Secret Agent X: Claws of the Corpse Cult. Brant House

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СКАЧАТЬ in Barry’s coolness toward Myra Silinski. Lane had been almost insolent at times and always nervous when the tall, blonde woman was near. It was patronage and hostility too well staged to deceive the keen eyes of Regan. Perhaps, it did not even deceive the unsophisticated Janet Lane.

      “Myra. Mrs. Lane—” began Gilbert Marden.

      Myra Silinski rose from her chair. “We are waiting, Gilbert, for that unique surprise you have in store for us. Mrs. Lane and I are really quite eager.”

      Behind him, Regan heard Don Selwick murmur to Rex Gorham: “The first time Silinski ever included herself and another woman in the same breath.”

      So Selwick, too, had noticed the little act Myra Silinski was putting on.

      “Come into the curio room, my dear,” Marden said. “Mine is the misfortune not to be able to offer you my arm. Perhaps you, Barry—”

      But Barry Lane had hastily attached himself to his wife and paid no respect to Marden’s suggestion. So it was that Rex Gorham escorted Myra into the curio room. Regan and Selwick ambled in side by side.

      “Wonder what the old boy has picked up this time.” Selwick mused aloud, “Most unusual person, Regan. Most unusual. And this new treasure he is so secretive about ought to be quite a prize. Marden isn’t a man to go in for dramatics, yet he has repeatedly warned us that this latest curio is not only a bit horrifying, but possibly dangerous.”

      Selwick’s pocketed eyes rested on Regan’s clearly defined features. “Didn’t quite catch your occupation when we were introduced. Secretary to someone or something?”

      Regan nodded. “Secretary to Mr. Ronald Holme, who arrives this evening from San Francisco.”

      Selwick nodded, though Regan’s information had not been enlightening. “Gathered that you were in some branch of government work. You and young Lane seem to be on very good terms.”

      Regan smiled. “We attended the same college. I am simply Mr. Holme’s secretary. Mine is an easy berth, but then I am not as energetic as Barry Lane.”

      “No,” Selwick said, not as if he was entirely sure about that. Regan’s eyes, at least, were energetic. They seemed to be always looking at you when you tried to steal an aside glance at him. And his hands—strange, powerful hands for a man whose occupation was sedentary.

      They entered the curio room, where in glass-fronted cabinets reposed a fortune in rarities of the Eastern world. Gilbert Marden had maneuvered his wheelchair about so that he faced them all. There was the light of anticipation in his eyes, and as he spoke, his voice became grave and impressive.

      “I must warn you,” he said, “that what you are about to see may provoke a sensation of revulsion. I have mentioned this before, but Myra and Mrs. Lane have assured me that they are hardy souls, not subject to feminine qualms. But aside from the disgust this exhibition may awaken, I must also mention that what you are about to see, according to the story, may endanger your very lives. Profane glances, according to those who once guarded this relic, were never to rest upon it and go unpunished. Do you still desire to see this—my latest acquisition?”

      “There’s no dampening our enthusiasm with threats, Mr. Marden,” said Janet Lane with a low laugh.

      “We are all eagerness,” said Myra Silinski.

      Marden bowed his bald head. “Very well then, since you insist.” He turned his chair about and rolled it straight for an enameled steel cabinet that looked as strong as a safe. He stopped in front of this cabinet, saw within the shiny surface of its door the reflection of the doorway of the curio room. And standing in that doorway was the figure of a man.

      Marden turned his head quickly. His mouth dropped open. Marden’s guests also turned to look toward the door and beheld a man so tall and thin that he appeared the personification of Famine itself. His skin was nearly black, his features extremely delicate. On his forehead was an odd mark—something like a three-tined fork. A turban of pale blue cloth brought his height to something above six feet and six inches.

      The man called Regan knew immediately that this gaunt intruder was a Hindu of the Brahmin caste.

      The Hindu bowed low to Marden and then to the other guests.

      “I hope,” the Hindu said in meticulous English, “that I am not intruding. Mr. Marden has been so gracious with his hospitality during my stay in Honolulu that I have developed the careless habit of entering unannounced.”

      “Perfectly all right, Dal Rama,” Marden said with a smile. “I believe you’ve met Selwick, Madam Silinski and Gorham. The other charming lady is Mrs. Lane. Then Mr. Lane and Mr. Regan.”

      Dal Rama bowed to each in turn. Regan found himself listening as though he half expected to hear the joints of this skeleton of a man creak.

      “Do not,” said Dal Rama, “allow my presence to interfere in any way with the entertainment you had planned for your guests, Mr. Marden. Your servant informed me that you were about to exhibit some curios.”

      “Of course,” said Marden hastily. His hands gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled him quickly away from the steel cabinet to one of the glass-fronted ones. From shelves laden with curios, Marden took a small, grotesquely carved statue—a squat little figure of clay with a face half man and half Foo-dog.

      Regan’s eyes narrowed. Gilbert Marden’s powerful hands were trembling as he took the statue.

      “This little image,” said Marden rather hesitantly—And he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of his white-jacketed Filipino house boys who bore a small silver tray on which was an envelope.

      The house boy bowed. “Message for Mr. Regan.”

      The man called Regan took the envelope, immediately recognized the handwriting on the outside as that of “Mr. Holme,” his immediate superior. Regan excused himself and retired into the drawing room to open the message. It read:

      Flew out on the Clipper. At Lane’s bungalow.

      Ronald Holme

      Regan stepped to the door of the curio room where Marden was telling the story of the hideous image. “Lane,” he said quietly.

      Barry Lane crossed the room, eyebrows querulously raised above his rimmed glasses.

      “He’s here,” Regan said. “We’d better go to your place.”

      Lane nodded. “Getting bored anyway. Couldn’t see a thing terrifying in Marden’s statuette. Shall we leave Janet here?”

      Regan nodded. “I think that would be best.” He turned, and Lane followed.

      * * * *

      Mr. Ronald Holme paced the floor of the living room of Barry Lane’s bungalow with such a regular, pounding rhythm that the yellow vase on the center table fairly trembled. Holme was a small, slight, vigorous man, gray-haired, small-featured, with black, inquiring eyes. His thin lips clenched a dark panatela cigar.

      Barry Lane lolled in a rattan chair. The man called Regan stood quietly in a corner, his gray eyes intent upon Lane.

      Suddenly Holme stopped his pacing. He pointed СКАЧАТЬ