Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

“You cannot escape!” cried the Hindu, his gaze a leering mask in living bronze. — Decker flung up his hands to shield his eyes

I

For five years Lem Decker had feared a dead man. He had feared Howard Lawson alive; he feared him dead. The last words he had heard Lawson say were: “You’ll pay for this, Lem Decker” — and he had said it calmly, as always — that was Howard Lawson. Calm — cool — even when the lamas were leading him away — leading him on foot, bound with leather thongs, behind their shaggy ponies, to that old walled lamasery of Muli, two weeks’ journey into those barren mountains at the edge of Tibet.

Those words continued to haunt Lem Decker, though five years had passed since that day in Yunnan when red-robed lamas had come searching for the gold hat of the Living Buddha that had been stolen from the sanctuary of Muli.

Sometimes Decker heard that low, threatening voice in his dreams, and awoke in a cold sweat. But Lawson was dead — dead five years.

Decker had seen some of the punishments of these mountain tribes. Once he had seen a man sewed in a yak skin left on the barren hillside. In a few hours the hide would begin to shrink and stiffen in the sun; it would close in relentlessly on the victim, grip him with iron hands. But holes were cunningly devised so the man would not suffocate.

He had seen a man with both hands cut off for stealing a sheep. No cruelty would be too refined for the foreign devil who had stolen the gold hat of the Living Buddha.

But it had been Lawson’s life or his own. And lucky that even one of them should escape. Decker had been afraid — terribly afraid. And, under the impulse of fear, he had removed the gold hat from his own baggage to Lawson’s.

That solid gold hat with the wide, flat brim, the round crown with square spike on top, rather like a German helmet. Decker saw it sometimes in his nightmares. Saw again the wild mountain gorges of Muli — the hillside monastery, roofs weighted down with stones, the king’s palace, curtains twisted and wrapped about the pillars, kerosene lamps that were never lit, soldiers in leopard skins and Tibetan boots, red-robed lamas, gilded shrines, gilded gods under silk umbrellas, gilded prayer wheels of yak hide; heard again the cymbals, gongs and drums, the weird chanting of the priests. The sounds increased in fury and volume until Decker awoke.

It was because of this haunting fear that Decker went to the fortune tellers. Though he did not believe their prophecies, he found relief in their assurance that he would live long and peacefully. But now came this Hindu with his disturbing, his uncanny knowledge.

“For many years you have known no peace, no tranquillity. But before you lies greater trouble. Beware of thirteen half moons,” said the Hindu mystic.

Decker asked: “What do you mean?”

“When you see the thirteen half moons,” whispered the Hindu, his dark eyes piercing Decker, “then soon, you will die.”

Decker tried to laugh. His mouth seemed very dry. “Tell me something I can understand.”

The probing eyes never left Decker’s face. The Hindu’s lips seemed to curl back from his white teeth. His face was hideously scarred. A livid gash across each cheek distorted his expression into a leering mask — a mask of living bronze beneath the white turban. He seemed to be grinning at Decker.

“You stole another man’s wife,” he said.

Decker was unprepared for this. “That’s not true! Lawson is dead,” he blurted out.

“You were his murderer,” said the Hindu.

Decker sat silent and shaken. He wet his lips with his tongue, then said, coldly as he could: “You are trying to blackmail me.”

“Not at all,” murmured the mystic in his suave manner. He was gazing into the crystal now, seemingly oblivious of Decker. “Mountains,” he whispered. “Mountains, a caravan, pack mules, yellow men, two white men, hating each other because of a woman. Jealousy — and — treachery.”

Decker brought the palm of his hand down on the table so that the gleaming crystal quivered. “Enough of that!” He was on his feet. He flung a bill on the table.

The Hindu rose, too. His eyes fixed Decker. “You are in danger, grave danger,” he intoned solemnly. “A relentless fate has been pursuing you.”

Decker retreated toward the door. Step by step the Hindu followed him.

“You cannot escape. You must be prepared to die. Before you lie the thirteen half moons — and death!”

Decker flung his hands up before his eyes to shield them from the gaze of the Hindu and the twisted mask of the brown face. Then he broke down. “For God’s sake, tell me what you mean! If you can read the past and the future, you can tell me how to — escape — what to do!” He jerked out his wallet.

“Put up your money,” said the clairvoyant. “There is no escape from the consequences of sin.”

“But I couldn’t help it!” Decker cried, hypnotized. “It was my life or his! I did what any man would have done!”

“You murdered your friend and stole his wife.”

“No, no; it was not murder — not murder!” Decker screamed. “He was not my friend. He was my enemy! I met Lawson in Hanoi — and loved his wife. He was not kind to her — he treated her like a slave because she was an Eurasian — her mother had been a half-caste dancing girl in Singapore. But she would not leave him — she was grateful to him — for marrying her.

“I persuaded Lawson to take me with him into Yunnan — to be neat her. I knew something of the country. He was a naturalist. Very soon he knew — he knew why I had come. He left his wife in Yunnan City — with the missionaries. He made me go with him over impossible trails — up into the Himalayas — into Tibet.

