needle-like instru­ment he held in his hand, “I let my men do this kind of work. They know it as well as I do, but since it happens to be you this time I prefer giv­ing my special attention to you. You have never quite realized the hurt I experienced when you took Elsie away from me, have you?”

  “Why don’t you get some sense into that crazy brain of yours?” Peter demanded, seeing no reason that he should not say what he thought now his doom was apparently inevitable. “Elsie was never in love with you. Her regard for you—if any—was something like that of a child for an uncle. My only satisfaction in all this is that you kill­ed her before she had the chance to really know what a filthy devil you are.”

  “Whether Elsie loved me or not does not signify,” Meadows said, testing the needle point on the back of his hand. “I loved her, and nothing else con­cerns me.”

  The root selfishness of the man was exposed in that one remark and Peter made no attempt to ans­wer it. Then after a while Meadows spoke again.

  “Yes. I think the needle is satisfactory now. Bring over the tubes, boys.... As for you, Peter, I think I should explain that you will not feel anything painful, beyond the initial stabs of the needle, that is. As your blood is drained away—quite rapidly by suction—you will simply lose consciousness, and never regain it.”

  Peter did not say anything. He lay hanging in the chains, not trying to free himself because he knew it was quite useless. Then he gasped a little as the needle stabbed his neck, first one side and then the other. It stabbed again at an artery in is left thigh; then at one on his right. For a time he seemed to be being used as a pin-cushion— Then suction cups were placed over each puncture, tubes all leading back to a queer apparatus below which, by twisting his head slightly, he was just able to see.

  “Excellent,” Meadows said, laying the needle aside. “The actual needle punctures are small, Peter, and of no consequence. It is when the pump goes to work that you will feel the blood being drawn from you, as though a thousand leeches were at work. I have never actually experienced the sensation but I imagine it must be somewhat un­pleasant.... Carry on, boys,” he added.

  One of the men moved across to the switch panel.

  “Oh, by the way,” Meadows said, “I quite forgot to tell you, Peter, how all this electricity comes to be down here. I am sure you went to know—”

  “Stop playing around and get the job done,” Peter cried hoarsely. “How much longer do you think I can stand this sort of thing?”

  “I use a water-turbine,” Meadows explained, quite unmoved. “Not far from here there is a powerful underground stream flowing through one of the catacombs. Very convenient. It supplies me with all the power I need—”

  The end of his sentence was suddenly drowned out by a shattering explosion. At the same instant the door of the old mausoleum was blown clean off its hinges and came hurtling forward. It smashed into a bench, overturning it and flinging globes and bottles in all directions.

  Meadows twirled in amazement, his hand clutch­ing down to his pocket for his automatic, but he was not fast enough.

  “Hold it, Meadows!” a voice snapped through the fast dispersing smoke. “One move and I’ll shoot you….”

  Meadows, his face grim with anger and surprise, raised his hands slowly, and behind him his assist­ants had to do likewise.

  “Rawnee Singh!” Meadows gasped at last, as the figure came forward into the full light, a group of some five men in mackintoshes and soft hats be­hind him.

  “Surprised?” Singh asked, all traces of his peculiar studied English having vanished. “I thought you might be! Perhaps there are one or two tricks on the board which even you haven’t yet mastered, Meadows— We’d have been here sooner only we had to go back to the car for explosive when we saw the kind of door we were up against. We could hear your pretty speech plainly enough, though—and if ever there was a complete confession of crime, that was it. These Yard men are all wit­nesses to what you said.”

  “Yard men?” Meadows repeated, still unable to realize what had happened.

  “Get Mr. Malden down,” Singh ordered, and within a matter of minutes Peter found himself lowered and the tubes ware withdrawn from the punctures about his body. Of the punctures themselves he took little heed since no blood had been drawn.

  “How on earth did you get here, Singh?” he de­manded, casting away from him the last of the ropes. “I saw you shot dead, and you had no pulse beat.... Anyway, I’m going,” he broke off. “Explain things to me later: I’ve got to see if there is not some way in which my wife can be saved from—”

  “Your wife is sleeping quietly, Mr. Malden,” Singh said. “We saw to that— Take a seat, man! You must be all in after what you’ve been through.”

  Singh pulled up a bentwood chair and motioned to it. Shakily Peter sat down.

  “Then Elsie is not dead?” he asked anxiously. “The doctor here told me—”

  “He didn’t succeed,” Singh said. “I’ll explain in a moment. Right now, Dr. Meadows, I’m charging you with the murder of—”

  “Save it,” Meadows interrupted. “It’ll take too long to list the victims. I’m not such a fool that I can’t see when I’m caught— Just tell me one thing. How do you still come to be alive? I know I shot you, and there were no heartbeats.”

  “So, the man who creates vampires and can use hypnosis was deceived by a simple trick like that?” Singh smiled coldly. “It is a stunt often used by fakirs, Doctor, and one which Singh himself passed on to me in case, during an emergency, I might need it. It is accomplished by a rubber ball squeezed between the arm and body which slows down the action of the heart by pressing on the great artery, thereby making a pulse beat undetectable. Illusionists and fakirs have used it for ages.”

