by Lin Carter
Other rooms contained stockpiles of weapons, clothing, food. But many rooms were empty and long-unused.
Zarkon and Chandra Lal encountered three more Orientals fleeing down the hidden passages during their exploration of the secret fortress. Two of these Zarkon deftly felled with the gas-gun; the third Chandra Lal downed with his slender and lethal throwing-knife. His skill with the blade was amazing to watch. It virtually flew from his finger tips like a slim and deadly steel bird.
Zarkon was not pleased that Chandra Lal had killed the man, but said nothing. As for the Rajput, he grinned exultantly. Some of the self-esteem he had lost when the little yellow men had captured him so easily there in the street-corner telephone booth, he had now regained. At least one of his enemies had tasted the lethal kiss of Shiva! He wiped the slim blade carefully clean upon the black silk garments of the man he had killed, then hurried to rejoin Zarkon in his search for the Grim Reaper.
For now the tide had turned, and the hunted had become the hunter. And at last the Grim Reaper was at bay!
CHAPTER 22 — The Empty Web
The sun was well up in the sky; the odors of cooking were on the air and yawning Chinese were opening up their shops and stands. The street had been cordoned off so that curious onlookers could not interfere with the police as they finished up their work.
Ricks, Kildare, and the others had searched the warren of secret passages, rooting out a few stragglers. Three of the fleeing thugs had been shot, four others seized, and Zarkon had used his gas-gun on two more. They were a sorry, bedraggled lot, as the sergeant hustled them into the ambulance and the paddy wagon Ricks had summoned to the scene.
Only six men taken, out of the whole gang! It wasn’t much, for a night’s work, thought Ricks to himself, sourly. Still and all, they had cleaned out a viper’s nest of crime and had forced into flight none other than the Grim Reaper himself.
One man on the run alone can’t get far, he argued to himself. But his arguments were not very convincing. With a grunt of weariness, he fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket, stuck one in the corner of his mouth, and lit it with a common kitchen-match, which he scratched against the peeling paint of a police call-box positioned, with unconscious irony, directly before the entrance to Wang Foo’s Tea Shop.
The Omega men came straggling out of the front door, followed by Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw and Chandra Lal. Zarkon was the last to emerge, and when he came out he was deep in a low conversation with Val Kildare of the FBI.
“Guess that’s about it, Zarkon,” growled Ricks as the Ultimate Man came over to greet him. “Six live ones and two stiffs. Pretty lousy haul, I’d say!”
Zarkon nodded, saying nothing. Kildare was scribbling something in a pocket notebook; he looked up at the Inspector’s disgruntled remark.
“Don’t forget that we have yet to trace all the tunnels,” the Federal agent reminded the police homicide officer.
“Yeah, sure, but that’ll take mine detectors and a full demolitions squad,” Ricks shrugged. “Take a couple of days, most likely. And none of these thugs are going to stick around and wait for us to dig ‘em out. They’ll have all ducked out the other exits — the ones we don’t know about yet — and’ll be holed up safe and snug with friends and relatives or whatever. We’ll never track ‘em down, not unless the Grim Reaper’s a lot dumber than I think he is and kept a membership roster.” Ricks grinned at the very idea, and Kildare chuckled briefly, but then frowned again.
“At least we can close up this rat’s nest once and for all,” he said. “I’d like to see this tea shop flattened by a bulldozer, and all those passages ripped out. Only then can we safely put the ghost of Choy Lown to rest.”
Ricks nodded glumly. “Might be able to do just that,” he grunted. “Get some of the local merchants and community leaders to petition City Hall to erase this blot on the neighborhood as a potential future menace to the Chinatown community. They’re not all crooks an’ thugs down here, you know! A lot of decent families and civic-minded businessmen. Just might get Urban Renewal to condemn all these closed-up buildings, and the city to pull ‘em down ...”
A squad car full of fingerprint technicians and electronics experts came through the police cordon and pulled up across the street. Men got out with cases of equipment and started up the steps. The entire place would be searched from top to bottom, thoroughly and scrupulously, dusted for fingerprints, and checked out by police experts. Ricks went over to talk to the officer in charge of the technical squad.
