The Spicy-Adventure

by Robert Leslie Bellem

  The temple was literally swarming with little white women! They couldn’t come more than halfway to his waist! They were entirely naked excepting for hair like spun gold which billowed and waved about their knees as they swayed rhythmically closer and closer to him. His eyes fastened themselves on the tiny curves of their perfectly formed breasts as they peeped through the gently waving hair, and then passed hungrily down the whole small perfection of their ivory-colored bodies. Heavy gold bracelets encircled their little ankles.

  For the moment he forgot the jewel and his own danger. He was certain he could circle a waist with the thumb and forefinger of his big hand. He raised it automatically toward the nearest of the little creatures, and with this movement he felt the strap holding his rifle snap, and instantly on the alert, he whirled!

  In the twinkling of an eye he was surrounded. Panic raced to his brain and he struck blindly outward. He felt the blood spurt under the impact of his hairy fist. He constricted his arms around a wriggling naked body and heard the bones snap! Then he fought! Fought as only a man who is fighting for his life-blood can fight.

  He felt myriad little bodies swarming over his. They were in his hair, on his shoulders, all over him. He flailed his big arms right and left. Momentarily he expected the slash of a kris across his throat, or the thud of a hilt against his body as it sank to his heart, but death did not come…his arms seemed suddenly to lose their power…he couldn’t see the softly glowing bodies as they writhed and wrapped themselves around him…slowly he ceased all movement…he felt a sudden peace, as if the nerve of his resistance had been severed by a magic touch.

  Limply he dropped to the floor conscious of the sweat of human bodies, a viscid odor that seemed to cling in his nostrils. He thought of the silver stream flowing peacefully at the bottom of the gully. It would wash away that smell if only…

  He felt himself lifted by gentle hands. Were they gentle? Or was he deadened to touch? His hand felt a twinge of pain, something rough moved beneath it, wearing away the skin. He tried to look, but his head would not obey. A sudden turn and the lurch threw his head to the side. His hand was dragging on the ground across rocks and bamboo shoots. He felt a sharper pain and tried again to lift his hand. It would not move. Realization came to his numbing senses! His body was paralyzed! Somehow they had worked magic on him! His mind raced feverishly, but he couldn’t move a muscle, or open his eyes. With a mighty effort he forced his parched lips open and shrieked once—the long, agonized wail of a soul in hell—

  * * * *

  The blacks around the campfire shuddered slightly and drew closer to the flame as the cry died away.

  John Evans jumped from his cot and ran swiftly to Sally’s tent. Her candle was nearly guttered, but by its dim flame he could see her terror-struck face in the semi-dark.

  “Wha—what was that?” Her teeth chattered as John, wrapping the sheet around her clinging body, lifted her, and sitting on the side of the cot, rocked her gently in his arms. His own face became pasty as the scream died away.

  “I don’t know,” he answered soberly, “but you needn’t be frightened. Masterson’s gone to shoot a panther, and when he returns in the morning, we’re turning back.”

  Sally buried her face in his neck and her smooth lips formed a kiss on his throat. His muscles jerked with the contact and he felt his blood quicken. He lowered his mouth and kissed her. They clung for a long minute, then John quietly disengaged himself. “Masterson’s got something on his mind besides the ivory cache we’re supposed to be looking for,” he told her quietly. “I don’t like this country. Nigger’s tale or not, it’s got a queer history, and we don’t want to be marked as ‘Taboo’.” He patted her smooth shoulders reassuringly. “I’ll spend the rest of the night by the fire. You try to get some sleep.”

  But her arms tightened convulsively, “No-no, don’t leave me, I’m afraid!”

  Evans felt his resistance weaken. He automatically strained her to him, as her hot, moist mouth closed clingingly over his.

  The candle flickered and went out…

  * * * *

  As Masterson’s shriek died in his throat, he made a tremendous effort to repeat it, but his vocal cords refused to respond to his desire. His mind froze with fright!

