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Title: The Tomb's Secret (The Teeth of Doom)Author: Robert E. Howard* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0601781h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: Jun 2006Most recent update: Jul 2017This eBook was produced by Richard Scott and Colin Choat,and updated by Roy Glashan.Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online athttp://gutenberg.net.au/licence.htmlTo contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au
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Strange Detective Stories, February 1934
WHEN James Willoughby, millionaire philanthropist,realized that the dark, lightless car was deliberately crowding himinto the curb, he acted with desperate decision. Snapping off hisown lights, he threw open the door on the opposite side from theonrushing stranger, and leaped out, without stopping his own car.He landed sprawling on all fours, shredding the knees of histrousers and tearing the skin on his hands. An instant later hisauto crashed cataclysmically into the curb, and the crunch ofcrumpled fenders and the tinkle of breaking glass mingled with thedeafening reverberation of a sawed-off shotgun as the occupants ofthe mysterious car, not yet realizing that their intended victimhad deserted his automobile, blasted the machine he had justleft.
Before the echoes died away, Willoughby was up and runningthrough the darkness with an energy remarkable for his years. Heknew that his ruse was already discovered, but it takes longer toswing a big car around than for a desperately frightened man toburst through a hedge, and a flitting figure in the darkness is apoor target. So James Willoughby lived where others had died, andpresently came on foot and in disheveled condition to his home,which adjoined the park beside which the murderous attempt had beenmade. The police, hastening to his call, found him in a conditionof mingled fear and bewilderment. He had seen none of hisattackers; he could give no reason for the attack. All that heseemed to know was that death had struck at him from the dark,suddenly, terribly and mysteriously.
It was only reasonable to suppose that death would strike againat its chosen victim, and that was why Brock Rollins, detective,kept a rendezvous the next evening with one Joey Glick, anondescript character of the underworld who served his purpose inthe tangled scheme of things.
Rollins bulked big in the dingy back-room appointed for themeeting. His massive shoulders and thick body dwarfed his height.His cold blue eyes contrasted with the thick black hair thatcrowned his low broad forehead, and his civilized garments couldnot conceal the almost savage muscularity of his hard frame.
Opposite him Joey Glick, never an impressive figure, looked evenmore insignificant than usual. And Joey's skin was a pasty grey,and Joey's fingers shook as he fumbled with a bit of paper on whichwas drawn a peculiar design.
"Somebody planted it on me," he chattered. "Right after I phonedyou. In the jamb on the uptown train. Me, Joey Glick! They plant iton me and I don't even know it. Only one man in this burg handlesdips that slick—even if I didn't know already.
"Look! It's the death-blossom! The symbol of the Sons of Erlik!They're after me! They've been shadowing me—tapping wires.They know I know too much—"
"Come to the point, will you?" grunted Rollins "You said you hada tip about the gorillas who tried to put the finger on JimWilloughby. Quit shaking and spill it. And tell me, coldturkey—who was it?"
"The man behind it is Yarghouz Barolass."
Rollins grunted in some surprise.
"I didn't know murder was his racket."
"Wait!" Joey babbled, so scared he was scarcely coherent. Hisbrain was addled, his speech disjointed. "He's head of the Americanbranch of the Sons of Erlik—I know he is—"
"Chinese?"
"He's a Mongol. His racket is blackmailing nutty old dames whofall for his black magic. You know that. But this is bigger.Listen, you know about Richard Lynch?"
"Sure; got smashed up in an auto wreck by a hit-and-run speedmaniac a week ago. Lay unidentified in a morgue all night beforethey discovered who he was. Some crazy loon tried to steal thecorpse off the slab. What's that got to do with Willoughby?"
"It wasn't an accident." Joey was fumbling for a cigarette."They meant to get him—Yarghouz's mob. It was them after thebody that night—"
"Have you been hitting the pipe?" demanded Rollins harshly.
"No, damn it!" shrilled Joey. "I tell you, Yarghouz was afterRichard Lynch's corpse, just like he's sending his mob after JobHopkins' body tomorrow night—"
"What?" Rollins came erect, glaring incredulously.
"Don't rush me," begged Joey, striking a match. "Gimme time.That death- blossom has got me jumping sideways. I'mjittery—"
"I'll say you are," grunted Rollins. "You've been babbling a lotof stuff that don't mean anything, except it's Yarghouz Barolasswho had Lynch bumped off, and now is after Willoughby. Why? That'swhat I want to know. Straighten it out and give me thelow-down."
"Alright," promised Joey, sucking avidly at his cigarette."Lemme have a drag. I been so upset I haven't even smoked since Ireached into my pocket for a fag and found that damneddeath-flower. This is straight goods. I know why they want thebodies of Richard Lynch, Job Hopkins and JamesWilloughby—"
With appalling suddenness his hands shot to his throat, crushingthe smoldering cigarette in his fingers. His eyes distended, hisface purpled. Without a word he swayed upright, reeled and crashedto the floor. With a curse Rollins sprang up, bent over him, ranskilled hands over his body.
