Weird Tales, Volume 1, Number 4, June, 1923: The unique magazine

The ’phone bell rang suddenly, and the man on duty crossed to the instrument.

“Yes?” he said.... “Oh, hello, Billy.... What’s that—Hell’s bells! Got away! Get busy and find him—”

The voice of the Strangler came to him over the wire.

“Keep your shirt on, Chief!” it commanded. “You better come down here and see for yourself what we was up against!”

Two minutes later Monte was shaking Louie Martin awake.

“Come to life!” Monte grated. “The Count has made his getaway! You get into your clothes and tend ’phone! This is one hell of a mess!”

Martin climbed sluggishly and unwillingly out of bed.

“You’ve been running things,” he snarled. “If you’ve got ’em in a mess, it’s no one’s fault but your own!”

* * * * *

At a corner on the outskirts of Chinatown, Monte alighted from his taxi. This was a special machine, owned and operated by a crook who dealt indiscriminately in transportation, dope and bootleg whisky.

Monte commanded this worthy citizen to await his return, and plunged into a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys.

A shrill whistle sounded presently, and he saw the Strangler beckoning him from a doorway. Crossing over, Monte followed his henchman into an alley, down a flight of narrow stairs, and into an unlighted basement. Here they were joined by the “Kid,” who carried an electric torch.

“Come on, Chief,” the “Kid” commanded. “We’ll show you first what we was up against—watch your step! If you stub your toe you’ll land in hell!”

They turned and went down another stairway, narrower and steeper than the first. At the bottom their way was barred by a heavy door, studded with great iron bolts. In one place the wood had been battered away, disclosing the gleaming surface of a steel panel.

“We followed the Count here, and thought we had him cornered,” the “Kid” drawled, rolling his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other and regarding Monte through lazy, sardonic eyes. “When we saw we couldn’t get through this way, we went up to the floor above and come at him through the ceiling. Come along—we’ll show you!”

They went back up one flight of stairs and entered a room which evidently had long been unused. Its walls were crumbling, and in the middle a great hole had been torn in the floor. The Strangler, who was leading the way, crossed over to this opening and unhesitatingly disappeared through it. Next moment a yellow light filtered up through the opening.

“Down you go, Chief,” commanded the “Kid.” “This was the door we made!”

Monte made his way down through the opening, landing on the upper of two chairs which had been piled precariously together to assist in the descent. He was followed by the “Kid,” and the three crooks stood examining the room in which Ah Wing and Colonel Knight had held their conference.

Monte spoke with a snarl.

“All right, you two!” he cried, “Here is where he was! Where is he now? Come across with your alibi!”

His two companions exchanged significant glances and the “Kid” took a slouching step closer to Monte.

“Look here, Chief,” said he, “it ain’t gonna be healthy for you to talk that way to me! I’m not spielin’ no alibi. What I’m givin’ you is straight goods, and you better get that twist out of your mush and act like a gentleman!”

He paused; and his two crumpled ears, which spoke of vicissitudes in the prize ring, grew red as a rooster’s comb. His glassy gray eyes glared unblinkingly at Monte.

The latter was not afraid of either of these men, or of both of them together. Monte had the unflinching courage of the perfect animal. But he had no notion of breaking up a gang which might prove useful to him.

“All right, boys,” he agreed, more pacifically, although his dark eyes continued to glow like coals. “If you can afford to take it easy, you got nothing on me! Tell me what happened.”

“That’s more like it,” the “Kid” growled. “Now you’re talking like a gentleman, Chief! Well, we follows the Count here, and thinks we has him holed up. We can’t bust down that door—this is an old Chink gambling hell, and everything is stacked against a fellow that wants to get in. But we comes down through the roof—”

Suddenly the “Kid” paused. From somewhere behind there had come a sound as of the opening of a door. The eyes of his two companions followed his and together they stood, rigid and alert.

Slowly the back wall of the room opened out toward them. Unconsciously, the crooks shrank closer together. Their faces were drawn, their figures rigid.

The panel swung fully open, and a figure appeared in it. It was the form of a tall man, clad in black silk.

The three crooks stood staring at him silently. So unexpected had been his appearance that it had affected them with a sort of paralysis. Their mouths gaped open and their eyes bulged.

Serenely, the intruder stood looking down upon them; and then, with a courteous wave of his hand, he spoke.

“Pardon my intrusion, gentlemen!” said he. “My little affairs can wait—I will return later!”

