The Death Giver

CHAPTER VII. THADE SUMMONS

STRANGE deaths on Long Island. That was the topic of the next day’s newspapers. The mysterious killing of Barcomb, Henry Bellew’s butler, indicated a hidden motive in the death of the millionaire. The journals intimated that Bellew’s electrocution might be more than accidental.

The dynamiting of Vernon Quinley’s garage — an explosion in which the owner had perished — brought forth new headlines. This tragedy had occurred at Felswood, the same town where death had struck aboard trains of the Suburban Railway.

Police were investigating. Inspector Timothy Klein and Detective Joe Cardona were active. A statement had been issued by Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. No effort would be spared in the sifting of these crimes. Yet not one clew had been unearthed!

Public alarm had passed the stage of police censure. People were calling on the authorities to prevent further crime. That seemed fully as essential as the tracing of previous murders. The two were linked; but chief apprehension reigned regarding the future. The menace of a mighty genius of evil was rising like an overhanging cloud of evil. Where would it strike next?

Deaths on Long Island. That was the topic everywhere. Millions of New Yorkers were scanning those dreaded headlines. It was only likely that some who read them might know the hidden truth. But how could the sight of a man reading what now concerned all excite the suspicion of onlookers?

This very thought occurred to a man who was seated in the lobby of the exclusive Merrimac Club.

Twenty-four hours had passed since the explosion at Quinley’s home. The headlines showed that the police were still baffled. The man at the Merrimac relished that thought also. He showed it as he read, for a thin smile appeared upon his sallow features.

This man was Paul Roderick, a club member of both social and financial standing. Attired in well-fitting tuxedo, suave in manner, and striking in appearance, Roderick possessed the ease of a polished gentleman. His face, despite its sallowness, was handsome; and his pointed mustache gave him a sophisticated appearance. His keen eyes had a disarming twinkle, but at times they could flash with shrewdness, as they were doing while their owner read.

Paul Roderick put the newspaper aside and strolled to the lobby. He entered a telephone booth and engaged in a low conversation which involved a number of oddly pronounced words. When he had finished, Roderick left the Merrimac Club and entered a coupe that was parked on the street.

He drove uptown until he reached a quiet street in the Nineties. There, he alighted and rang the bell of a somber house. He was admitted by a middle-aged, bald-headed man who started as he recognized his visitor.

“You— you—” the man stammered.

“You are alone?” questioned Roderick, in a low tone.

“Yes,” the man responded.

“I have a summons for you,” declared Roderick quietly. “The summons for Harlan Treffin. The summons that you have expected.”

THE bald-headed man cowered. He could detect the malicious sparkle in Roderick’s eyes. Harlan Treffin had the appearance of a man of courage; but there was something in this visit that had filled him with alarm. It required an effort for him to regain his composure. Finally, he nodded and ushered Roderick into a small room where both men seated themselves.

“Look here, Roderick,” said Treffin, in a shaky voice, “I don’t know what your game is — but if you’re after money, I’ll try to pay it—”

Roderick smiled and raised his hand.

“Money?” he questioned. “You have very little, Treffin. Even if you still had the fifty thousand dollars that you received from your uncle’s estate—”

As Roderick paused, Treffin’s face paled.

“Fifty thousand dollars,” repeated Roderick, with a subtle smile. “A tidy sum, Treffin, to obtain through a doctored will. If you still possessed it, you might be able to restore it to the rightful heirs and beg them not to prosecute you. In fact, you might be able to leave the country.

“But that chance is ended. You squandered the money; and you are welcome to the little you have left, provided that you do as I request.”

“You’ve got the goods on me, Roderick,” responded Treffin, in a despondent tone. “I don’t know how you found out that I forged the will; but you did—”

“Finding out facts is my specialty,” interposed Roderick, still smiling. “I know how to turn facts to profit. You have two alternatives, Treffin: to obey my summons or to accept a term in prison. Which will it be?”

“Where do you want me to go?” Treffin asked.

“To visit one who can use your services.”

“What will be required of me?”

“That you shall learn; but remember, once you proceed, there will be no turning back.”

A look of resignation came over Treffin’s face. The man arose and picked up a coat and hat that were lying on a chair. Roderick’s smile broadened.

“One moment, Treffin,” said the visitor. “There are reasons why you should not know your destination. My friend — he will be your friend soon — prefers to keep his whereabouts unknown. Therefore” — Roderick drew a small box from his pocket — “two of these pills would be advisable.”

Treffin glanced suspiciously at the open box, which contained a dozen brownish pellets.

“What for?” he queried.

“Forgetfulness,” answered Roderick. “They will not harm you.”

Treffin took out two of the pills. Roderick watched him gulp them.