"Dead as Judas Iscariot," swore the detective. "What an infernalbreak! I knew his heart would get him some day, if he kept hittingthe pipe—"
He halted suddenly. On the floor where it had fallen beside thedead man lay the bit of ornamented paper Joey had called theblossom of death, and beside it lay a crumpled package ofcigarettes.
"When did he change his brand?" muttered Rollins. "He neversmoked any kind but a special Egyptian make before; never saw himuse this brand." He lifted the package, drew out a cigarette andbroke it into his hand, smelling the contents gingerly. There was afaint but definite odor which was not part of the smell of thecheap tobacco.
"The fellow who slipped that death-blossom into his pocket couldhave shifted fags on him just as easy," muttered the detective."They must have known he was coming here to talk to me. But thequestion is, how much do they know now? They can't know how much orhow little he told me. They evidently didn't figure on him reachingme at all—thought he'd take a draw before he got here.Ordinarily he would have; but this time he was too scared even toremember to smoke. He needed dope, not tobacco, to steady hisnerve."
Going to the door, he called softly. A stocky bald-headed mananswered his call, wiping his hands on a dirty apron. At the sightof the crumpled body he recoiled, paling.
"Heart attack, Spike," grunted Rollins. "See that he gets what'sneeded." And the big dick thrust a handful of crumpled bills intoSpike's fingers as he strode forth. A hard man, Rollins, but onemindful of his debts to the dead as well as the living.
A few minutes later he was crouched over a telephone.
"This you, Hoolihan?"
A voice booming back over the wires assured him that the chiefof police was indeed at the other end.
"What killed Job Hopkins?" he asked abruptly.
"Why, heart attack, I understand." There was some surprise inthe chief's voice. "Passed out suddenly, day before yesterday,while smoking his after-dinner cigar, according to the papers.Why?"
"Who's guarding Willoughby?" demanded Rollins withoutanswering.
"Laveaux, Hanson, McFarlane and Harper. But I don'tsee—"
"Not enough," snapped Rollins. "Beat it over there yourself withthree or four more men."
"Say, listen here, Rollins!" came back the irate bellow. "Areyou tellingme how to run my business?"
"Right now I am." Rollins' cold hard grin was almost tangible inhis voice. "This happens to be in my particular domain. We're notfighting white men; it's a gang of River Street yellow-bellieswho've put Willoughby on the spot. I won't say any more right now.There's been too damned much wire-tapping in this burg. But youbeat it over to Willoughby's as fast as you can get there. Don'tlet him out of your sight. Don't let him smoke, eat or drinkanything till I get there. I'll be right on over."
"Okay," came the answer over the wires. "You've been working theRiver Street quarter long enough to know what you're doing."
Rollins snapped the receiver back on its hook and strode outinto the misty dimness of River Street, with its furtive hurryingforms—stooped alien figures which would have fitted lessincongruously into the scheme of Canton, Bombay or Stamboul.
The big dick walked with a stride even springier than usual, amore aggressive lurch of his massive shoulders. That betokenedunusual wariness, a tension of nerves. He knew that he was a markedman, since his talk with Joey Glick. He did not try to foolhimself; it was certain that the spies of the man he was fightingknew that Joey had reached him before he died. The fact that theycould not know just how much the fellow had told before he died,would make them all the more dangerous. He did not underestimatehis own position. He knew that if there was one man in the citycapable of dealing with Yarghouz Barolass, it was himself, with hisexperience gained from years of puzzling through the devious andoften grisly mysteries of River Street, with its swarms of brownand yellow inhabitants.
"Taxi?" A cab drew purring up beside the curb, anticipating hissummoning gesture. The driver did not lean out into the light ofthe street. His cap seemed to be drawn low, not unnaturally so,but, standing on the sidewalk, it was impossible for the detectiveto tell whether or not he was a white man.
"Sure," grunted Rollins, swinging open the door and climbing in."540 Park Place, and step on it."
The taxi roared through the crawling traffic, down shadowy RiverStreet, wheeled off onto 35th Avenue, crossed over, and sped down anarrow side street.
"Taking a short cut?" asked the detective.
"Yes, sir." The driver did not look back. His voice ended in asudden hissing intake of breath. There was no partition between thefront and back seats. Rollins was leaning forward, his gun jammedbetween the shoulders of the driver.
"Take the next right-hand turn and drive to the address I gaveyou," he said softly. "Think I can't tell the back of a yellow neckby the street lamp? You drive, but you drive careful. If you try towreck us, I'll fill you full of lead before you can twist thatwheel. No monkey business now; you wouldn't be the first man I'veplugged in the course of duty."
The driver twisted his head about to stare briefly into the grimface of his captor; his wide thin mouth gaped, his coppery featureswere ashy. Not for nothing had Rollins established his reputationas a man-hunter among the sinister denizens of the Orientalquarter.
"Joey was right," muttered Rollins between his teeth. "I don'tknow your name, but I've seen you hanging around YarghouzBarolass's joint when he had it over on Levant Street. You won'ttake me for a ride, not tonight. I know that trick, oldcopper-face. You'd have a flat, or run out of gas at someconvenient spot. Any excuse for you to get out of the car and outof range while a hatchet-man hidden somewhere mows me down with asawed-off. You better hope none of your friends see us and tryanything, because this gat has a hair-trigger, and it's cocked. Icouldn't die quick enough not to pull the trigger."