He turned, and next moment the panel had swung silently shut behind him.

Monte Jerome was the first of the three to recover.

“Come on—we’ve got to get him!” he cried.

“That was the Chink we saw spieling with the Count,” the “Kid” cried hoarsely. “But, for the love of cripe, how did he get here?”

Monte snarled wolfishly:

“Ask _him_ that! We’ve got to bust through here—”

His compact body landed against the panel. It shook, but refused to yield.

“Come back here! Now, all together!” bellowed Monte.

The three leaped forward and struck the partition.

This time it swung inward, slowly and without a sound. The crooks leaped through the opening, and the “Kid” flashed his torch. They were standing just inside a vast, windowless room, at whose farther side they had a glimpse of sagging timbers and ruined walls. Nowhere was there a sign of the man who had eluded them.

“Get a move on!” Monte growled throatily. His lip drew up and he snarled at his companions. “A hell of a bunch of crooks, we are! Why didn’t you take a shot at him, when you saw he was going to make a getaway?”

The “Kid” glared back.

“Cut out that kind of talk, Chief! You got a gat, and two hands! He buffaloed you just like he did us! Be a sport and take your medicine!”

A determined search of the ruined chamber yielded no results. The “Kid” dropped to his stomach and wormed his way under the mass of timbers at the farther side. He found the beginning of a stone-lined tunnel, which dipped abruptly into the earth.

Damp, mouldy air fanned his cheeks; and as he crouched, motionless, listening, a distant reverberation came to him from the bowels of the earth. It sounded like the clanking of a great iron door.

“Let me out of this!” he growled, as he backed toward his companions. “We got a fat chance of following that yellow devil into his hole. You go, if you want to!”

Monte shook his head. He had regained his poise, and he had been thinking.

“No use trying to follow,” he admitted. “We got to comb Chinatown for the two of them. They can’t live down in that burrow forever. But why did this duck show himself? He must have known we were here—he could hear us talking!”

The “Kid” smiled craftily.

“Maybe him and the Count left something,” he suggested. “We better have a look!”

“No, they didn’t leave nothing. I would have seen it if they had. I got an idea the Chink _wanted us to see him_! He stood there with his face turned into the light. Well, we got to find him! That’s flat!”

_CHAPTER FOUR_

THE MAN IN THE LIGHTED ROOM

The wolves shifted their quarters that night to a rooming-house on the edge of Chinatown, and the search for Colonel Knight and his mysterious companion, the tall Chinaman, began.

For three days they worked feverishly. Monte Jerome seemed never to sleep, and his temper was not at all improved by the ordeal. He drove his companions fiercely, and only the fact that they were playing for big stakes prevented open rebellion.

On the fourth day Monte and the “Kid,” who were loitering, alert but almost hopeless, in the entrance to a building in one of the narrow streets of the Oriental quarter, caught sight of a figure disappearing through a doorway. It was a tall figure, partly concealed by a light overcoat; but both of them leaped forward at the same instant.

“That was the Chink, sure as God made little red apples!” the “Kid” snapped.

They crossed the street. Several automobiles were drawn up close to the curb, among them a big blue limousine from which the Chinaman had stepped a moment before they identified him. Monte approached a well-dressed gentleman, who had just come out of the building, and asked him what was going on inside.

“This is the fall exhibition of the Iconoclasts,” the stranger explained good-naturedly.

He seemed to be sizing up the two crooks.

“I think you boys would enjoy it,” he added mischievously. “The admission is only fifty cents.”

Monte and the “Kid” bought tickets, and presently they entered a big room with a high ceiling, upon whose walls were hung a number of gaudy paintings. The newcomers stared round at the fifty or more spectators who were making the rounds of the gallery.

“Hell!” growled the “Kid,” “this ain’t no place for an honest strongarm man—Let’s beat it and send for Doc!”

Monte gripped his arm.

“Look!” he said under his breath. “Over there near the corner!”

The “Kid” looked stealthily as directed, and perceived the tall man in the gray topcoat. He was standing with his back to them, examining a red and yellow daub that looked like an omelette liberally seasoned with paprika.

“That’s him!” Monte whispered. “All right, Kid! You have Mike bring the cab down to the corner where we was waiting. Then, when this duck beats it out of here, I’ll hop in and we’ll follow him!”