Zarkon went to where his men were grouped, followed by Chandra Lal. Scorchy Muldoon was grumbling; the feisty little prize-fighter looked grumpy and dispirited.
“Faith, an’ I wuz after hopin’ fer sumthin’ a little more lively than a tea-party,” grouched the diminutive redhead.
Nick Naldini grinned nastily, but his heart wasn’t really in it. “Small Change here was gripin’ about there not bein’ enough heads to crack together, chief!” chuckled the lanky ex-magician in his hoarse, sepulchral voice. “I was just telling him not to be such a poor sport; after all, it isn’t every day we get to poke around into a real opium-den type joint like that one. Enough fancy stuff in there to keep half a dozen Third Avenue antique dealers in business for a month, at least!”
Menlo Parker snorted — which was the waspish little scientist’s equivalent of a laugh. “Yeah! What a spooky place! I kept expecting th’ Ghost o’ Christmas Past to come popping out of a secret panel any time.”
Nick yawned a jaw-cracking yawn and rubbed the long, sensitive fingers of one hand over sallow, blue-stubbled cheeks.
“So what’s next on the agenda, chief? Any leads to follow up? If not, boy, could I do with a week’s sleep — it sure has been a long, busy night!”
“Not much in the way of leads,” Zarkon admitted somberly, “unless the technical squad turns up something. But I doubt they will. Our man is devilishly cunning, and will have covered his traces every step of the way.”
“What about all that electronics gear back in there, chief,” inquired Doc Jenkins in his heavy, phlegmatic voice. “All those television cameras and body-proximity alarms and other assorted junk. Any chance of tracing that stuff back to a purchaser?”
“G’wan,” mumbled Menlo Parker, muffling a yawn of his own. “You can pick up that kind of stuff in a good hardware store these days! And the rest of it you can find in the storefront bins along Radio Row,” he snapped, referring to a street in down-town Knickerbocker City where radio and TV and stereo parts were retailed for home gadgeteers.
Scorchy rubbed red-rimmed eyes blearily.
“Cripes, I could do with a bit of shut-eye, meself,” he complained. Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw flashed him a grin.
“That’s the very first time since I met you clowns,” the blond girl laughed, “that you and Daddy Long-Legs here ever agreed on anything. Better watch out, Vest Pocket, or you’ll be buddies before you know it.”
The Omega men chuckled while Scorchy flushed and Nick Naldini gave the grinning girl an injured look. The lanky magician was about to make a wisecrack in rebuttal when Ace Harrigan touched his arm to silence him.
“Aw, c’mon, we’re all too sleepy to hear you two jaw at each other,” the young aviator said. “You, too, Miss — don’t encourage ‘em, for the love of gosh.”
“Encourage them, is it?” scoffed the lady doctor. “I don’t get the feeling they need any encouragement to mix it up. If Pint Size here can’t find any slant-eyes to wade into, he can always pick a squabble with his pall”
“All kiddin’ aside, what about it, chief? Where do we go from here?” asked Harrigan, turning to Zarkon.
The Lord of the Unknown said nothing for a moment. Then he smiled.
“I think the best thing to do is just that — get back to Headquarters and get cleaned up, get some hot food inside of us all, and then catch up on our sleep,” he said. “We seem to have run this thing into a wall, and until something new turns up there doesn’t
seem to be anything else to do. We’ll take the chopper back home —”
“Hey, what about me?” demanded Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw. “You’re not just gonna leave me standing here on a street corner in the middle of Chinatown, are you?”
Zarkon shrugged. “We can offer you accommodations at our headquarters, if you like,” said the Ultimate Man. “Or would you prefer it if we put you up at a hotel?”
“Anything, so long as it’s got a bed and a kitchen,” replied the blond girl, with a small, ladylike yawn.
Returning to the parking lot, they climbed aboard the Silver Ghost; with Ace Harrigan at the controls again, the craft rose on whirling blades, soared into the noontime sky, and flew north and west across the streets of Knickerbocker City.