The rest of that grim ride was made in silence, until thereaches of South Park rose to view—darkened, except for afringe of lights around the boundaries, because of municipaleconomy which sought to reduce the light bill.
"Swing into the park," ordered Rollins, as they drove along thestreet which passed the park, and, further on, James Willoughby'shouse. "Cut off your lights, and drive as I tell you. You can feelyour way between the trees."
The darkened car glided into a dense grove and came to a halt.Rollins fumbled in his pockets with his left hand and drew out asmall flashlight, and a pair of handcuffs. In climbing out, he wasforced to remove his muzzle from close contact with his prisoner'sback, but the gun menaced the Mongol in the small ring of lightemanating from the flash.
"Climb out," ordered the detective. "That's right—slow andeasy. You're going to have to stay here awhile. I didn't want totake you to the station right now, for several reasons. One of themis I didn't want your pals to know I turned the tables on you. I'mhoping they'll still be patiently waiting for you to bring me intorange of their sawed-offs—ha, would you?"
The Mongol, with a desperate wrench, struck the flashlight fromthe detective's hand, plunging them into darkness.
Rollins' clutching fingers locked like a vise on his adversary'scoat sleeve, and at the same instant he instinctively threw out his.45 before his belly, to parry the stroke he knew would instantlycome. A knife clashed venomously against the blue steel cylinder,and Rollins hooked his foot about an ankle and jerked powerfully.The fighters went down together, and the knife sliced thedetective's coat as they fell. Then his blindingly driven gunbarrel crunched glancingly against a shaven skull, and thestraining form went limp.
Panting and swearing beneath his breath, Rollins retrieved theflashlight and cuffs, and set to work securing his prisoner. TheMongol was completely out; it was no light matter to stop afull-arm swing from Brock Rollins. Had the blow landed solidly itwould have caved in the skull like an egg-shell.
Handcuffed, gagged with strips torn from his coat, and his feetbound with the same material, the Mongol was placed in the car, andRollins turned and strode through the shadows of the park, towardthe eastern hedge beyond which lay James Willoughby's estate. Hehoped that this affair would give him some slight advantage in thisblind battle. While the Mongols waited for him to ride into thetrap they had undoubtedly laid for him somewhere in the city,perhaps he could do a little scouting unmolested.
James Willoughby's estate adjoined South Park on the east. Onlya high hedge separated the park from his grounds. The bigthree-storied house—disproportionately huge for abachelor—towered among carefully trimmed trees and shrubbery,amidst a level, shaven lawn. There were lights in the two lowerfloors, none in the third. Rollins knew that Willoughby's study wasa big room on the second floor, on the west side of the house. Fromthat room no light issued between the heavy shutters. Evidentlycurtains and shades were drawn inside. The big dick grunted inapproval as he stood looking through the hedge.
He knew that a plainclothes man was watching the house from eachside, and he marked the bunch of shrubbery amidst which would becrouching the man detailed to guard the west side. Craning hisneck, he saw a car in front of the house, which faced south, and heknew it to be that of Chief Hoolihan.
With the intention of taking a short cut across the lawn hewormed through the hedge, and, not wishing to be shot by mistake,he called softly: "Hey, Harper!"
There was no answer. Rollins strode toward the shrubbery.
"Asleep at the post?" he muttered angrily. "Eh, what'sthis?"
He had stumbled over something in the shadows of the shrubs. Hishurriedly directed beam shone on the white, upturned face of a man.Blood dabbled the features, and a crumpled hat lay near by, anunfired pistol near the limp hand.
"Knocked stiff from behind!" muttered Rollins. "What—"
Parting the shrub he gazed toward the house. On that side anornamental chimney rose tier by tier, until it towered above theroof. And his eyes became slits as they centered on a window on thethird floor within easy reach of that chimney. On all other windowsthe shutters were closed; but these stood open.
With frantic haste he tore through the shrubbery and ran acrossthe lawn, stooping like a bulky bear, amazingly fleet for one ofhis weight. As he rounded the corner of the house and rushed towardthe steps, a man rose swiftly from among the hedges lining thewalk, and covered him, only to lower his gun with an exclamation ofrecognition.
"Where's Hoolihan?" snapped the detective.
"Upstairs with old man Willoughby. What's up?"
"Harper's been slugged," snarled Rollins. "Beat it out there;you know where he was posted. Wait there until I call you. If yousee anything you don't recognize trying to leave the house, plugit! I'll send out a man to take your place here."
He entered the front door and saw four men in plain clotheslounging about in the main hall.
"Jackson," he snapped, "take Hanson's place out in front. I senthim around to the west side. The rest of you stand by foranything."
Mounting the stair in haste, he entered the study on the secondfloor, breathing a sigh of relief as he found the occupantsapparently undisturbed.
The curtains were closely drawn over the windows, and only thedoor letting into the hall was open. Willoughby was there, a tallspare man, with a scimitar sweep of nose and a bony aggressivechin. Chief Hoolihan, big, bear-like, rubicund, boomed agreeting.