Half an hour later the tall man in the gray coat—who in American garb looked more like an Oriental than he had when dressed as a Chinaman—paused to look deliberately at his watch, and then turned to the outer door.

By the time he stepped into the blue limousine, Monte had reached the corner and was climbing in beside the driver of the taxi. The “Kid” had the window down, and was kneeling with his head close to the driver’s.

“How ’bout it, Mike!” Monte demanded. “Can you keep ’em in sight?”

“Watch me!” snorted the driver. “There ain’t no Chink going can leave me behind. Did you see that chauffeur? Got a face like a monkey!”

There was no difficulty, for the present, in keeping the blue limousine in sight, however. It went sedately down a side street and took the turn toward the ferry. Five minutes later Monte and the Kid saw the cab in which they were seated draw in behind the larger car, and roll over the landing platform. The limousine was stationed on the right, and the cab on the left, of the big boat.

Monte scrambled down, and with a curt command to the other two made his way around to where he could see the enclosed car. The man in the gray overcoat was sealed inside, with a coffee-brown Chinaman in livery at the wheel. Monte kept them in sight till the ferry was approaching the slip. Then he hurried back and climbed in again beside the driver.

“Here’s where they’ll try to leave us behind, if they have any idea we’re following!” he predicted.

“Let ’em,” growled Mike. “If we don’t get took in by a speed cop, I won’t never let no Chink drive away from me! You boys just hang onto your bonnets, and watch us!”

The big blue car seemed to have accepted this challenge. The little man at the wheel swung out and passed half a dozen slower machines, then took the center of the road and held it.

With the coming of evening, a powdery fog swooped down over the ridges to the west, and suddenly the tail lights of the limousine shot up in the gloom ahead. Notch by notch, the Chinese chauffeur was adding to his speed. The lighter car behind bounced and swayed, and Mike spat through his teeth.

“Say, that bird must be clear nuts!” he growled. “If we get took in, they’ll sentence us to about five life-times! What say, gents? Want to let him go?”

“You keep going!” snarled Monte, staring hardeyed into the fog. “If we get pinched, I pay for it, see? But don’t you let that bird get away, if you want to sleep in your little bed tonight!”

Mike glanced sideways at the man whose elbow touched his. Something he saw in the stony face of Monte Jerome caused him to turn all his attention to the task in hand.

The tail lights had been growing dim, but now, slowly, the cab began to gain. Other cars, headed for the ferry, shot out of the fog and into it, honking warning horns at the crazily lurching machine that burned the road in pursuit of the blue limousine. The stony faces of the three men in the cab never deviated from their straight glare into the gloom ahead.

The speed of the big car was slackening. The driver of the cab grinned wryly.

“He knows the ropes. Speed cop in this burg ahead lies awake nights thinking up new ways of raising hell for speedy drivers,” he explained. “Now we’ll creep up on ’em a little more!”

They passed through the little town and again were in the open country. The limousine continued its more leisurely progress, however, and presently turned to the right into a dirt road. The cab dropped farther behind, at Monte’s command.

“They can’t get away from us on this road. Probably aren’t going far, and we don’t want them to spot us. Take it easy!”

The road seemed to be leading gently down, and presently they caught the gleam of water on each side. Rushes grew up close to the track; and from somewhere in the dusk the cry of a gull sounded like the wailing of a lost soul.

Involuntarily, the “Kid” shivered.

“Hell of a country!” he mumbled. “Where you reckon he’s headed for?”

“Wait and see!” snapped Monte. “Hello!—he’s turning in! That must be a private road! Stop here!”

He slid from the seat and stood swinging his feet alternately, to restore the circulation in them. Then he jerked his head into the darkness.

“Come on, Kid! We got to see what he’s up to!”

The “Kid” clambered out, and the two crooks struck silently up the road. They reached the turn and found, as they had guessed, that they were at the entrance to a private road.

Instinctively, the two men paused and stared in through the trees. Night pressed thick and damp about them. A wind from the southeast brought to them the smell of the marshes, and once the booming whistle of a steamer sounded. In a lull of the wind, the gulls were screaming.

“This ain’t in my line, Chief!” snarled the “Kid,” glaring into the darkness. “I can bump a guy off under the city lights as nifty as the next one, but this nature stuff never did set right on my stomach. Let’s go back!”

“You go back if you want to!” Monte said menacingly. “But if you do, don’t come sniveling around me later on. I’m going in there!”