  “From—from Singh himself?” Peter repeated blankly. “You mean you’re—”

  “I’m Walter Harrigan, sir, special investigator from Scotland Yard. These are Yard men, too, all under the orders of Chief-Inspector Rushton. He’s at your home at the moment.”

  “Oh....” Peter gave a bewildered look about him.

  “I can understand you faking death, but not the bullet I put into you.” Meadows said, obviously still baffled by this one particular riddle.

  Walter Harrigan shrugged and from Meadows’ pock­et he took the automatic he had been carrying around with him. Quite deliberately Harrigan fired it at the Doctor’s chest—but nothing happ­ened after the explosion of the gun.

  “Blanks!” Meadows exclaimed in amazement. “Then the one I fired into you was a blank?”

  “Certai
nly it was. When I escaped from the cemetery my first call was at your home. I knew you’d probably try and kill me somehow and I didn’t put a gun beyond you. I found it and, having blank replacements for most types of guns, I fixed yours. Believe me, I’m not a small-time invest­igator. Meadows. I’ve been working on your case for years.”

  “But this business has only been going on for some months,” Peter pointed out. Harrigan glanced at him and shook his head.

  “You’re wrong there, Mr. Malden. It commenced many years ago back in Ireland, where Dr. Meadows—under a different name—had a small practice. There were a lot of mysterious killings attributed to a man reputed to be Meadows’ cousin. The Irish police suspected murder. Then Meadows vanished and we found he had come to England. After that it was a case of tracing him. I was put in charge of the case and finally I located him in Little Payling here.”

  Peter nodded slowly, recalling the somewhat ram­bling tale Meadows had once told him concerning his experiences in Ireland. Meadows himself did not say anything. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, the frozen smile back on his face.

  “I don’t quite see how Singh fits into this,” Peter remarked at length.

  “Singh?” Harrigan gave a shrug. “The police questioned him very closely and we decided I might be able to get into close touch with Meadows, and remain undetected, if I took the place of Singh. Singh’s permission was sought and he agreed. He told me everything he had foreseen and I practiced his mannerisms. My first move was to call at your home and see you, Mr. Malden, stating that I had got the date wrong in regard to your wife’s appar­ent death. After that I stayed beside you Meadows, as much as possible, endeavouring to learn all I could about your movements. I didn’t know where your hideout was, which was the one thing I wanted to learn. My efforts to locate it, with Mr. Mald­en, failed. I’m referring to earlier tonight, of course. You attacked, Meadows. I had to get out quickly or be caught and lose all chance of succ­ess. So I kept a watch on your home, Meadows, knowing it would be the place from which I could detect what happened next.

  “To my surprise you brought Mr. Malden to your home. I had expected you would have dealt with him on the spot. I suppose you had your reasons. Any­way, when you set off with Mr. Malden in your car I went along with you on, hidden in the boot, as I told you at the time. When you stopped, I got out and took a chance on nailing you—but you shot me. Since I’d already prepared your gun that didn’t signify. I simulated death, using a pellet of dye to give the impression of a bullet wound. I was ready for every trick you might pull. I knew that in the dim light you wouldn’t look too closely for a bullet hole.

  “After that you took me to your surgery and there left me—fortunately—quite convinced I was dead. The moment you left I followed you. Once again I was at the back of your car. You stopped at the cemetery and for the first time I saw where your hideout was. I didn’t attempt anything then. Single-handed, I knew I didn’t stand a chance. Instead I put through an emergency call to the Yard, asking for men right away. I’d just finish­ed the call when I saw your car go past and I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Malden, in a shroud, in the front seat next to you. I followed on to the house. Since I had to walk it took some time. You were leaving in your car when I got there. Before I had found my way into the house you came back again with two men. I waited to see what happened, and you left with Mr. Malden. Then I forced my way in, got the two men who had been left on guard at the point of my gun, and locked them in another room. After that I had a look at Mrs. Malden.”

  Harrigan reflected, then continued, “Your house­keeper deserves the credit for saving your wife, Mr. Malden. At one time she was a professional nurse. She diagnosed your wife’s dangerous con­dition so I telephoned for a doctor to come over from Branwick, the next nearest town. I explained the trouble and he arrived just in time to save your wife from sinking out.

  “Then I had to wait for the Yard men, but by using a ’plane from London to Branwick, and then coming to Little Payling in a fast car, it didn’t take them very long. The rest you know.”

  “Congratulations,” Meadows remarked dryly. “I assume you also have hypnotic power since you re­vived Elsie in the cemetery far enough to bring her to the verge of normal?”

  “I temporarily freed her mind, yes,” Harrigan admitted.

  Peter got to his feet slowly and gripped the investigator’s hand.

  “Just how much you’ve done tonight, Mr. Harri­gan, you’ll never know,” he said quietly. “And now I must be getting back to Elsie. I—”

  “Time we all got out of here,” Harrigan inter­rupted. “All right, Meadows, on your way. You other two men go in front.”

