by Otto Penzler
“What is it?” Eric gasped as he caught up.
“It’s a Chinese funeral pole!” Traile said tensely. “I’m afraid we’re going to be too late.”
He raced up the curving drive with Eric close at his heels. No lights shone from the mansion. He ran up the steps. The door was open, and from somewhere beyond there came an eerie will-o’-the-wisp glow. The silence all but shrieked.
Traile tiptoed to the doorway through which the flickering light showed. It led to a drawing room. He took one step inside, then halted, appalled, with Eric gazing white-faced past his shoulder.
Two yellow Chinese candles shone down from the head of an open coffin directly before them. An icy shudder went over Traile. He was looking down on the back of a corpse—but the dead man’s face was staring upward!
With horror, Traile saw the bloodstains which had dyed the man’s white collar. Peter Courtland had been decapitated, and his head sewn on again—backward!
Chapter 3
The Golden Skull
Eric turned away, sickened, as Traile stepped closer to stare in amazement. Just beyond the candles, on a stand beneath a mirror, a queer bright object was gleaming. Leering down at the pale dead face below was a small golden skull.
Eric gazed blankly at it, but Traile’s dark eyes suddenly filled with consternation.
“My God! The Chuen Gin Lou!”
“What do you mean?” Eric asked thickly.
“The Circle of the Golden Skull—one of the oldest, most dreaded secret societies of China. It’s supposed to have died out. Doctor Yen Sin must have revived it, made it part of the Invisible Empire.”
Eric looked back at the dead man and shivered.
“It’s horrible enough, murdering him, but to sew on his head that way—”
“It’s part of their ritual, based on the Chinese penal code,” said Traile, as Eric broke off. “When a Chinese criminal is beheaded, it is the custom to sew his head on backward before giving the body to his relatives. Courtland must have been about to betray Yen Sin. This thing has been staged as a warning to others in the Empire.”
Eric gripped his gun, peered around into the shadows.
“It’s like a tomb,” he whispered. “I wonder if they killed all the servants, too.”
“We’ll search the place as soon as those agents arrive,” Traile answered. His eyes had hardly left the golden skull. There was a curious fascination about it. It had been molded by a master hand, and with diabolical artistry. Its proportions were perfect, though it was less than half the size of a human skull. In the flickering candlelight, a mocking grin seemed to play across its hideous metal face. Eric looked at it, startled.
“Lord! For a second, I thought it was moving!”
“It’s only the light,” said Traile. He thrust out his hand as Eric came closer. “Don’t touch it. There may be some solid basis for that old fantastic story.”
Eric stared at him.
“What story?”
Traile hesitated before he answered.
“The Chuen Gin Lou is said to have been a mysterious murder cult ruled by a golden skull. The skull was supposed to have the power of death. Only the members ever knew the truth, but there are well-educated Chinese who still believe that ‘He who looks upon the Golden Skull must either kill or die.’ ”
Eric’s jaw dropped.
“Don’t tell me you believe that!”
Traile’s dark eyes were somber.
“Eric, I’ve seen strange things in the East. I am not easily affected, but there is something about that skull—”
He stopped, glanced quickly at his watch.
“Those D.J. agents should be here in a few minutes. You know Bill Allen, and he’ll probably be in charge. I wish you’d meet him—tell him to hurry in here. I’ll examine Courtland’s body, meanwhile.”
Eric grimaced.
“You’re welcome to that part. I’ll be glad to get out of here.”
As he went out, Traile stooped over the dead man. The beheading had been done by a skilled hand, for the cut was straight. The bloodstained stitches also gave evidence of surgical knowledge. Traile’s lips tightened. Unless he was badly mistaken, this was the work of the Yellow Doctor himself.
He holstered his automatic, started to search Courtland’s pockets. He did it cautiously, knowing Yen Sin’s predilection for setting deathtraps in unlikely places. The dead man’s pockets were empty. Traile turned, was bending over the golden skull when he heard something from the left side of the house. It grew swiftly into the sound of a woman’s footsteps, a woman who was running desperately, fearfully.
