E. Hoffmann Price's Pierre d'Artois: Occult Detective & Associates

by E. Hoffmann Price

  He spoke in Arabic, his native tongue. Wentworth of course did not understand; but Farrell, glancing at Azizah from the corner of his eye, knew that the Syrian girl had heard, and that she had no hope of escaping the fate that confronted her late adversaries.

  Habeeb deftly and effectively bound the trio hand and foot. Farrell, realizing from the beginning that resistance would be futile, had hoped for some moment of distraction during which he could precipitate a free for all. But Pappadopoulos’s businesslike methods had taken even that slender hope.

  “Stack them on the floor,” the Greek directed. “Yes. By the floor lamp is room enough. No, leave Meestair Wentworth where he is. We will have a word with him, immediately. Habeeb, you know the arrangement of the house. Somewhere in the basement must be a furnace.”

  “You can’t get away with this!” flared Wentworth, catching the savage implication. A furnace, in New Orleans, is a clay pot with perforated bottom to afford a good draft for the charcoal fire which many of the old-time Negro domestics find more to their liking than gas. Whether for laundry, or cooking a mess of crawfish, or broiling game, the furnace still holds its own against modern devices.

  “Ah, but I have already gotten away with it,” was the Greek’s amiable retort. “The clever Meestair Farrell has pulled the police from the investigation of your highhanded killing of my excellent assistant this evening. Which facilitates this little—ah, study in roasting. Yes.

  “And your house. Thick walls, and buried in a city block of tall trees. It will nicely muffle any sounds. Thus I do not have to gag you. I leave you free to tell me where you have concealed that quaint little peacock.”

  “You low-down rat, do you think I’ll tell you?”

  Pappadopoulos chuckled, and shrugged.

  “You are a stubborn man. And my assistant, poor fellow, learned that you are hard to deal with. Still, now that I am here in person, I think it can be arranged. Suleiman, see if that stupid Habeeb has found the charcoal.”

  “Good Lord!” muttered Farrell to Azizah. “All my fault. If the police had stuck around—”

  “That would only have delayed him,” she whispered. “And they would have caught up with me, sooner or later. But probably sooner. Save your regrets for yourself. You blundered into this out of sympathy for dead Hussayn. I knew the risk I took.”

  She paused for a moment, and wormed her way closer to Farrell. She had heard the wheezing of bellows, and the muttered consultation of Pappadopoulos and his cutthroats as they took tongs from the hearth and thrust them into the fire pot, whose lurid glow now was plainly perceptible in spite of the lights of the library.

  “But they won’t kill you,” Farrell reassured.

  “Surely they will,” she said. “So that I will not carry back any reports to the King of Najd. I am doomed even as you are, and Wentworth. For one of us to live will cost Pappadopoulos the loss of a large reward. We all know too much.”

  Despite his bonds, Farrell contrived to roll over to face the group gathered about the fire pot. The satanic redness of the charcoal now dominated the mellow lights of the library. Habeeb, pumping at the bellows, was perspiring from the fierce heat. Beaded sweat glistened on his forehead like tiny rubies. His two companions stood by, stoically regarding the preparations. At times they exchanged a muttered word. Pappadopoulos sat back in a chair, stroked his mustache, and smiled thinly.

  Wentworth, his heavy features defiantly set, glared at the Greek as though by sheer force of wrath to shake him from his impersonal calm.

  “If I ever get my hands on you, I’ll—”

  “Ah, but you won’t live that long. Meestair Wentworth,” murmured the Greek. “Where is the peacock, pliss? Your stubbornness is causing my men much delay—although fortunately we have plenty of time. It is still early.”

  Farrell wondered how long Wentworth would persist in his obstinacy, how long the millionaire’s nerves could stand the menace of those evil faces, that diabolical red glow, and the appraising glances of Habeeb as he critically inspected the tongs, then thrust them back into their bed of incandescent coals.

  “We’ll live as long as Wentworth holds out,” he heard Azizah whisper. “Once he cracks, they’ll have time for us. But the peacock is most important.”