  Meadows shrugged and began to move, but before he had got to the door he suddenly swayed, held his throat, and then pitched on to his face. Instantly Harrigan was beside him, turning him over. Then he compressed his lips.

  “I should have thought of that,” he said bitt­erly. “Poison. He must have slipped a tablet in his mouth while I was talking to you, Mr. Malden.”

  Peter said nothing. He looked at the dead face of Meadows and then turned away. He was not think­ing of the sadistic doctor or the deserved fate that had overtaken him: he was thinking of Elsie, at home waiting for him. In a few more weeks she would be completely recovered and their life could really begin with the horror forever lifted from it.

  INTRODUCING FEARN’S DETECTIVE FICTION

  BY PHILIP HARBOTTLE

  Born in Worsley, England, in 1908, John Russell Fearn began his career as a fiction writer by writing science fiction novels for the then-leading American pulp magazine Amazing Stories. His first two novels, THE INTELLIGENCE GIGANTIC and LINERS OF TIME, had been serialized in the magazine in 1933 and 1935 respectively. Both these early classics were restored to print a few years ago by Wildside Press.

  After his debut in Amazing Stories, Fearn had continued to write magazine science fiction, but by 1937 the market had expanded—and changed. Amazing Stories had been overtaken by Astounding Stories as the leading sf magazine, and had been joined by Thrilling Wonder Stories. The magazine field was in a state of continuing flux.

  Fearn became a leading contributor to all three magazines, but had discovered that in order to continue to sell to constantly changing markets, he needed to be able to change his style, and to be versatile. With the encouragement of his American agent, Julius Schwartz, Fearn created several pseudonyms, which greatly facilitated his experimenting with different styles, and increased his sales chances.

  Then in July 1937, Fearn wrote to his friend Walter Gillings (editor of Britain’s first sf magazine Tales of Wonder, to which Fearn was also a contributor) to reveal that he was planning to switch from science fiction to the wider detective story market:

  “I’m turning my scientific angles to account in the production of a scientific detective for England. A book, by the way. Be two years in the making, I expect. Chief guy is a scientist, and solves all kinds of things that puzzle Scotland Yard. I’m trying to get out of the rut of Frenchman, Chinamen and what-have-you with this yarn. Guy will be something like Nero Wolfe, only he drinks tea, not beer.”

  In 1938, Fearn successfully introduced detective and mystery elements into science fiction, writing under the pseudonym of ‘Thornton Ayre’. The new technique (which Fearn called ‘webwork’) involved connecting seemingly unrelated elements together to unravel a complex mystery. The method was already known in the detective field, the leading exponent being U.S. writer Harry Stephen Keeler.

  By 1939, Fearn was expressing to friends his liking for crime mysteries, in preference to sf writing, but commercial exigencies dictated that, as a full-time writer, he had to continue to concentrate on science fiction during the early years of the war.

  However, the American sf magazine market continued to expand, and so Fearn—as a full-time professional writer with a widowed mother to support—was obliged to continue writing mainly science fiction, with only occasional forays into detectiv
e and crime short stories for the American pulp magazine Thrilling Mystery Stories (the best of which are to be found in another Wildside title, LIQUID DEATH AND OTHER STORIES). Fearn’s proposed book for English publishers, featuring his tea-drinking scientist detective, remained unwritten.

  In November 1939, Fearn sent a letter to one of his regular correspondents, tyro-author (and cinema buff) William F. Temple, in which he referred to Amazing Stories editor Ray Palmer’s acceptance of his story, “The Man Who Saw Two Worlds.” Fearn wrote:

  “In this I introduce Brutus Lloyd, the first genuine criminologist who dabbles in scientific riddles, who is conceited, masterful and breezy. Palmer seems to like him immensely and requires more. I called him Alka Lloyd, but Palmer refused to be sold on it! The story is actually Wells’ “The Plattner Story” brought bang up to date, and Lloyd is based on Ernest Truex in the film Ambush (starring Lloyd Nolan).”

  Brutus Lloyd was popular with Amazing Stories readers, and so two further novelettes were published over the next couple of years. But by the mid 1940s, Fearn was beginning to raise his sights from the US pulp magazines, and he began to move into new book-length markets in England.

  Since Fearn was well-known as a science fiction author, he was obliged to adopt pseudonyms for his detective fiction, writing hardcover novels as ‘John Slate’ and ‘Hugo Blayn.’

  As John Slate, he created the brilliant female detective “Black Maria,” who debuted in BLACK MARIA. M.A. (1944) and as Hugo Blayn he created “Dr. Carruthers” whose first adventure, FLASHPOINT appeared in 1950. All of their books have been reprinted in the UK in recent years, and a few of them were also issued by Wildside Press, most notably FLASHPOINT.

  This was one of Fearn’s best-written, and most carefully plotted novels, and the character of Dr. Carruthers is brilliantly realized. This is not so surprising when one realizes that the book is one he had been working on for several years: Carruthers is, in fact, the very same character that Fearn had first conceived back in 1937, and who had been first developed as Brutus Lloyd.