  He was conscious of dense overgrowth on either side, overhanging the procession that carried him. A dull bom, bom sounded in his ears like a death knell. He thought of tom-toms, and of the unearthly scream he had heard earlier in the evening. His body was wet with sweat. He also recalled ugly tales he’d heard of how superstitious blacks tormented a temple despoiler! Suddenly his mind told him that his captors were little pale white women! This did not seem to bring any comfort.

  He was seized with a desire to resist, to struggle and tear himself away from this horde of little beings that carried him on and on… His mind struggled frantically and cursed and swore, but all that moved was his mouth; his body sagged limply between his bearers. He was paralyzed! His body was dead! They had worked some sort of magic on him! Only his mind remained alive! He could will, but he could not act! He could feel, but he could not touch!

  The ground came up under him and he moved no longer. A circle of pale-limbed women, interspersed with black-robed priests, stood around him. He opened his eyes wider.

  A sharp stone dug at his back, but he could not move a muscle.

  Suddenly his eyelids refused to close again and his eyes felt cold…ice cold. Two hands reached down and turned his head to one side. For what purpose? He felt cold sweat break out again on his body, and his brain cringed and cowered with an unknown fear.

  Across the clearing he could see in the dusk of dawn a dark object, a protuberance rearing its ugly head from its center, immobile as a tiger crouched waiting for its prey. Could it be a beast, a slinking, starved creature that fed upon human sacrifices? He tried, unsuccessfully, to turn his head to the other side.

  His eyes bulged from their sockets. The circle of women was widening. They were leaving him to…that! He pleaded in shouts, but the sound of his voice was indistinct and sounded like gibberish to his ears. He offered money, more money than he’d ever thought of having, but the figures faded away in the growing light…and that stone was paining his back! The weirdness of it! To be unshackled and free, and still unable to move!

  He wanted to close his eyes or turn his head or move his body…anything to distract his mind from that indistinct ‘thing’ across the clearing. The coming dawn seemed to bring it nearer. He could almost feel its carnal breath upon his face, its teeth at his throat, and he…unable to move!

  He strained his eyes as daylight gathered, toward the thing that was crouching there. A sharp pain shot through his back and moved through his entrails. Like a tremendous needle pushing its way through his body? What a relief it would be just to lift himself a little to relieve that gnawing pain at his back…but not a nerve, not a tendon or a muscle would obey his commands.

  The tropic dawn came suddenly and he forgot for a moment the agony of his back in what he saw!

  ‘That thing’ was not a beast! It was a man! And—he had not moved. He was dead! His tongue, blackened and swollen three times its normal size, lolled out of his mouth and trickles of blood had dried on his chin. The eyes stared straight into the heavens, unseeing, and on his face seemed still to writhe the agony of his death!

  Masterson felt a violent nausea at his stomach and his voice made itself heard in a crescendo of screeches. His eyes rolled back to his ghastly companion, and fastened themselves on the protuberance that had pushed its way through the abdomen.

  “God!” he moaned in a torment of despair, “it’s a bamboo shoot! Red with blood! And I’ll soon be…like…that…

  The pain in his back was unbearable. He knew now it was no stone! He was crazed with terror. His demented scream soared in the air. And such a soul-rendering scream; the death wail! It was borne on the returni
ng breeze to a camp not far away from the foothills.

  * * * *

  John Evans was crouched at the fire with the quivering blacks. They looked in stricken appeal toward their leader as the weird shriek died away.

  Lubu gazed somberly at John Evans’ colorless face. “Yes, Bwana,” he said, “better we pack. Big white man not come back!”

  THE BLACK 13, by Ellery Watson Calder

  Originally published in Spicy Adventure Stories, August 1935.

  I looked at my last five-buck chip. If I lost it, I’d be plenty broke. I hesitated. Then I said, “What the hell!” and slapped the chip down on a black square that was numbered with a big 13.

  The Mex croupier flipped his little ivory ball. It ran around the top rim of the wheel. Then it clicked downward. I held my left ventricle.