"All your men downstairs?" asked Rollins.
"Sure; nothin' can get past 'em and I'm stayin' here with Mr.Willoughby—"
"And in a few minutes more you'd both have been scratchinggravel in Hell," snapped Rollins. "Didn't I tell you we weredealing with Orientals? You concentrated all your force below,never thinking that death might slip in on you from above. But Ihaven't time to turn out that light. Mr. Willoughby, get over therein that alcove. Chief, stand in front of him, and watch that doorthat leads into the hall. I'm going to leave it open. Locking itwould be useless, against what we're fighting. If anything youdon't recognize comes through it, shoot to kill."
"What the devil are you driving at, Rollins?" demandedHoolihan.
"I mean one of Yarghouz Barolass's killers is in this house!"snapped Rollins. "There may be more than one; anyway, he'ssomewhere upstairs. Is this the only stair, Mr. Willoughby? Noback-stair?"
"This is the only one in the house," answered the millionaire."There are only bedrooms on the third floor."
"Where's the light button for the hall on that floor?"
"At the head of the stairs, on the left; but youaren't—"
"Take your places and do as I say," grunted Rollins, gliding outinto the hallway.
He stood glaring at the stair which wound up above him, itsupper part masked in shadow. Somewhere up there lurked a soullessslayer—a Mongol killer, trained in the art of murder, wholived only to perform his master's will. Rollins started to callthe men below, then changed his mind. To raise his voice would beto warn the lurking murderer above. Setting his teeth, he glided upthe stair. Aware that he was limned in the light below, he realizedthe desperate recklessness of his action; but he had long agolearned that he could not match subtlety against the Orient. Directaction, however desperate, was always his best bet. He did not feara bullet as he charged up; the Mongols preferred to slay insilence; but a thrown knife could kill as promptly as tearing lead.His one chance lay in the winding of the stair.
He took the last steps with a thundering rush, not daring to usehis flash, plunged into the gloom of the upper hallway, franticallysweeping the wall for the light button. Even as he felt life andmovement in the darkness beside him, his groping fingers found it.The scrape of a foot on the floor beside him galvanized him, and ashe instinctively flinched back, something whined past his breastand thudded deep into the wall. Then under his frenzied fingers,light flooded the hall.
Almost touching him, half crouching, a copper-skinned giant witha shaven head wrenched at a curved knife which was sunk deep in thewoodwork. He threw up his head, dazzled by the light, baring yellowfangs in a bestial snarl.
Rollins had just left a lighted area. His eyes accustomedthemselves more swiftly to the sudden radiance. He threw his leftlike a hammer at the Mongol's jaw. The killer swayed and fell outcold.
Hoolihan was bellowing from below.
"Hold everything," answered Rollins. "Send one of the boys uphere with the cuffs. I'm going through these bedrooms."
Which he did, switching on the lights, gun ready, but finding noother lurking slayer. Evidently Yarghouz Barolass considered onewould be enough. And so it might have been, but for the bigdetective.
Having latched all the shutters and fastened the windowssecurely, he returned to the study, whither the prisoner had beentaken. The man had recovered his senses and sat, handcuffed, on adivan. Only the eyes, black and snaky, seemed alive in thecopperish face.
"Mongol alright," muttered Rollins. "No Chinaman."
"What is all this?" complained Hoolihan, still upset by therealization that an invader had slipped through his cordon.
"Easy enough. This fellow sneaked up on Harper and laid himcold. Some of these fellows could steal the teeth right out of yourmouth. With all those shrubs and trees it was a cinch. Say, sendout a couple of the boys to bring in Harper, will you? Then heclimbed that fancy chimney. That was a cinch, too. I could do itmyself. Nobody had thought to fasten the shutters on that floor,because nobody expected an attack from that direction.
"Mr. Willoughby, do you know anything about YarghouzBarolass?"
"I never heard of him," declared the philanthropist, and thoughRollins scanned him narrowly, he was impressed by the ring ofsincerity in Willoughby's voice.
"Well, he's a mystic fakir," said Rollins. "Hangs around LevantStreet and preys on old ladies with more money thansense—faddists. Gets them interested in Taoism and Lamaismand then plays on their superstitions and blackmails them. I knowhis racket, but I've never been able to put the finger on him,because his victims won't squeal. But he's behind these attacks onyou."
"Then why don't we go grab him?" demanded Hoolihan.
"Because we don't know where he is. He knows that I know he'smixed up in this. Joey Glick spilled it to me, just before hecroaked. Yes, Joey's dead—poison; more of Yarghouz's work. Bythis time Yarghouz will have deserted his usual hang-outs, and behiding somewhere—probably in some secret underground divethat we couldn't find in a hundred years, now that Joey isdead."
"Let's sweat it out of this yellow-belly," suggestedHoolihan.
Rollins grinned coldly. "You'd sweat to death yourself beforehe'd talk. There's another tied up in a car out in the park. Send acouple of boys after him, and you can try your hand on both ofthem. But you'll get damned little out of them. Come here,Hoolihan."
Drawing him aside, he said: "I'm sure that Job Hopkins waspoisoned in the same manner they got Joey Glick. Do you rememberanything unusual about the death of Richard Lynch?"
