The Dark Death

CHAPTER XIX. FACE TO FACE

GYP TANGOLI was standing in a large room near the rear of his apartment. The place was bedecked with curtains. It was a seance room deluxe, befitting the new character that the dark-visaged crook had adopted.

At the rear of the room was a massive, thronelike chair that rested in front of heavy velvet drapes. Those particular curtains covered a door that lay behind them. In the center of the room, occupying the place of honor, was the elephant table that Gyp had purchased from Rami Zaka.

Gyp himself was scarcely recognizable in the garb of Swami Marabout Bey. His silken garments would have looked well upon a maharajah. Crimson and gold, they matched the turban that the pretender wore upon his head. The turban was an adornment that belonged to Hindus of the highest caste. A golden plume rose from its crimson folds.

At his side, the false Swami Bey carried a golden scimitar in a sheath of the same metal. His trappings, like his surroundings and the rug on which he stood, were gorgeous — except for the smell of camphor.

Gyp Tangoli had brought the whole outfit from storage.

Two Hindus appeared from the curtained archway at the front of the seance room. They were bringing incense burners. A pungent odor filled the room. Gyp sniffed and smiled, his gold teeth gleaming in the mellow light. The incense would rid the room of camphor.

As the Hindus took their positions at the side of the room, Gyp stroked his chin. He had adorned his face with a light cluster of false hair. The beard-like floss looked genuine. A glance at the costumes of the Hindu servitors convinced Gyp that they were ready for their part. Then the fake swami looked at the elephant table.

Gold with jet black lines, that table fitted well with the arrangement of the room. Gyp was pleased that he had bought it from Rami Zaka.

Mahmud entered, attired in a costume almost as resplendent as Gyp’s. The chief Hindu was carrying a large crystal ball. Gyp took the sphere and rested it upon the stand that stood atop the elephant table.

Mahmud retired. Gyp strolled over and seated himself in the big chair. He contemplated the scene before him. Clients would be few upon this opening night. But more would come later. Gyp was looking forward to a profitable racket while he dodged the police. More than that, he counted on a meeting with Cuyler Willington.

For as Gyp figured it, the smooth crook would be lulled when he learned that his former associate had gone back into the soothsaying business. Willington would expect no harm from Gyp Tangoli.

Gyp thought of the little room in back. A good place for the temporary bestowal of a corpse. The idea brought another leer to the man’s ugly visage.

Mahmud entered while Gyp was still staring at the crystal. The Hindu bowed with a profound salaam. He spoke:

“One to see you, Swami Sahib. Rami Zaka.”

“Let him enter.”

Mahmud retired. A few moments later, Rami Zaka appeared. The wizened man was clad in street clothes, save for a black fez, with black tassel — a form of headdress that he always wore.

RAMI ZAKA’S eyes opened in genuine admiration. Despite his secret hatred for the faker, Swami Bey, the dark-faced visitor could not restrain the enthusiasm that he felt. The fact that his elephant table occupied the center pleased him immensely. He also noted the wire he had secretly attached to the floor plug, still in place.

Rami Zaka, pointing to the elephant posts, said, “Ah, swami, you drove a hard bargain with a poor man. That table is worth twice the price you are giving me.”

“Perhaps I may pay you more,” returned Gyp, in an indulgent tone. “If business proves good, we can discuss that later. Be seated, my friend.” He waved his hand toward a chair. “Let us talk.”

Mahmud had closed the front doors of the seance room. Beyond them was a little reception room, well-furnished, with hanging draperies, as silent as a tomb. No one was in sight until a little bell tingled.

Then a Hindu appeared from between two curtains and opened the outer door.

Cuyler Willington stepped in. He released the door; it closed automatically behind him. Willington looked at the Hindu.

“I want to see the swami,” he declared.

“Your name, sahib?”

“Cuyler Willington.”

“Enter, sahib. The swami awaits you.”

The Hindu opened the doors to the seance room. Willington, stepping in that direction, had the sensation that eyes were upon him. He fancied he heard a slight buzz from the inner room. He advanced across the threshold. He stopped short.