  The wheel slowed. The Mex croupier said, “Thirteen wins.” He counted out thirty-five blue chips, shoved them out into the middle of the roulette table.

  I reached for the pile. One hundred and seventy-five simoleons looked big to me. Maybe Lady Luck was with me after all!

  And then a good-looking red-haired dame alongside me said, “I beg your pardon. That was my bet.” She reached out under my nose and raked in the stack of blue chips.

  I stared at her. If she’d been a man I’d have poked her in the snoot. But she wasn’t a man. She was a girl—a young girl. And she was damned attractive. Her hair wasn’t exactly red; it was auburn, with glints of gold in it. Her eyes were greenish, and they had flecks of gold also.

  The rest of her was a complete knockout. She was wearing an evening-gown that didn’t leave much to the imagination. It was slashed plenty low in front, so that I could see the creamy crevice between her round, hard young breasts. Her curving hips were the kind you’d like to pat.

  She gave me a cold, haughty glare. Her expression was as insolent as go-to-hell. I grinned at her and said, “Sorry, sister. My mistake.” I turned and strolled out of the Casino, into the soft warm night. I set fire to a gasper and wondered what the devil I’d do now.

  If I’d had the price of a quart of Scotch. I’d have tried to get drunk. And if I hadn’t hocked my return ticket to San Diego I might have taken a chance on slipping back into the States. Even though such a move would probably have meant jail. After all, a guy gets three square meals a day in the hoosegow.

  I heard somebody coming up behind me in the darkness. I turned. It was a girl. It was the red-haired wren who’d cabbaged my thirty-five blue chips. She looked at me and said, “You’re Steve King, aren’t you?”

  I grinned and said, “Not for publication.” She said, “I know all about you, Steve King. You were a pilot on the Trans-American Air Lines. You washed out your ship over the desert near Victorville—killing three passengers. You were accused of being dog-drunk at the time. The Department of Commerce inspectors would have you in a cell right now—if they could find you.”

  I flipped away my cigarette and said “For a youngster, you certainly know one hell of a lot.”

  She laughed. It was a musical laugh, but there wasn’t much mirth in it. She said. “I know more than that. I know a few things that even you don’t know, Steve King. For instance. I know that you weren’t really drunk when your plane crashed on the desert. Somebody poured a pint of gin down your throat while you were unconscious, after the crack-up. And I know what caused that crack-up, too.”

  I looked at her. “What caused it?” I whispered quietly.

  She said, “Somebody filed almost through your control-wires, just before you took off from Glendale.”

  I took a deep breath. She’d told me some things I’d been wondering about—things that had puzzled me plenty during the past week. I said, “What’s the game, baby? How about giving me the low-down? I think I can use you in my business.”

  I had an idea in the back of my head as I spoke. If this dame knew so much, maybe I could take her before a board of inquiry; maybe her testimony would put me in the clear!

  She shook a decisive negative. “No, you can’t use me in your business,” she said softly. “But, maybe I can use you in mine.” Then she reached down into the low décolletage of her dress, fumbled between her firm white breasts.

  She brought out a wadded roll of bills. She handed them to me. She said, “Here’s your money. I laid claim to your bet so I’d have an excuse to talk to you later.”

  I took the money. I envied that wad of greenbacks. They’d rested in a place where I’d have liked to put my hands. I said, “Thanks. And now maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me what this is all about.”

  She said, “Are you staying here at Agua Caliente?”

  “Why not?” I shrugged. “It’s a good a place as any—while the dough holds out.”

  She looked into my eyes. Then she said, “I want you to come up to my hotel room at eleven o’clock tonight. The Caliente Hotel. Room 314.” Then her voice changed, grew grim and somehow warning. “But don’t get any funny ideas, Steve King. Because I’m not that kind.”

  “You’ll be as safe with me as though you were in the arms of your mother,” I told her.

  She sniffed. Then she turned and went back into the casino. I watched the lithe, feline grace of her hips as she walked. Her smooth flesh rippled under the tightness of her evening gown. I liked that.