"Well, not about his death; but that night somebody apparentlytried to steal and mutilate his corpse—"
"What do you mean, mutilate?" demanded Rollins.
"Well, a watchman heard a noise and went into the room and foundLynch's body on the floor, as if somebody had tried to carry itoff, and then maybe got scared off. And a lot of theteethhad been pulled or knocked out!"
"Well, I can't explain the teeth," grunted Rollins. "Maybe theywere knocked out in the wreck that killed Lynch. But this is myhunch: Yarghouz Barolass is stealing the bodies of wealthy men,figuring on screwing a big price out of their families. When theydon't die quick enough, he bumps them off."
Hoolihan cursed in shocked horror.
"But Willoughby hasn't any family."
"Well, I reckon they figure the executors of his estate willkick in. Now listen: I'm borrowing your car for a visit to JobHopkins' vault. I got a tip that they're going to lift his corpsetomorrow night. I believe they'll spring it tonight, on the chancethat I might have gotten the tip. I believe they'll try to getahead of me. They may have already, what with all this delay. Ifigured on being out there long before now.
"No, I don't want any help. Your flat-feet are more of ahindrance than a help in a job like this. You stay here withWilloughby. Keep men upstairs as well as down. Don't let Willoughbyopen any packages that might come, don't even let him answer aphone call. I'm going to Hopkins' vault, and I don't know when I'llbe back; may roost out there all night. It just depends onwhen—or if—they come for the corpse."
A few minutes later he was speeding down the road on his grimerrand. The graveyard which contained the tomb of Job Hopkins wassmall, exclusive, where only the bones of rich men were laid torest. The wind moaned through the cypress trees which bentshadow-arms above the gleaming marble.
Rollins approached from the back side, up a narrow, tree-linedside street. He left the car, climbed the wall, and stole throughthe gloom, beneath the pallid shafts, under the cypress shadows.Ahead of him Job Hopkins' tomb glimmered whitely. And he stoppedshort, crouching low in the shadows. He saw a glow—a spark oflight—it was extinguished, and through the open door of thetomb trooped half a dozen shadowy forms. His hunch had been right,but they had gotten there ahead of him. Fierce anger sweeping himat the ghoulish crime, he leaped forward, shouting a savagecommand.
They scattered like rats, and his crashing volley re-echoedfutilely among the sepulchers. Rushing forward recklessly, swearingsavagely, he came into the tomb, and turning his light into theinterior, winced at what he saw. The coffin had been burst open,but the tomb itself was not empty. In a careless heap on the floorlay the embalmed corpse of Job Hopkins—and the lowerjawbone had been sawed away.
"What the Hell!" Rollins stopped short, bewildered at the suddendisruption of his theory. "They didn't want the body. What did theywant? His teeth? And they got Richard Lynch's teeth—"
Lifting the body back into its resting place, he hurried forth,shutting the door of the tomb behind him. The wind whined throughthe cypress, and mingled with it was a low moaning sound. Thinkingthat one of his shots had gone home, after all, he followed thenoise, warily, pistol and flash ready.
The sound seemed to emanate from a bunch of low cedars near thewall, and among them he found a man lying. The beam revealed thestocky figure, the square, now convulsed face of a Mongol. Theslant eyes were glazed, the back of the coat soaked with blood. Theman was gasping his last, but Rollins found no trace of a bulletwound on him. In his back, between his shoulders, stood up the hiltof a curious skewer-like knife. The fingers of his right hand hadbeen horribly gashed, as if he had sought to retain his grasp onsomething which his slayers desired.
"Running from me he bumped into somebody hiding among thesecedars," muttered Rollins. "But who? And why? By God, Willoughbyhasn't told me everything."
He stared uneasily at the crowding shadows. No stealthyshuffling footfall disturbed the sepulchral quiet. Only the windwhimpered through the cypress and the cedars. The detective wasalone with the dead—with the corpses of rich men in theirornate tombs, and with the staring yellow man whose flesh was notyet rigid.
"You're back in a hurry," said Hoolihan, as Rollins entered theWilloughby study. "Do any good?"
"Did the yellow boys talk?" countered Rollins.
"They did not," growled the chief. "They sat like pot-belliedidols. I sent 'em to the station, along with Harper. He was stillin a daze."
"Mr. Willoughby," Rollins sank down rather wearily into anarm-chair and fixed his cold gaze on the philanthropist, "am Iright in believing that you and Richard Lynch and Job Hopkins wereat one time connected with each other in some way?"
"Why do you ask?" parried Willoughby.
"Because somehow the three of you are connected in this matter.Lynch's death was not accidental, and I'm pretty sure that JobHopkins was poisoned. Now the same gang is after you. I thought itwas a body-snatching racket, but an apparent attempt to stealRichard Lynch's corpse out of the morgue, now seems to resolveitself into what was in reality a successful attempt to get histeeth. Tonight a gang of Mongols entered the tomb of Job Hopkins,obviously for the same purpose—"
A choking cry interrupted him. Willoughby sank back, his facelivid.
"My God, after all these years!"
Rollins stiffened.
"Then you do know Yarghouz Barolass? You know why he's afteryou?"