  “It must be,” Farrell agreed somberly. Even in this crisis, his mind cut back to the inexplicable three-cornered contest for the possession of that golden symbol of the Yezidee devil worshipers. Azizah’s interview with Wentworth had convinced Farrell that the token had no occult or religious significance. It seemed rather to be political, with a baffling jargon of agreements, documents, and the King of Najd.

  “But I’d a damn sight rather be dealing with Yezidees,” he concluded.

  They were now thrusting the glowing tongs forward for Wentworth’s inspection, evilly chuckling, and reminding him of the wrath to come; and as they paused, the silky voice of the Greek renegade repeated his query: “Meestair Wentworth, where is the peacock?”

  Wentworth’s reply was a snarl, a curse, and a flat refusal.

  “But he can’t hold out. Guts aplenty—but they’ll crack him,” was Farrell’s opinion. “I’d have coughed up long ago—”

  Something razor-sharp jabbed Farrell’s wrists, which were bound tightly behind him. Then a warning hiss from Azizah. He felt the toe of her cobra-skin shoes graze his forearm. Again something lacerated his wrists.

  Then he understood. Though her ankles were tied, she had nevertheless managed to work a fragment of the broken decanter against his bonds. It would tear his wrists to ribbons. But it might liberate his hands.

  “You will not tell us where is the peacock?” Pappadopoulos’s soft voice was now a venomous murmur. “Ah—a little closer, Habeeb—”

  Azizah gasped. Farrell’s stomach was on the verge of revolt. He carefully avoided looking. But he smelled an odor that made his flesh creep, and heard a low, stifled groan from Wentworth.

  “He can’t hold out!” Farrell muttered between his clenched teeth. Then, aloud: “For God’s sake, Wentworth, tell them!”

  “That is wise counsel,” seconded Pappadopoulos.

  “Damn you!” snarled Wentworth. “I’ll take it! You’ve not got guts enough to hang around here! The police will return—”

  Farrell, tense from the horror of Wentworth’s torment, scarcely felt the vicious cutting and jabbing as the glass slashed and gouged his wrists. Each cut should have severed the cord—would have, had it been directed by hands instead of feet—but instead, it only drenched his wrists with blood. And a severed artery would thwart even this slim chance—

  Again that odor of scorching. They were not forcing the issue. They knew better than to torment their victim to unconsciousness. Very cleverly they kept the agony of branded flesh just short of unbearable. They were working on his courage rather than on his body, and working cunningly.

  Another—and final excruciating slash of glass; and Farrell’s wrists were free. But his ankles were bound. Azizah’s automatic was on the lacquer cabinet, still unnoticed by the invaders, but beyond Farrell’s reach. Despite his marksmanship, he needed more than a gun in his hands. He needed fast footwork to duck and twist and lunge as he shot it out with those four assassins—if he could get a weapon.

  Then his numbed hands closed on the blood-dripping fragment of glass. There might be a chance of applying it to the cord about his ankles, undetected by the enemy. Farrell could not understand Azizah’s whisper as she noted his gesture. He wondered what she was trying to tell him.

  “Where is the peacock, Meestair Wentworth?” the Greek persisted.

  Wentworth had reached the end of his endurance. His reply was an inarticulate snarl, then a hysterical chuckle as he answered: “I’ll tell you where it is—take that iron away!”

  Wentworth had spoken at the worst possible moment. Habeeb and Suleiman, rising from the furnace, looked direct
ly toward Farrell and Azizah. Though their eyes were dazzled by the glare of the fire, they could not fail to note any move Farrell might make to free his ankles. And time was passing; Wentworth had cracked—and the doom would descend.

  “It’s in the safe,” Wentworth was saying. “Right where you wouldn’t expect to find it.”

  Pappadopoulos crossed the room and knelt before the nickeled door.

  “The combination, pliss.”

  “Right five times to forty-five—”

  Pappadopoulos spun the dial, glanced over his shoulder at Wentworth to receive the next turn. Each whirl of the glistening disk was bringing death closer; and one move to use the piece of glass would draw a spray of lead.

  “Left four and stop at ten,” Wentworth muttered brokenly.

  The Greek’s long fingers turned the knob. But before he completed the fourth revolution, the room was suddenly plunged into darkness unbroken save by the now dying, sultry glow of the unfanned charcoal.