Traile stepped back quickly into the shadows, took a hasty glance about him. The nearest concealment was a large urn on a taboret. He crouched behind it. The next instant a girl darted in from a door at the side. With a start, Traile recognized the pretty face of the blonde English girl, Iris Vaughan.
Her head was bare, and her bright hair shone in the light of the candles. She halted for a moment, cast a fearful look about the room. From the half-opened bag on her arm she had taken a small, pearl-handled pistol.
She gasped as she saw the coffin and its terrible occupant. For a second, Traile thought she would faint. But the desperate light came back into her eyes, and she forced herself to go on. With her gaze averted, she passed the dead man’s bier. She had reached the stand under the mirror when Traile silently moved from behind the urn. He kept to one side, so that she would not see his reflection. He was within a few feet of her, the thick rug muffling his step, when she suddenly turned. All the color went out of her face.
“Michael Traile!” she moaned. She stood as though paralyzed, then with a frantic motion tried to snatch up the gun she had laid down. Traile’s long fingers closed on the weapon. He calmly dropped it into his pocket. The girl shrank back with a little cry. Traile’s dark eyes searched her frightened face.
“So the Doctor didn’t intend the Golden Skull to be left here.”
She tried to speak, made a helpless gesture. Traile looked down at the gruesome figure of Peter Courtland.
“Once before, I told you there was no diplomatic immunity for murder.”
“I had nothing to do with it,” she said wildly. “I never even knew!”
“Then why are you here?” Traile interrupted.
“He sent me—” The words broke in a sob. “Please let me go—I swear I knew nothing of this awful murder!”
Traile eyed her sternly.
“Where is Doctor Yen Sin hidden?”
“I don’t know!” she whispered. “All my orders come indirectly—”
“You’re lying,” said Traile, but part of the sternness went out of his face. She was dangerous, yet there was something pitiful about her.
He hesitated. “If you will give me the information I need, I’ll see that you are protected against his vengeance.”
“You’re mad!” she cried. “Nothing could save me! In God’s name, give me the skull—let me go—”
“What is its secret?” Trail demanded.
Iris Vaughan turned deathly pale. “I can’t tell you—I don’t know!”
“Perhaps you would rather tell the police,” Traile said calmly.
With a trembling hand, she took something from the vanity bag on her arm. He reached out quickly, thinking it was another weapon. To his astonishment, she opened a jeweler’s box and an enormous oval-shaped diamond blazed up at him. “Here!” she said tensely. “This is worth a thousand times the gold in that skull. Take it!”
Traile stared down at the shimmering jewel.
“The Vare Diamond!”
“It’s not stolen, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said in a breathless whisper. “But it’s yours—in exchange for the skull.”
“I’m sorry.” Traile lifted his head as the sound of hastily applied brakes came from outside. “But you have one last chance to talk, before the Department of Justice men get here.”
She caught at him with frantic hands.
>
“Please don’t let them take me!”
He could feel the warmth of her body as she clung to him. He looked down, steeling himself against the passionate appeal in her upturned face. For an instant, her very soul seemed to be in her eyes.
“Save me!” she whispered. “I promise I shall not forget!”
—
He reached up to disentangle her arms. Outside, another car stopped with tires squealing. Iris moved back despairingly as a thud of feet sounded from the reception hall. But suddenly a wild hope flashed into her eyes.
Traile shot a look at the mirror. A bulky figure had plunged into the room. In that split second, he saw a strange gray face. Then he dived headlong back of the coffin.
The silenced gun he had seen gave a muffled clunk. The slug tore through the coffin, and wood splintered three inches above his head. He rolled over, came up with his .38 blasting. The other man jumped back, gun arm dangling. He made a vain attempt to shift the weapon and reload.
“Drop it!” clipped Traile.
The man’s queer gray face jerked spasmodically, and the silenced gun slipped from his fingers. His eyes, small and deep-sunken, never moved from Traile. Hoarse voices abruptly were audible, then a French window to the conservatory burst open. Traile half-wheeled, expecting to see Bill Allen’s agents. But to his dismay, he was looking on three more gray-faced men.