The two men went from the house and entered the coupe. Roderick drove eastward. He was watching traffic at the nearest avenue; he was also keeping a sidelong glance toward Harlan Treffin.

Roderick turned along the avenue and drove a dozen blocks. He noticed that Treffin was becoming weary. The man’s head wavered; then slumped against his chest.

Roderick smiled. He drove on, threading his way through a maze of cross-town streets until he reached an alleyway that led from a narrow thoroughfare. Here he stopped the coupe, alighted, and opened the door beside Treffin. The man responded wearily as Paul Roderick helped him from the car.

The drug had produced a desired effect. Harlan Treffin was a man in a trance. He was able to proceed under his companion’s guidance; but he had no distinct knowledge of his surroundings.

Paul Roderick led him into a narrow entry; then through a door into a stonewalled room. Here, in a storeroom of a loft building, Roderick stopped before a grillework that appeared to be part of a ventilating shaft.

Roderick manipulated certain bars; the grille slid upward to show a steel door with a bell beside it.

Roderick pressed the button.

A FEW minutes later, a wheezy burst of air came from the crevices. The door slid open to reveal a small elevator. Treffin, groggy, in the gloom that came from the lighted entry, stumbled into the lift when Roderick pushed him.

The clubman drew down the grille and closed the elevator door. He found another button in the darkness and pushed it.

The elevator moved upward. A Stygian cave, rising steadily through complete blackness, its motion seemed ceaseless. The mechanism was acting silently as the two men — one alert, the other dulled — continued their lengthy vertical journey. The elevator finally stopped with a slight jolt. Paul Roderick opened the door.

Dim, greenish light pervaded the room into which Roderick conducted his yielding companion. The sides of the room were hung with thick curtains of the same color. Ahead lay a door of jet-black, upon which a skull and crossbones glowed in luminous white.

Paul Roderick drew a small bottle from his pocket. He steadied Harlan Treffin and ordered the man to drink. Treffin gulped the contents. A bitter liquid brought him to his senses. He gasped and stared about as though awakened from a nightmare. He recognized Roderick’s smiling features.

“We are here,” announced Roderick. “You see the door ahead? It marks the abode of Thade, The Death Giver.”

The strange name was unknown to Treffin, but the man appeared startled as he heard it. Steadying himself, he walked forward with Roderick, who stopped to knock upon the black door. Having thus announced himself, Roderick placed his finger tips against the portal and pressed upward. The door arose into the wall.

The room which the two men entered was the counterpart of the first, except that it was slightly larger than the anteroom The same green light pervaded. The curtains about the walls were a deep green. Even the ceiling was hung with drooping folds of heavy cloth. Directly ahead was another door of black, which bore the same luminous insignia — the skull and crossbones.

Two men were in this room. They stood like sentinels, one on each side of the door. Their bodies were robed; their heads were bound with turbans. These garments were of white; but the skins of these men were a glossy black. They had the appearance of gigantic Nubian slaves, picked from some strange tale of the “Arabian Nights.”

Harlan Treffin, by now completely aroused, gazed at these sentinels in wonder. He noted the green hangings; the green carpet which fluffed the floor; and finally his eyes came back to the weird design on the black panel before him.

He realized that he must be in New York, but he had never dreamed that such a strange place could exist within the confines of Manhattan. This was an amazing adventure that he had not anticipated. What was to be the outcome?

The answer lay in a movement of the black panel Slowly, the barrier moved upward. It revealed a small platform which showed its full width as the curtains raised to each side. A green wall was behind the platform, but in the foreground of this tiny chair, Treffin saw a weird creature seated in a chair.

THIS was the form of a wizened man — a person clad in a green robe. Yellow, scrawny hands extended from baggy sleeves. Upon the breast of the robe appeared a circle of black, with the design of skull and crossbones marked in white.

It was the face of the creature that startled Harlan Treffin. It made a striking contrast to the hands that rested on the arms of the chair. For the face was not yellow; it was green. It glowed with a luminous color that had evidently been dabbed there with some chemical compound.

The scene was so fantastic as to be almost unbelievable. In a sense, it was grotesque; but any ease of mind which Treffin might have gained was immediately dispelled when the creature in the chair began to speak.

“Welcome, Harlan Treffin!” The words came in a rasping voice. “Welcome to the abode of Thade. I am Thade! I am The Death Giver! You have come to obey my mandates.”

The insidious tones of the monster’s voice seemed to create a lasting spell. In the midst of this strange den, Harlan Treffin felt a sinking sensation that he could not overcome.

“I am Thade! I am The Death Giver!”

Those words carried an unknown menace. Harlan Treffin groaned. He understood now what Paul Roderick had said; that there could be no turning back. He already sensed the power of Thade. Silent, awed, and pressed by fear that he could not resist, Harlan Treffin awaited the commands of Thade, The Death Giver.