  A curse of exasperation. Then: “Habeeb, give me a match—no, bring that fire pot—”

  Farrell slashed home, freeing his ankles at a single stroke. And though unsteady on his numbed legs, he leaped to his feet, and snatched Azizah’s pistol from the lacquer cabinet.

  All in an instant. As a match flared before the safe, the pistol in Farrell’s hand dropped into line.

  Crack—crack!

  Pappadopoulos toppled from his knees face-down on the Persian carpet. But before Farrell could whirl to his right to fire at the three remaining ruffians, he knew that his weapon was empty. He flattened to the floor as a hail of lead from their heavy automatics crashed into the plaster above him. That move saved him from quick death.

  During the instant’s respite that followed the volley, Farrell took cover behind the lacquer cabinet. His move told the enemy that their shots had missed. They dropped to the floor to avoid being silhouetted against the dying glow of the furnace.

  “Give ’em hell!” cried Wentworth with a hysterical laugh.

  Farrell knew that his first move across the room would draw a hail of lead that would cut him down. The cabinet was a flimsy shield. But he might distract them for an instant. He thrust his shoulder against a book case and lurched to his left. It crashed to the floor. And as the enemy’s pistols stabbed the darkness, Farrell seized the lacquer cabinet, thrust it before him, and plunged headlong into a flank attack that splintered the pride of Wentworth’s collection across the heads of the assassins before they could shift their line of fire.

  It was now hand to hand, and too close for firearms.

  A pistol clattered to the hearth. A knife raked Farrell as, in the heart of the combat, he drove home with a jab that doubled one of the enemy and sent him smashing into the andirons.

  “Two to go,” Farrell gasped as he struggled to his knees, writhed free of a knife thrust, and wiped away the blood that was trickling into his eyes. A yell of pain told him that in the confusion one of the combatants had stabbed his ally. Farrell wrenched free of the tangle to salvage a weapon.

  Habeeb, sensing his play, dropped his knife and snatched the discarded pistol from the floor. But quick as he was, he was not in time to dodge the clay furnace and its charge of glowing coals that Farrell hurled at the pair with all the strength of his wiry muscles.

  A howl of terror—a splintering of glass—they were diving through an unopened window. Farrell reeled, stooped to pick up a pistol and pursue. He tripped, measured his length on the floor, battered and weakened from loss of blood. But even as his senses were taking leave of him, he heard the crackle of pistol fire, and sharp commands. Healy was on the job.

  * * * *

  “Before you pour me into an ambulance,” protested Farrell when, thanks to a stiff drink of Wentworth’s brandy, he was able to move about under his own power, “I want to see the end of this peacock mess. Did you get those two—”

  “Your man Bronson fixed them up,” interrupted Healy. “This gang slipped in through the tradesman’s entrance, and he didn’t get wise until you started the show. But when he did—”

  Healy shook his head admiringly, and added: “Though they cut him up a bit, he’ll be O. K.”

  “All right! Now that that’s cleared up, I want the dope on this devil’s mess.” He glanced at Azizah. “Those lights going out was one lucky accident—”

  “Only it wasn’t an accident,” the Syrian girl explained. “I noticed that the cord of that floor lamp was badly frayed. While my wrists were tied, my fingers were free. And this ring across the bare wires did the trick.”

  “Made a short circuit and blew the fuses. But I still want to know about this peacock. I’ll vouch for Healy’s discretion, and I’m sure Wentworth won’t kick—not after your made-to-order eclipse.”

  “Oh, very well,” agreed Azizah, catching the affirmative nod of the oil man and the detective. “This evening—oh, Lord, but it seems years ago—I sensed that Hussayn was walking into a trap. I didn’t follow him closely enough, though I got a shot at the man that stabbed him. A second later you stepped into the alley, and I had to get out quickly, as I couldn’t afford to be held as a witness.

  “That would have exposed the deal between Ahmad, King of Najd, and Mr. Wentworth, who were secretly negotiating for an oil concession in the Al Hasa province.”