As the three leaped into the drawing room, Iris struck at Traile’s elbow. The .38 roared, drilled a hole in the wall. Its crashing report was followed by the ominous click of another silenced pistol. The mirror back of Traile shattered into a thousand fragments. He flung a swift-aimed shot at the first of the trio of Gray Men.
The man screamed hoarsely, stumbled and fell in a heap. Traile hurled himself toward the coffin as the other two leveled their guns. A sweep of his hand, and the candles went to the floor. In the darkness he heard a venomous hiss of lead from the raiders’ pistols.
From the direction of Riverside Drive, an exhaust whistle throbbed four times. Instantly, a beam of light swept the lawn beyond the veranda. A fifth Gray Man dashed into the room.
“Come on!” he rasped. “They’re surrounding the place.”
“But the Golden Skull!” snarled another voice. “We haven’t found it.”
“I have it!” came the panicky voice of Iris Vaughan. “But we’ll never escape now.”
Traile leaped toward her as she started to run to the window. By the faint light from the shifting searchlight of the D.J. men, he saw the gleam of gold. He tore the skull from her hands, whirled toward the urn. In the shadows back of him, Iris gave a scream.
“It’s gone! Someone—”
A crash of gunfire drowned her cry. The shots came from behind the mansion. Two of the Gray Men were silhouetted as they hastily picked up their dead comrade, carried him through the French window. Traile had barely placed the skull inside the urn and wheeled to the hall doorway when a flashlight probed through the dark. The man he had wounded snarled an alarm. Bullets plunked into the doorframe as Traile charged into the hall.
He dodged through the library, hurriedly opened a window, and dropped to the ground outside. A powerful spotlight in the hands of an agent covered him at once.
“Get ’em up!” the man ordered sharply.
“Hold it, Johnson,” snapped another voice. The lanky form of Bill Allen appeared, with Eric close behind.
“They’re getting away on the other side,” Traile said hastily, as Allen recognized him. Even as he spoke, there was another burst of shots. He and the others sprinted around the front of the mansion. A big car was racing down the exit drive. It swerved suddenly, charged across the lawn and plunged through the hedge which bordered the yard. Behind it came a second machine, engine roaring. It whirled through the beam of an agent’s searchlight, and for a moment Traile saw the terrified face of Iris Vaughan, where she cringed down by one of the Gray Men.
—
Bill Allen had raised a tommy gun for a burst at the car. At sight of the girl, he swore and pointed the weapon lower. A stuttering blast ripped at the wheels, but the bullets missed the tires. At furious speed, the car tore through the break in the hedge and was swallowed up in the gloom. Down near the main entrance to the estate, a D.J. car roared away in hot pursuit.
Traile swung quickly to Bill Allen, as several D.J. men ran toward the senior agent.
“The police will be here in a few minutes. I want them to think that Eric and I are agents of yours—that we arrived here at the same time you did. Here’s your story: You had a tip from Washington, dashed out here, and ran into a fight with some gangsters who got away.”
“That bird I saw with the girl didn’t look like any gangster,” Bill Allen muttered. “He looked like a corpse.”
“You’ll find a real one inside,” Traile said grimly. “But pass that word to your men, and then have them search the place. I’ve something to show you.”
Allen gave hasty instructions to his men, and they scattered to search the mansion. Traile had drawn Eric aside.
“You recognized her?” he said in an undertone.
Eric nodded, his blue eyes still wide with excitement.
“Sure, it was Iris Vaughan—but where on earth were she and those—”
“I’ll explain in a minute. But don’t tell anyone but Allen that we know who she was.”
Bill Allen strode back and joined them.
“Now, would you mind telling me what the hell—”
“Come on,” Traile cut in. “We’ve no time to waste.”
He led the way to the drawing room, tersely explaining what had happened. The lights were on, and one of the agents was just starting on to the conservatory, after an amazed stare at Courtland’s body. Traile waited till he had gone, then retrieved the golden skull from the urn, while Allen gingerly examined the dead man.