Willoughby shook his head. "I never heard of Yarghouz Barolassbefore. But I know why they killed Lynch and Hopkins."
"Then you'd better spill the works," advised Rollins. "We'reworking in the dark as it is."
"I will!" The philanthropist was visibly shaken. He mopped hisbrow with a shaking hand, and reposed himself with an effort.
"Twenty years ago," he said, "Lynch, Hopkins and myself, youngmen just out of college, were in China, in the employ of thewar-lord Yuen Chin. We were chemical engineers. Yuen Chin was afar-sighted man—ahead of his time, scientifically speaking.He visioned the day when men would war with gases and deadlychemicals. He supplied us with a splendid laboratory, in which todiscover or invent some such element of destruction for hisuse.
"He paid us well; the foundations of all of our fortunes werelaid there. We were young, poor, unscrupulous.
"More by chance than skill we stumbled onto a deadlysecret—the formula for a poisonous gas, a thousand times moredeadly than anything yet dreamed of. That was what he was paying usto invent or discover for him, but the discovery sobered us. Werealized that the man who possessed the secret of that gas, couldeasily conquer the world. We were willing to aid Yuen Chin againsthis Mongolian enemies; we were not willing to elevate a yellowmandarin to world empire, to see our hellish discovery directedagainst the lives of our own people.
"Yet we were not willing to destroy the formula, because weforesaw a time when America, with her back to the wall, might havea desperate need for such a weapon. So we wrote out the formula incode, but left out three symbols, without any of which the formulais meaningless and undecipherable. Each of us then, had a lower jawtooth pulled out, and on the gold tooth put in its place, wascarved one of the three symbols. Thus we took precautions againstour own greed, as well as against the avarice of outsiders. One ofus might conceivably fall so low as to sell the secret, but itwould be useless without the other two symbols.
"Yuen Chin fell and was beheaded on the great execution groundat Peking. We escaped, Lynch, Hopkins and I, not only with ourlives but with most of the money which had been paid us. But theformula, scrawled on parchment, we were obliged to leave, secretedamong musty archives in an ancient temple.
"Only one man knew our secret: an old Chinese tooth-puller, whoaided us in the matter of the teeth. He owed his life to RichardLynch, and when he swore the oath of eternal silence, we knew wecould trust him."
"Yet you think somebody is after the secret symbols?"
"What else could it be? I cannot understand it. The oldtooth-puller must have died long ago. Who could have learned of it?Torture would not have dragged the secret from him. Yet it can befor no other reason that this fellow you call Yarghouz Barolassmurdered and mutilated the bodies of my former companions, and nowis after me.
"Why, I love life as well as any man, but my own peril shrinksinto insignificance compared to the world-wide menace contained inthose little carven symbols—two of which are now, accordingto what you say, in the hands of some ruthless foe of the westernworld.
"Somebody has found the formula we left hidden in the temple,and has learned somehow of its secret. Anything can come out ofChina. Just now the bandit war-lord Yah Lai is threatening tooverthrow the National government—who knows what devilishconcoction that Chinese caldron is brewing?
"The thought of the secret of that gas in the hands of someOriental conqueror is appalling. My God, gentlemen, I fear you donot realize the full significance of the matter!"
"I've got a faint idea," grunted Rollins. "Ever see a daggerlike this?" He presented the weapon that had killed the Mongol.
"Many of them, in China," answered Willoughby promptly.
"Then it isn't a Mongol weapon?"
"No; it's distinctly Chinese; there is a conventional Manchuinscription on the hilt."
"Ummmmmm!" Rollins sat scowling, chin on fist, idly tapping theblade against his shoe, lost in meditation. Admittedly, he was allat sea, lost in a bewildering tangle. To his companions he lookedlike a grim figure of retribution, brooding over the fate of thewicked. In reality he was cursing his luck.
"What are you going to do now?" demanded Hoolihan.
"Only one thing to do," responded Rollins. "I'm going to try torun down Yarghouz Barolass. I'm going to start with RiverStreet—God knows, it'll be like looking for a rat in a swamp.I want you to contrive to let one of those Mongols escape,Hoolihan. I'll try to trail him back to Yarghouz'shangout—"
The phone tingled loudly.
Rollins reached it with a long stride.
"Who speaks, please?" Over the wire came a voice with a subtlebut definite accent.
"Brock Rollins," grunted the big dick.
"A friend speaks, Detective," came the bland voice. "Before weprogress further, let me warn you that it will be impossible totrace this call, and would do you no good to do so."
"Well?" Rollins was bristling like a big truculent dog.
"Mr. Willoughby," the suave voice continued, "is a doomed man.He is as good as dead already. Guards and guns will not save him,when the Sons of Erlik are ready to strike. Butyou can savehim, without firing a shot!"
"Yeah?" It was a scarcely articulate snarl hummingbloodthirstily from Rollins' bull-throat.
"If you were to come alone to the House of Dreams on Levantstreet, Yarghouz Barolass would speak to you, and a compromisemight be arranged whereby Mr. Willoughby's life would bespared."