Ace brought the big craft down on a certain area of the roof of the block-long complex of building-fronts that housed the Omega men. At his coded signal the roof area opened up huge folding doors to disclose a capacious hangar for the craft. The helicopter parked, the roof closed again above their heads. Ernestine Grimshaw said nothing, but from the expression on her face, the attractive female physician was quite impressed.
They piled out, unloaded most of the equipment cases into steel lockers which lined the walls of the hangar, then descended to the living area of the building. Thick Oriental carpets lay underfoot. Glass-fronted mahogany bookshelves marched around the walls, bearing rank on rank of impressive volumes; this private library ranged all the way from scientific reference works to rare first editions. Here and there, where the oak-paneled walls were unencumbered by the library shelves, superb oil paintings by modern masters glowed richly in the subdued lighting.
“You boys do yourselves right good,” observed Ernestine Grimshaw tartly, examining a valuable portrait by Van Gogh set in an ornate gilded frame. The worth of the painting represented the sum total of her income for the next ten years. “Crime may not pay, as the saying goes; but it sure looks like crime-fighting does!”
Scorchy shrugged, grinned, and smothered a yawn, too bone-weary to bother explaining that the grateful democratic government of Novenia yearly paid three million dollars in gold into a Swiss bank account in the name of Prince Zarkon, as royalties for his patents on the rhombium refining process he had invented, and that this was the source of the wealth which backed the Omega organization. Zarkon made it his practice never to accept a dime from any of his clients, save in those cases where they were men or women of considerable wealth, in which situation he suggested they donate his fee to cancer research or some similarly worthy charitable cause.
Scorchy started for the fully-equipped modern kitchen to rustle up some chow, but Chandra Lal interposed himself between the little Irishman and the door.
“If the sahib Scorchy will permit me,” said the tall Hindu with dignity. He vanished into the kitchen, from whence in a surprisingly short time there came the appetizing odors of ham and eggs, buttered toast, and fresh-perked coffee. Although hardly able to keep their eyes open, they feasted grandly on the largest and most delicious late breakfast any of them could recall from recent memory.
“Cripes, Chandra, ol’ pal,” sighed Scorchy, replete with good food. “You sure do lay out a good feed! Five kinds o’ jam an’ marmalade, yet! That oughta win you a pal in ol’ Doc, here.”
The big man grinned sheepishly and shuffled his size fifteens embarrassedly. He was famous among his colleagues for his sweet tooth, and was rarely without a half-dozen candy bars, which he secreted about his person, distributed in several different pockets, in case hunger struck.
They all complimented Chandra Lal on his cooking, then trooped off to their quarters for some shuteye. Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw was given her pick of several unused guest rooms, and picked the one with the largest and softest-looking bed. Chandra Lal chose a small and Spartanly-decorated cubicle off the main laboratory, where a narrow Army cot was laid out. Zarkon sometimes snatched a few hours’ sleep there, amidst a series of experiments. The tall Rajput claimed he desired no more luxurious accommodations.
And they slept, all of them, weary from the long night and the exhaustive morning of battle and adventure. If they dreamed at all, it was of a shadowy, hooded figure in dark robes whose faceless visage leered and laughed at them from the shadows.
For the Grim Reaper was still at large. Although they had broken into the secret lair where he squatted like an immense spider at the center of a far-flung network of villainy, the spider had eluded them, and the web was empty.
CHAPTER 23 — The Noose Tightens
It was early afternoon before Ace, Nick, Scorchy, Doc, and Menlo began to stir about. When they did, they found Prince Zarkon already up and dressed. The Ultimate Man was in the living room area, in fact, conversing with someone on the telephone and taking notes on a yellow pad with a felt-tipped pen.
Scorchy shuffled into the room clad mostly in a patched and faded old bathrobe of such virulent hues it is to be doubted if the garment could find service elsewhere, even as a horse blanket. Yawning hugely, and scratching his tousled red curls, the little Irishman vanished into the kitchen and came out with a steaming mug of coffee clenched in one hand to find Zarkon hanging up the receiver.
“What’s up?” he inquired, downing a hefty gulp of the brew. “Anything new?”