“I don’t want the police to know about this skull,” Traile said rapidly. “It must have some tremendous importance. The Gray Men were sent here to recover it. Not only that, the Vaughan girl offered me the Vare Diamond in exchange.”
Bill Allen gaped at him.
“The Vare Diamond! Why, that stone’s worth a third of a million if it’s worth a penny.”
“I know that.” Traile scanned the floor near the coffin. “I thought she dropped it, but she evidently found it again.”
Eric pointed to a pool of blood nearer the opened window.
“You must’ve finished one of those Gray Men, all right.”
Traile’s tanned face was flinty.
“If he’d been a better shot, I’d be stretched out here with poor old Courtland.”
Allen shook his head bewilderedly.
“I thought you were screwy tonight, when I got Glover’s order and you told me about Doctor Yen Sin and the Invisible Empire. But after this—”
“This is only a hint of Yen Sin’s diabolical methods,” interrupted Traile. “We’re likely to have more than a hint when he finds we have the skull.”
All three gazed at the golden object for a second.
“I can’t see what anybody’d want of that thing,” grated Bill Allen. “Unless they were to melt it down—”
“And tonight’s work proves it’s not that,” rapped Traile. He lit a cigarette, took a turn back and forth. “From all the rumors and stories about it, the Golden Skull must be a sacred symbol. If you knew Chinese superstition, you’d understand Doctor Yen Sin’s desperate efforts to regain possession of it. Millions of Chinese blindly worship lesser things than this.”
“Then why did they leave it here?” asked Eric, puzzled.
Traile frowned down at the skull. “It may have been used in the ritual. The red funeral pole bears that out; it means, literally, that ‘a man lies in a coffin within this house.’ But someone must have left the skull by mistake.”
A whine of sirens announced the approach of the police.
“Eric, you and I had better slip outside,” Traile said quickly. “We want to be
as inconspicuous as possible while the police investigate this.”
As they were hurrying out with Bill Allen, one of the D.J. agents came downstairs.
“No sign of anybody up there, sir,” he told the senior agent. “And Johnson reports the servants’ quarters deserted.”
“The servants have probably been kidnapped,” Traile said as they reached the main entrance. “If I know the Yellow Doctor, they won’t be seen again.”
“By Heaven, he can’t get away with this!” said Allen angrily.
A police car had come to a halt before the funeral pole and a strongly Irish voice was heard in a profane outburst.
“At least they’re real cops,” Traile muttered. He hid the golden skull under his coat. “Explain things as fast as you can, Bill. Eric and I will stay back with your men until you’ve arranged it so we can leave.”
“I’ll do my best,” said the lanky agent.
But it was almost an hour before he could finish explaining to the satisfaction of the homicide squad. By this time police and reporters were swarming over the place, and a crowd had gathered at the gates.
Several of the D.J. men grouped themselves about Traile as he went out to his car, and the bulge under his coat apparently passed unnoticed. Bill Allen climbed into the rear of Traile’s car, with two agents armed with tommy guns. Two machines filled with the rest of the D.J. men formed a close escort in the dash for Lexington Avenue.
Traile drove as fast as he dared through the early morning traffic. His bronzed face was stonily set, and his dark eyes flicked ceaselessly from right to left at each new intersection. By now, Yen Sin would undoubtedly know the truth. There probably had been spies in that crowd back at the mansion. But there seemed to be no one following, and it would be difficult for anyone to pick them up on the zigzag route he was taking.
On the front seat between him and Eric reposed the mysterious, gleaming skull. Eric kept looking down at it with a morbid fascination. Suddenly he stared across at Traile’s hard-set face.
“Michael, you remember what you said: ‘He who looks upon the—’ ”
“Yes, I remember,” said Traile. “Why?”
“It’s already come true,” Eric exclaimed. “You looked at the skull, and in a few minutes you killed a man. If you hadn’t, you would have died.”