  “The point is,” supplemented Wentworth, who had received first aid for burns that were more painful than serious, “King Ahmad wanted to raise upward of two million dollars to finance an uprising of a fellow prince against the—well, let’s say some European power.

  “I wanted the oil concession. I saw him several months ago, secretly. The European power of course didn’t want him to release newly discovered oil territory to American interests, but having trouble in Africa as well as all over Asia—they didn’t dare give him an ultimatum. So they commissioned this Pappadopoulos fellow to impersonate King Ahmad’s personal messenger and make me an offer they knew I wouldn’t accept. Make me think the king was trying to gouge me.

  “The messenger was to identify himself by presenting half of the golden peacock to match the half the king gave me. But they overplayed their hand, and I got wise.”

  “But it’s still a puzzle,” interposed Farrell. “The deal was off—you made that clear when you beaned that impostor that tried to knife you. Why all this excitement afterward?”

  “Simple,” explained Azizah. “Mr. Wentworth explained why he wanted to keep both halves. Pappadopoulos also wanted both halves to prove to his employers, the—er—European power, that he had seen Wentworth and spiked the deal. Lacking that as proof of successful imposture, Pappadopoulos and his assassins could not get their pay. Do you see?

  “I followed you as soon as I learned your identity. I hoped to close the deal with Mr. Wentworth on Hussayn’s behalf. But the assassins had similar plans. Then they—”

  Farrell rubbed his head reminiscently.

  “But why didn’t they kill you—and me—then and there?”

  “No need, then. They underestimated me, until I practically emptied my pistol into the thug who was guarding me while Pappadopoulos’s assistant called on Mr. Wentworth. They did not figure you as a secret-service agent until they found you here. When they finally realized that Mr. Wentworth was fully aware of the trick and would at once get in touch with King Ahmad by cable, we all had to die; otherwise, they wouldn’t receive their fee.”

  “But what the devil did you want with the peacock?” Healy demanded.

  “Speaking of that bird of bad luck,” interposed Farrell, “let’s see it, here and now, eh, Wentworth?”

  “You’re entitled to, you two,” the oil man admitted, as he opened a secret compartment in his desk. Then, with a nod and a wink: “Damn right it wasn’t in the safe. I figured that bum steer would gain us a minute or two.”

  He slid the tiny image toward the center of th
e desk. A scarcely perceptible line marked the junction of the halves.

  “But what do you want with it?” he asked Azizah. “Bad enough to shoot me down in my tracks?”

  Azizah’s smile was amiable, and her eyes brightened at the sight of the golden symbol.

  “I wanted it to convince the King of Najd that Hussayn had executed his mission, and that he wasn’t killed until after he’d seen you. I thought you’d sign up, lie like a gentleman, and save Hussayn’s reputation as an infallible agent.”

  Her dark eyes gleamed with tears.

  “Wentworth, give her the peacock,” said Farrell. “She’s proved her case.”

  “I’ll do just that! Healy, let me take your pen.”

  Wentworth took the agreement from his pocket.

  “Hussayn’s a lucky guy,” said Farrell thoughtfully, as he regarded the lovely Syrian girl. “Even if he is dead.”

  TRIANGLE BY ARRANGEMENT

  Also published under the title “Desert Girl”

  Originally published in Spicy-Adventure Stories, May 1936.

  Hodeidah is a section of hell enclosed by a crescent-shaped stone wall whose both ends reach to the shallow harbor. The lousiest spot in Hodeidah is the samsarah; a flop house for itinerant merchants, thieves, men who prey on women, and Red Sea riffraff.

  The two men who squatted on the pounded earth floor of a second story cubby hole opening to the gallery that overhung the compound of the samsarah blended admirably into their surroundings. One was broad-shouldered, wiry, and had a lean, aquiline face. The other was iron hard, body and face alike, and was built like a box car. Though both were tanned to the color of old leather; neither were Arabs.

  The lean man was Glenn Farrell, and like his companion, he wore a compact turban and a loin cloth. The other was Red O’Hara whose flaming beard was the envy of the Somali Coast.

  Farrell, leader of the duet, passed as an Arab; O’Hara’s blue eyes, and bold, rugged face and henna-colored beard automatically made him an Afghan. Their names varied according to circumstance.