  I went into the bar and killed time with some Scotch highballs. Pretty soon it was eleven o’clock. I walked over to the hotel and went upstairs Room 314. I knocked.

  The door opened. The auburn-haired girl stood aside to let me enter. Then she closed the door and locked it.

  I looked over. My heart bounced up and down like a cage full of loose rubber balls.

  She had discarded her evening-gown. She was clad in a flowing diaphanous negligee. Black crepe it was, and her white body showed through it like a Turk’s dream of paradise.

  I’ve seen a lot of legs in my time, but none like this girl’s. They were gorgeous. So were her firm, heavy breasts. So were her lips, her eyes, her hair. She was perfect. She wasn’t wearing a single stitch under that black negligee.

  She said, “When you’ve finished inspecting me, you can go and hide in that closet over there.” She pointed.

  I looked at the closet. Then I looked at the girl “What kind of shenanigan is this?” I wanted to know.

  She said, “There’s a man coming here in ten minutes. When his back is turned, I want you to bat him over the head. Then we’ll take him down the fire-escape. I’ve got a coupe parked near. And there’s a plane waiting at the landing field. You’re to fly us back over the border.”

  I went toward the door that led into the corridor. I said, “No, thanks. I’m in plenty dutch already. You’d better get another boy.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “You—you’re backing out on me?” She came toward me. Maybe it was an accident and perhaps it wasn’t, but the front of her negligee gaped open. I saw more than a generous hint of her pink-tipped, cream-white breasts. She came close to me, touched my arm with her fingers.

  I got quite a thrill out of that. I looked into her eyes, tried to fathom them. I wasn’t quite sure whether she was giving me the come-on stuff, or whether she was just trying to suck me into a jam. There was one way of finding out.

  I grabbed her around the waist and pulled her against me. I kissed her. While I was kissing her, I pulled her negligee all the way open and fondled her breasts with my hand.

  She backed off and slammed her clenched fist into my mug, as hard as she could paste me. A little diamond ring on her finger split my lip. Her eyes blazed; her bosom heaved up and down. She said, “You lousy rat! I told you I wasn’t that sort. Now—get to hell out of here!”

  She was mad clear through. And I was glad. Because now I know she was on the level. I grinned and said, “I was just testing you, baby. I was trying to find out if you’d play.”

  “You foun
d out!” she rasped. “Now get out. I can do without you. I don’t need you.”

  I said. “How about the guy you want slugged?” I went toward her, tried to reason with her.

  She backed off. She opened a bureau drawer. She flashed a wicked-looking roscoe at my guts. She said, “Get out—before I let atmosphere through your liver!”

  I got out. She slammed the door in my face. I heard a choked sob from the other side of the door.

  I went downstairs. I was worried. That girl had trouble on her mind—had wanted me to help her. And I’d foozled my chance.

  I went out of the hotel, walked around toward the back of the building. There was a fire-escape. It led up past the red-haired girl’s room. I knew she was going to have a guy in her room pretty soon. A guy she wanted cold-cocked. But how in hell she was going to manage it by herself was beyond me.

  “She’s going to need help,” I told myself. I reached up, grabbed the lowest rung of the fire-escape, pulled it down. I started climbing.

  Pretty soon I was outside the auburn-haired wren’s bedroom window. The shade was drawn: but there was a narrow edge of light at the bottom, where it didn’t come quite to the sill. I peered in.

  The girl was sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting. Her eyes looked suspiciously red-rimmed. Her lower lip trembled.

  I heard a soft knock. The girl sprang to her feet, opened the bedroom door. A guy came in.

  He was olive-dark, and he wore a pointed moustache. He was tall and powerfully-built—almost as big as I am. He grabbed for the girl. He kissed her. She didn’t seem to mind. She pressed herself against him. His hand fumbled over her hips, through her thin negligee. That made me sore, for some reason or other.

  I heard him say, “God you’re sweet!” Then he kissed her again.

  After a while she broke loose from him. She said, “How about a little drink, Leo?”