Straight ahead, Gyp Tangoli had risen from his chair. The swami-clad crook had drawn a revolver. He was covering the doorway where Willington stood. The Hindu servants had moved swiftly to either side: each man was standing with upraised knife.

Instinctively, Willington stepped back. He heard a sound behind him. Turning, he saw Mahmud and another Hindu who had stepped from the curtains to join the man who had admitted him. All three were closing in with ready blades.

“Enter,” came Gyp Tangoli’s sneer. “Enter, if you wish to speak with Swami Marabout Bey.”

WILLINGTON stepped forward. He saw Rami Zaka cowering in a corner. The man with the fez had dared make no move.

The Hindus followed Willington as he moved toward the center of the seance room. Spreading, they formed a semicircle of threatening blades. Willington looked unconcerned.

“Hello, Gyp,” he said to Tangoli. “I’ve come here to talk to you. I did not expect this reception.”

“You will have opportunity to speak,” retorted Gyp, “I should like to hear what you have to say — and to offer.”

A pause. Gyp babbled Hindustani at Mahmud. The chief thug lowered his knife and made a search of Willington’s pockets. He found no weapon. Stepping back, Mahmud again raised his knife.

“It looks like you mean business, Gyp,” laughed Willington, a trifle nervous. “I can’t quite understand it. I thought we were friends.”

“Perhaps we are,” returned Gyp, in the solemn tone he used for Swami Bey. “Perhaps we are not. Fate alone can answer.”

“Going back to the old lingo,” chuckled Willington. “You always did it quite well, Gyp. I coached you a bit. Remember? Picked flaws in your grammar. You listened. You didn’t forget. You’re a smart lad, Gyp. Even if you do intend to murder me.”

“I plan nothing,” Gyp’s teeth gleamed in an evil smile. “I have not been certain of your purpose here. That is all. Come. Tell me what you intend to say.”

The gun was still leveled. Gyp’s left hand was ready. Willington knew that he was ready to give a signal.

Silent murder, butchery from those Hindu knives. These thugs of Gyp’s were not stranglers like their ancestors. These villains would deal in any form of murder.

“Gyp” — Willington took a step forward, the Hindus following — “I can see a prosperous future in store for us. The crystal tells me” — he paused to lower his hands and raise the crystal sphere, which he balanced in his right — “that much wealth will soon be ours.”

Gyp’s face wore a sneer. He was unimpressed. He knew that Willington realized the danger. He expected the doomed man to barter. He withheld the signal. He wanted to see Willington cringe before those knives struck.

Willington knew it. He smiled slightly as he parried. He rested his left hand upon the stand that had held the crystal ball. He shook his head.

“Friends cannot speak while one mistrusts,” he stated. “Put away your revolver, Gyp. It disturbs the scheme of this oriental setting.”

Gyp thrust the revolver beneath his jacket. He did not need the weapon, now that he had learned Willington to be unarmed. The knives of the thugs would bring death to the man Gyp hated.

“Beware!” declared Willington, in a steady tone. His left hand was turning the cylinder upon the table.

“Beware, dark men! Doom awaits you! That is the message in the crystal.”

The wire had tightened. Willington had felt the pull of the lever beneath. He had raised his head in challenge. His sneer was venomous.

Seeing it, Gyp Tangoli snarled and lifted his hand in signal. Gloating, the fake swami watched to see the knives flash downward into Willington’s helpless form.

Then came astoundment. Mahmud was wavering. So was the Hindu next to him. One man, drawing back his arms, succumbed with a gargling gasp. Then the last two Hindus toppled.

Cuyler Willington chuckled as he started straight at Gyp Tangoli.

Once again this smooth murderer had released the Q-ray, dealing death to men of his own ilk. This time, but one innocent victim was due to die with the rest. That man was Rami Zaka, already tottering.

For Rami Zaka, like Congo, Brophy and Luggeto, was a henchman who might know too much. True to his evil form, Cuyler Willington was destroying friend as well as foe.