“Once we lived for weeks on tsamba and yak cheese, alive with maggots. He thought I would die. I was not so strong as he. He thought the hardships would kill me. An easy way to get rid of me!” Decker laughed harshly.

“That was your imagination,” said the Hindu. “Because you hated this man and wanted to kill him, you pretended to yourself that he was your enemy.”

“But I had not thought of killing him!” Decker cried. “Till... till—”

The Hindu prompted softly: “Till—”

“The lamas and soldiers of Muli were following us,” Decker babbled on. “I had taken the hat of the Living Buddha — a queer hat of solid gold, it was. I did it only for a lark — I wanted it for a curio. I didn’t think they would suspect a white man — they think we are so wealthy.

“After the reception in the king’s palace, I saw the old treasurer carrying away the gold hat — I followed and saw where he put it. That night I climbed over the walls and got into the church — the most sacred shrine of the lamasery. I took the gold hat — under the eyes of a hundred gods — and escaped without being discovered.

“Next morning we left Muli. I begged Lawson to hurry. I wanted to get back to Yunnan-Fu and take the train to the coast. But he would not hurry.

“Before we reached the city, the lamas and soldiers overtook us. I saw them coming down out of the hills one morning at dawn. I hid the gold hat of the Living Buddha in Lawson’s pack. So it was Law-son they took back to Muli instead of me.”

“And did you tell Lawson’s wife about the gold hat?” the Hindu asked.

“No, no; of course not. I said Lawson had been captured. The consul did what he could. A squad of Chinese soldiers was sent to Muli — but Lawson was never seen. We never heard what became of him. But the lamas would not have let him live long — except in torture.”

Decker shuddered. “I couldn’t go back to a death like that — cut to pieces bit by bit — or sewed up in a yak’s hide. I took my only chance to escape. Those jabbering lamas with their ghastly drums and gongs, their fiendish gods, their devil dances!” He became incoherent.

“I was afraid — afraid — sick of the whole country. Those nightmare cities — people like animals — the filth. Opal was afraid, too!”

“Opal?” questioned the Hindu.

“Opal Lawson — his wife. She was — unnerved. She wanted to get away from Asia. We were married. But there’s always been a ghost between us. Lawson is dead. But he said he’d get me. Tell me how to conquer this foolish fear!”

“Your fears are not foolish,” the mystic chanted solemnly. “I can only give you a charm to drive away evil influences.” He opened a tiny red lacquer box and disclosed an ugly, pot-bellied little god carved of ivory. “It is the god of luck. Sleep with it to-night on your breast — next your skin.”

II

Lem Decker could not throw off the spell the Hindu had cast over him. That leering scarred face seemed to be threatening him. He dreaded to face his wife — this woman for whom he had gone through hell.

Opal with her black hair, her cool white skin, her golden, tiger eyes. She did not love him — Decker knew that. She loved that man who had treated her like a slave. Yet she was always polite — considerate — gentle, in her Oriental way. Decker wondered if there were claws beneath her velvet manners.

He dared not tell her about the Hindu. But Opal’s eyes were upon him — anxiously.

“Lem, you are not well. What is the matter?”

“Nothing... nothing,” he answered uneasily.

He escaped early to his own room, pleading a headache. Opal had company. They were playing bridge. Lucky they didn’t need him to take a hand. He couldn’t have kept his mind on bits of pasteboard to-night. What had that fellow meant by thirteen half moons?

Decker lay flat in his bed, the little ivory god of luck upon his breast. Why did he try these heathen charms? At last he fell asleep.

When he awoke, something was crawling on him. He clutched at his throat, crushed a flabby, saclike body. He was conscious of a painful swelling on his chest. He reached up, turned on the bedlight. The little god of luck rolled across the covers. From a recess in the carved ivory a small black spider crawled forth.

Decker crushed it between the folds of the sheet. The tiny furry feet of another brushed his arm. He clawed at the soft, flaccid thing under his pyjama sleeve, felt the slime of it ooze out on his skin. He tried to spring from the bed, but something seemed to hold him. His feet were like lead.

Slowly Decker opened the folds of the sheet. The thing he had crushed lay flat and lifeless, belly up; and on the blackish smooth skin of the under side were thirteen tiny triangular spots — thirteen half moons! Decker grew cold with terror. He tried to scream, but only a feeble wail came from his throat.

He had heard of that spider — not for nothing had he worked for the naturalist, Lawson. He had seen a picture of it in one of Lawson’s books. Absurdly, the name of it flashed across his memory — Lathrodectes tredecim-guttatus. Thirteen half moons! Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

He killed another of the little insects — so ridiculously small to be so poisonous. They were crawling all over him. They had come out of the ivory god. The opening had been covered with a little fine white wax; the warmth of his body had softened it, so the spiders could claw their way out.

He heard the voices of his guests below. They were leaving. Opal’s voice, a little husky, purring: “Come again. You should have bid two hearts, dear. Good night.”

The door closed. Opal was humming a little tune. Decker tried to call to her, but no sound came — only the hoarse rasping of his breath.