"Compromise, Hell!" roared the big dick, the skin over hisknuckles showing white. "Who do you think you're talking to? ThinkI'd fall into a trap like that?"
"You have a hostage," came back the voice. "One of the men youhold is Yarghouz Barolass's brother. Let him suffer if there istreachery. I swear by the bones of my ancestors, no harm shall cometo you!"
The voice ceased with a click at the other end of the wire.
Rollins wheeled.
"Yarghouz Barolass must be getting desperate to try such achild's trick as that!" he swore. Then he considered, and muttered,half to himself: "By the bones of his ancestors! Never heard of aMongolian breakingthat oath. All that stuff aboutYarghouz's brother may be the bunk. Yet—well, maybe he'strying to outsmart me—draw me away from Willoughby—onthe other hand, maybe he thinks that I'd never fall for a tricklike that—aw, to Hell with thinking! I'm going to startacting!"
"What do you mean?" demanded Hoolihan.
"I mean I'm going to the House of Dreams, alone."
"You're crazy!" exclaimed Hoolihan. "Take a squad, surround thehouse, and raid it!"
"And find an empty rat-den," grunted Rollins, his peculiarobsession for working alone again asserting itself.
Dawn was not far away when Rollins entered the smoky den nearthe waterfront which was known to the Chinese as the House ofDreams, and whose dingy exterior masked a subterranean opium joint.Only a pudgy Chinaboy nodded behind the counter; he looked up withno apparent surprise. Without a word he led Rollins to a curtain inthe back of the shop, pulled it aside, and revealed a door. Thedetective gripped his gun under his coat, nerves taut withexcitement that must come to any man who has deliberately walkedinto what might prove to be a death-trap. The boy knocked, liftinga sing-song monotone, and a voice answered from within. Rollinsstarted. He recognized that voice. The boy opened the door, bobbedhis head and was gone. Rollins entered, pulling the door to behindhim.
He was in a room heaped and strewn with divans and silkcushions. If there were other doors, they were masked by the blackvelvet hangings, which, worked with gilt dragons, covered thewalls. On a divan near the further wall squatted a stocky,pot-bellied shape, in black silk, a close-fitting velvet cap on hisshaven head.
"So you came, after all!" breathed the detective. "Don't move,Yarghouz Barolass. I've got you covered through my coat. Your gangcan't get me quick enough to keep me from getting you first."
"Why do you threaten me, Detective?" Yarghouz Barolass's facewas expressionless, the square, parchment-skinned face of a Mongolfrom the Gobi, with wide thin lips and glittering black eyes. HisEnglish was perfect.
"See, I trust you. I am here, alone. The boy who let you in saidthat you are alone. Good. You kept your word, I keep my promise.For the time there is truce between us, and I am ready to bargain,as you suggested."
"AsI suggested?" demanded Rollins.
"I have no desire to harm Mr. Willoughby, any more than I wishedto harm either of the other gentlemen," said Yarghouz Barolass."But knowing them all as I did—from report and discreetobservation—it never occurred to me that I could obtain whatI wished while they lived. So I did not enter into negotiationswith them."
"So you want Willoughby's tooth, too?"
"Not I," disclaimed Yarghouz Barolass. "It is an honorableperson in China, the grandson of an old man who babbled in hisdotage, as old men often do, drooling secrets torture could nothave wrung from him in his soundness of mind. The grandson, YahLai, has risen from a mean position to that of war-lord. Helistened to the mumblings of his grandfather, a tooth-puller. Hefound a formula, written in code, and learned of symbols on theteeth of old men. He sent a request to me, with promise of muchreward. I have one tooth, procured from the unfortunate person,Richard Lynch. Now if you will hand over the other—that ofJob Hopkins—as you promised, perhaps we may reach acompromise by which Mr. Willoughby will be allowed to keep hislife, in return for a tooth, as you hinted."
"AsI hinted?" exclaimed Rollins. "What are you drivingat? I made no promise; and I certainly haven't Job Hopkins' tooth.You've got it, yourself."
"All this is unnecessary," objected Yarghouz, an edge to histone. "You have a reputation for veracity, in spite of your violentnature. I was relying upon your reputation for honesty when Iaccepted this appointment. Of course, I already knew that you hadHopkins' tooth. When my blundering servants, having been frightenedby you as they left the vaults, gathered at the appointedrendezvous, they discovered that he to whom was entrusted thejaw-bone containing the precious tooth, was not among them. Theyreturned to the graveyard and found his body, but not the tooth. Itwas obvious that you had killed him and taken it from him."
Rollins was so thunderstruck by this new twist, that he remainedspeechless, his mind a tangled whirl of bewilderment.
Yarghouz Barolass continued tranquilly: "I was about to send myservants out in another attempt to secure you, when your agentphoned me—though how he located me on the telephone is stilla mystery into which I must inquire—and announced that youwere ready to meet me at the House of Dreams, and give me JobHopkins' tooth, in return for an opportunity to bargain personallyfor Mr. Willoughby's life. Knowing you to be a man of honor, Iagreed, trusting you—"
"This is madness!" exclaimed Rollins "I didn't call you, or haveanybody call you.You, or rather, one of your men, calledme."
