Adventure, December 3, 1920 — page 147: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

y ”“ 5. Wey AE Kao elie > > be ' 2 Gd Oe a Oe a4 iV ey ey nF) “a! UJ . ae a! iw ea f, yal 4 ‘ Py \ . i . . mais) The Messenger to my own room and stood in the doorway after turning on the lights. “Looks like a hophead’s yarn, eh?” said one, and entered the room. Then I went cold—I remembered that con- founded towel! Is there anything in telepathy? I can’t say. But I do know that this plain- clothes man went righta cross the room and took one look at the trunk. The thing occurred so quickly that I was taken off guard, swept from my feet. The second man, beside me, must have caught some unuttered warning from the bearing of his com- panion; at all events, he simply turned and grabbed me by the coat before the first man had even uttered a word. Naturally I pulled away. My coat buttons went one-two-three and there I was, in all the glory of my bloody shirt. All I heard was one startled oath, as I slammed the door and went out of the house the same way James Death had gone. V detectives had no chance of getting me. They did not even know which way I had gone. I slid off the back-porch roof and streaked it across the sand-lots, while the house behind me began to blaze with lights and to sound with excited voices. I headed for the bungalow. Just before I reached its street, a number of figures showed in the fog ahead, and I heard Kilgore’s voice. “Day? What’s up?” “Bungled it,’ I returned. “—— it alll! They’ll find the body and go after me. Too bad we couldn’t have hidden it.” “We did it,” said Kilgore calmly. “At least, we're on our way to the beach with it. You run along with Fandi Singh. No time to lose, now! Good luck. See you later.” There were men for you—the right sort, the real sort! It was none of their funeral, but they had made it so, quite literally. I followed Fan- di Singh to a big car, and in two minutes we were heading away from there without lights. “Where will you go?” said the Rajput, after we were two blocks away and he had switched on his lights. “Anywhere down-town. How’ll I get in KO} STRANGERS in the house, the two ie _ touch with you later?” He handed me a card and I put it into my pocket. "Then he reached back into the tonneau and shoved a big rain-coat into my lap. That man never wasted words. He needed no ex- planation. He had a brain. As for me, I lay back and enjoyed the silence as we swept over the Twin Peaks Boulevard. It was, you will say, a strange thing for an innocent man to flee in this way. If you knew as much of the world as I do, you’d never take a chance; anyway, I wouldn’t. Since Kilgore 137 would get rid of the corpus delicti in the surf or under the sand, the chances were good that I would never be looked up for niurder. However, I would be looked up, and if they found me, I would be locked up. That was certain. The whole affair would seem cursed queer to the police, and rightly so. They would trail me and look around for a corpse, you bet. And the papers would be full of theories, and my poor mother would have heart-failure up there in the mountains when she read them. If, on the other hand, they failed to apprehend me, they would certainly not mention the fact to the newspaper lads at all. They would look for me, right enough, but unless Hat Shui shoved a leg out of the sand to attract attention, they could prove no crime. Blood proves nothing. You can kill a man before a crowd of witnesses, but if you can make the body vanish into thin air, you’re safe. Why then did I run for it? Merely because I saw no sense in spending a week butting against police-brains and feeding lies to news- paper men, not to mention how the news-sheets might hurt my mother’s feelings. Besides, there was no warranty that Hat Shui would not show up again. “Let me out at California and Sutter,” I told Sir Fandi. He nodded and turned into ‘Haight Street. Never a word out of him. I noted that the car was expensive, most expensive. And as Fandi Singh’s hands lay on the steering-wheel, the passing lights gleamed on some remarkably fine jewels which adorned his fingers; jewels worth a small fortune. He may have noticed my glance, for now he took a pair of driving-gloves from beneath him and slipped them on. Then he spoke. “Do you believe in telepathy?” he asked. To me came the thought of that cursed detective, and I chuckled. “Now and then. Why?” “Hat Shui belonged to the finest organization of mental workers in the world.” ‘Ah! Theosophists?” “No. The priests of the Ten Dromedaries.” We dodged a street-car. This was the second time I had heard my friends use this name, and it wakened some old memories in my brain. “Look here,” I said, “all that is a myth, a bit of Mongolian folk-lore! I heard all about the Ten Dromedaries place. It doesn’t exist.” Fandi Singh chuckled. “‘Keep thinking that,” he advised. “Don’t let your mind work on what’s happened. James Death used to belong to the organization also, and if he picks up your mental thought-waves, he’ll be apt to give you away to the police. I’m warning you. Watch your mind.” Had any one else uttered such a warning, I would have sniffed in scorn. But these words from the grave Rajput startled me. His chuckle was sinister. Then I recalled the dagger eonniicboolks