He tried to throw off the nightmare horror that chained him to the bed. Then he realized it was not fear. It was paralysis. His feet were wooden. His fingers were numb. He pinched the flesh, struck at the table — no feeling.

He heard Opal cry out below: “Oh, who are you?” — frightened.

A man’s voice, vibrant, like the Hindu’s: “Opal — little jewel!”

“Howard... Howard!” Her tone was half questioning.

Had Howard Lawson come back? Decker struggled to pull himself from the bed. He thrashed about. His head rolled from side to side, but he could not raise it from the pillow.

He thought he had killed the last of the little spiders. But another crawled from the covers, close to his hand. His fingers dosed around it — lightly — not crushing it. If Lawson had come back — if Lawson had done this to him — he would save one of the spiders of the thirteen half moons for him.

Frantically now, Decker fought at the covers, dragged himself to the edge of the bed. It was no use. He felt as if he were turning to stone. Perhaps it would pass. He shut his eyes. His head slipped off the pillow.

III

The door of Decker’s room opened. He heard Opal whispering:

“Howard, how can I — like this? He’s been good to me.”

“I would rather you had starved,” said Lawson. “You can’t talk about a thing like this, Opal. Don’t go near him. Come with me. I can’t leave you with him — now that I’ve found you. God! If you knew what I’ve been through — tortured—”

Opal was sighing. “Oh, Howard — those scars! Those terrible scars!”

“Tied in a yak’s hide — left to die by inches. It was like being paralyzed, incased in iron — pressed under weights. But one of my servants followed me. At night he cut the hide from me in strips. I was nearly suffocated — and weak from loss of blood. He had a dummy in another hide, so they wouldn’t know I had escaped.

“He got me free. Then half carried me down the mountain all night. For weeks we hid in a mud hovel — till I was able to go on — then made our way out through Tibet, into India. I wrote our friends in Yunnan. They told me you had gone with Decker. I could get no trace of you.”

“Oh, Howard, forgive me!” Opal cried. “But I was afraid — afraid. I wanted to get away from Asia — I wanted to go where I would be a white woman — not a half breed.”

“All these years I’ve gone about telling fortunes, crystal-gazing — hunting for you.”

Decker tried to open his eyes. The lids seemed weighted. With an effort, he turned his head slightly. His vision was dull, but he could see Opal standing in the doorway. Behind her, a man with scars across his cheeks. It was the Hindu — but this man was white — not brown and turbaned.

His face was white — except for the red gashes; his hair was white. His eyes burned like dark coals.

The voice was Howard Lawson’s:

“Opal, don’t go near him — don’t go into that room!”

Decker felt Opal’s eyes upon him. He tried again to move — to speak. She should not go with Lawson! A hoarse gurgle came from his throat.

Opal screamed. “Lem, what is it?”

Lawson was holding her. “Opal, you must not go in there.”

“But, Howard, he’s sick — he’s not asleep. He’s dying!” She smothered a little scream at the sight of Decker’s mouth lolled open, his head twitching in his efforts to speak. He had slipped down so that the light fell full on his distorted face. Opal broke away from Lawson and was beside the bed. Lawson caught her arm.

“Opal, don’t touch him! Don’t!”

“We can’t go when he’s like that, Howard! It would look like — like murder.”

“Come away, Opal! No one will ever know,” Lawson whispered. “I’ve made arrangements.”

“What do you mean?”

“There isn’t time to explain. We must hurry!”

Suddenly Opal cried: “I smell smoke — fire!”

“We must get out of here!” Lawson was half dragging her toward the door. “I’ve set the house on fire. There’s some cans of gasoline — when the flames reach them—”

Opal freed herself and ran back to the bed. “We must get him out!” she screamed. “We can’t leave him here — like this. Lem, Lem! What has happened? Tell me!”

She shook him and chafed his hands, trying to rouse a spark of life. She felt his heart — and uttered a little frightened cry. “His heart has stopped! Howard — he’s dead!”

“Opal, for God’s sake, come away!”

“He has something clenched in one of his hands, Howard,” said Opal. “He’s holding it tight.”

She pulled open his fingers. Decker was powerless to stop her. He did not know even that she had opened his hand until he heard her gasp:

“Oh, a spider! A horrid little spider! It stung me!”

“Which finger, Opal?” cried Lawson. “You must let me cut it off — quick!”

Opal screamed in terror. “Oh, no! No! Call a doctor!”

“Opal, you must—”

Decker could barely hear them. It was as if their voices came from a great distance, though he knew they were standing by the bed. It was like being smothered in cotton wool.

Opal exclaimed, surprised: “My arm’s numb!” Then she was screaming: “Howard! Don’t leave me! The fire... the fire!”

Decker could hear no more. A great silence closed in on him.

“At least, I’ve cheated him out of Opal,” he thought. “He shan’t take her.”

He knew that Lawson had fled from the burning house; he knew that Opal had fallen across the bed, though he could neither see nor feel. He knew that flames were eating into the room, though he could not smell the smoke.

By now perhaps, they were even licking out at his body, but he could not feel the heat. His body was dead. Opal had said he was dead. Decker wondered if he really were dead. After all the years he had feared death, he was a little disappointed.