"I did not!" Yarghouz was on his feet, his stocky body under therippling black silk quivering with rage and suspicion. His eyesnarrowed to slits, his wide mouth knotted viciously.
"You deny that you promised to give me Job Hopkins' tooth?"
"Sure I do!" snapped Rollins. "I haven't got it, and what'smore, I'm not 'compromising' as you call it—"
"Liar!" Yarghouz spat the epithet like a snake hissing. "Youhave tricked—betrayed me—used my trust in yourblackened honor to dupe me—"
"Keep cool," advised Rollins. "Remember, I've got a Colt .45trained on you."
"Shoot and die!" retorted Yarghouz. "I do not know what yourgame is, but I know that if you shoot me, we will fall together.Fool, do you think I would keep my promise to a barbarian dog?Behind this hanging is the entrance to a tunnel through which I canescape before any of your stupid police, if you have brought anywith you, can enter this room. You have been covered since you camethrough that door, by a man hiding behind the tapestry. Try to stopme, and you die!"
"I believe you're telling the truth about not calling me," saidRollins slowly. "I believe somebody tricked us both, for somereason. You were called, in my name, and I was called, inyours."
Yarghouz halted short in some hissing tirade. His eyes were likeblack evil jewels in the lamplight.
"More lies?" he demanded uncertainly.
"No; I think somebody in your gang is double-crossing you. Noweasy, I'm not pulling a gun. I'm just going to show you the knifethat I found sticking in the back of the fellow you seem to think Ikilled."
He drew it from his coat-pocket with his left hand—hisright still gripped his gun beneath the garment—and tossed iton the divan.
Yarghouz pounced on it. His slit eyes flared wide with aterrible light; his yellow skin went ashen. He cried out somethingin his own tongue, which Rollins did not understand.
In a torrent of hissing sibilances, he lapsed briefly intoEnglish: "I see it all now! This was too subtle for a barbarian!Death to them all!" Wheeling toward the tapestry behind the divanhe shrieked: "Gutchluk!"
There was no answer, but Rollins thought he saw the blackvelvety expanse billow slightly. With his skin the color of oldashes, Yarghouz Barolass ran at the hanging, ignoring Rollins'order to halt, seized the tapestries, tore themaside—something flashed between them like a beam of white hotlight. Yarghouz's scream broke in a ghastly gurgle. His headpitched forward, then his whole body swayed backward, and he fellheavily among the cushions, clutching at the hilt of a skewer-likedagger that quivered upright in his breast. The Mongol's yellowclaw-like hands fell away from the crimsoned hilt, spread wide,clutching at the thick carpet; a convulsive spasm ran through hisframe, and those taloned yellow fingers went limp.
Gun in hand, Rollins took a single stride toward thetapestries—then halted short, staring at the figure whichmoved imperturbably through them: a tall yellow man in the robes ofa mandarin, who smiled and bowed, his hands hidden in his widesleeves.
"You killed Yarghous Barolass!" accused the detective.
"The evil one indeed has been dispatched to join his ancestorsby my hand," agreed the mandarin. "Be not afraid. The Mongol whocovered you through a peep-hole with an abbreviated shotgun haslikewise departed this uncertain life, suddenly and silently. Myown people hold supreme in the House of Dreams this night. All thatwe ask is that you make no attempt to stay our departure."
"Who are you?" demanded Rollins.
"But a humble servant of Fang Yin, lord of Peking. When it waslearned that these unworthy ones sought a formula in America thatmight enable the upstart Yah Lai to overthrow the government ofChina, word was sent in haste to me. It was almost too late. Twomen had already died. The third was menaced."
"I sent my servants instantly to intercept the evil Sons ofErlik at the vaults they desecrated. But for your appearance,frightening the Mongols to scattering in flight, before the trapcould be sprang, my servants would have caught them all in ambush.As it was, they did manage to slay he who carried the relicYarghouz sought, and this they brought to me."
"I took the liberty of impersonating a servant of the Mongol inmy speech with you, and of pretending to be a Chinese agent ofyours, while speaking with Yarghouz. All worked out as I wished.Lured by the thought of the tooth, at the loss of which he wasmaddened, Yarghouz came from his secret, well-guarded lair, andfell into my hands. I brought you here to witness his execution, sothat you might realize that Mr. Willoughby is no longer in danger.Fang Yin has no ambitions for world empire; he wishes but to holdwhat is his. That he is well able to do, now that the threat of thedevil-gas is lifted. And now I must be gone. Yarghouz had laidcareful plans for his flight out of the country. I will takeadvantage of his preparations."
"Wait a minute!" exclaimed Rollins. "I've got to arrest you forthe murder of this rat."
"I am sorry," murmured the mandarin. "I am in much haste. Noneed to lift your revolver. I swore that you would not be injuredand I keep my word."
As he spoke, the light went suddenly out. Rollins sprangforward, cursing, fumbling at the tapestries which had swished inthe darkness as if from the passing of a large body between them.His fingers met only solid walls, and when at last the light cameon again, he was alone in the room, and behind the hangings a heavydoor had been slid shut. On the divan lay something that glinted inthe lamplight, and Rollins looked down on a curiously carven goldtooth.
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