“Just some detail-work,” admitted Zarkon quietly. “I had initiated several lines of inquiry through Inspector Ricks, Constable Gibbs, and other agencies. Interpol has been trying to figure out who, if anyone, actually owns that holding company in Switzerland —”
“Y’mean the one the Grim Reaper wanted his victims to sign over all their stocks to, huh?”
“That’s the one.”
A tall, lean figure appeared in the doorway. It was Nick Naldini, looking comparatively fresh in crimson silk lounging pajamas and a black velvet smoking-jacket.
“Thought I heard voices,” commented the ex-vaudevillian. “You guys leave any coffee in the pot?”
“There’s plenty on the stove,” Scorchy said with an offhand wave. Then, turning back to Zarkon: “Any more leads on the case, chief? Danged thing just can’t peter out like that! Ricks come up with anything yet? How about that millionaire — Ogilvie Mather — any more threatening notes?”
“Nothing, from all fronts,” admitted Zarkon a trifle grimly. “To such an extent that I am beginning to wonder if perhaps the Grim Reaper is not even more clever than I had estimated him to be.”
“How d’ya figger that?” scowled Scorchy.
“Simply that the smartest thing he could do, right now, is to pull in his horns and sit tight and do absolutely nothing. We don’t have any real leads to follow up — oh, I have a few suspicions of my own, but no real evidence that indicates a direct line of inquiry to pursue. If our adversary was cunning enough, he would completely terminate all activities and just wait us out, knowing that sooner or later something would arise and we would be off on a new case ...”
Scorchy opened his mouth to growl some comment on that thought, when the telephone rang again. Zarkon picked it up and murmured a greeting, listened thoughtfully for a moment or two, then hung up. Almost immediately it rang again; while Zarkon was talking with the second caller, Scorchy went shuffling back into the kitchen to replenish the piping hot supply of strong black coffee in his mug.
Before long they were all up and around and reasonably compos mentis. Washed, shaved, dressed, they sat around feeling rather like weekend guests invited for tennis who find themselves marooned inside due to a thunderstorm. There was nothing much to do, and nowhere to go. The case had dwindled away into a stalemate of sorts. It was very discomforting.
Zarkon hung up on his last phone conversation and came over to where they sat. Something about his manner made them prick their ears.
“Something’s up, isn’t it, chief?” drawled Nick Naldini, waving his long cigarette holder lazily.
“Well, there’s something to do, at any rate,” admitted Zarkon. “That was Sherrinford on the line
—”
“Sherrinford?” repeated Ernestine Grimshaw, knitting her brows perplexedly. “Oh yeah, old man Streiger’s butler: I remember him now.”
“And what did Jeeves want?” inquired Nick.
“The funeral of Jerred Streiger is this afternoon,” said Zarkon. “It will be followed by the official reading of the will at Twelve Oaks. Sherrinford thought I might wish to know ...”
“So, what are we gonna do, drive out there, chief?” asked Scorchy. “I’m rarin’ t’go somewhere, do sumthin, but ... I dunno ... funerals ain’t in my line. ‘Sides, ‘tisn’t like we actually knew the old guy —”
“Oh, what the heck, let’s go!” snapped Menlo Parker irritably. “We have to return to Twelve Oaks sooner or later, if only to pack up the new location-finder and bring it back with us!”
“And we should take Miss Grimshaw home,” added Nick Naldini gallantly.
“Yes, I believe we will,” said Zarkon. “I would like to hear the provisions of the will, at any rate, if only to see that they match what Seaton intimated they would be.”
“Who’s this Seaton?” demanded Scorchy bluntly.
“Josiah Seaton; Streiger’s attorney.”
“Oh. Well, let’s go, then. But, chief, c’nt we skip the funeral part? Give me the creeps, funerals do,” admitted the Pride of the Muldoons.
“We will most probably not be in time for the funeral,” said Zarkon. “Ace, we will take the Silver Ghost again, since we have to bring the location-finder home, and it would be too big for any of the cars. Let’s go, gentlemen, Miss Grimshaw!”
“Ohboyoboyoboyoboy, a little action at last, maybe!” burbled Scorchy Muldoon zestfully.
The helicopter flight across the city and out to the late Jerred Streiger’s mansion in the exclusive Long Island suburb of Holmwood was brief and uneventful.