He struck off along the winding road, and in a moment the “Kid” fell into step at his side.

Without a word, the two advanced till suddenly the lights of a building shone upon them. They paused for a moment, then began to creep nearer, keeping in the shelter of clumps of bushes. In this way they came close enough to discern the outlines of a large and well-built house, with a broad frontage and two wings extending from the rear.

“For the love of cripe!” whispered the “Kid,” “would you look at them windows! Barred, every damn one of them!”

Monte nodded.

“Looks like a private foolish house to me,” he replied in the same cautious tone. “Come on—we’ll get around behind and see what we can make out!”

The musty darkness of the night, which had settled down around them, was now an advantage, as it made it easier for the two Wolves to get close to the house without being seen. They crept past the massive front, with its broad steps and wide porch, and continued till they came opposite the west wing. Most of the windows in this wing were dark, but toward the back they saw several lighted panels.

“Come on!” commanded Monte. “I hope that Chink doesn’t keep a dog, but plug him if one comes at you!”

On they crept till they were close to the windows. Massive and sinister against the light, stood the iron bars which had first caught their attention. They crept closer, and finally Monte hauled himself up into a gnarly pepper tree whose lacy branches almost touched the nearest of the lighted windows.

Next moment he reached down and grasped his companion’s shoulder.

“Come up here!” he grated, speaking half aloud in his excitement. “Don’t slip—catch that limb! There you are!”

He assisted the “Kid” to a foothold beside himself, and together they stared through the foliage and into the lighted room beyond.

The curtains were drawn aside and the shade rolled up. Seated in full view of the two crooks was the man they had been following for five years. He wore a dressing-gown, and beside his easy chair was a low table on which rested a leather covered box.

Suddenly he turned, raised the cover of the box—and Monte and the “Kid” held their breath and stared hungrily. The light was caught and split up into a cascade of vivid colors. The man in the dressing-gown seemed to have in his clutching hands a fountain of fire.

“The Resurrection Pendant!” snarled the “Kid,” reaching for his pistol. “Damn him!”

Monte gripped his companion by the wrist.

“None of that, you fool!” he hissed. “We’ve got to play safe—but the Count is caught in a trap! That Chink must have kidnapped him!”

_CHAPTER FIVE_

ONE OF AH WING’S DOOR KEEPERS

Colonel Knight awoke and lay staring at the ceiling. It seemed a surprisingly long distance from him—and then his glance narrowed.

He turned his head, and suddenly sat up in bed. He had just remembered the events preceding his loss of consciousness.

Ponderingly, he examined his surroundings. He was in a big room, with a high ceiling. There were two windows at his right and one straight ahead, the latter partly open. Several easy chairs, a handsome mahogany house desk, and a row of bookcases flanking a fireplace came to him as successive details of his environment. A bar of yellow sunlight streamed through the end window.

A door behind him opened, and he turned to see a grinning, brown-faced Chinese boy approaching his bedside, bearing a breakfast tray.

“Ah Wing say he coming to see you by-m-by,” the newcomer commented placidly. “You hab breakfast now.”

He drew up a table and placed the tray in position, then skillfully arranged napkin and silverware—which were of the best quality—convenient to Colonel Knight’s hand. Afterward he withdrew.

Knight’s head felt clear enough, but, mentally and physically, he was relaxed to the point of incoherence. He wanted to think, but couldn’t.

Mechanically, he lifted to his lips the cup of steaming coffee that the servant had poured for him. The taste of the hot, bitter fluid—he drank it without cream or sugar—helped him pull himself together. He remembered everything now: his visit to the mysterious Chinaman; the coming of his enemies, and their attack on the basement room; his flight with Ah Wing; and the latter’s ruse for bringing Knight fully within his power.

Sharply he turned his head and looked again at the end window; it was barred with heavy iron rods, and so were the two windows at the side. This room in which he lay was a luxurious prison!

The door opened again, softly, and Colonel Knight turned his head to find Ah Wing advancing toward him, dressed in white flannel trousers, silk shirt, and serge coat. In such a rig the newcomer looked every inch a Chinaman.

“Good morning, Colonel,” Ah Wing greeted his guest courteously. “I am glad to see you looking so fresh and rested this morning!”

Knight began to tremble.

“You yellow crook!” he croaked, his hands drawing up into knots. “So that was your scheme—to rob me, and then kidnap me? But don’t think you can get away with it—”