1933. Perhaps the dreaded Georgette Cuvelier did not die at the end of “The Phantom Executioners” after all, as she returns to plague Harry Dickson in this sequel in which Paul Hugli describes how one “Spider” eventually led to the creation of another…
We are Property.
Charles Fort
Barreling down Coast Highway, the Daimler convertible’s radio blared a tune by Bobby Rose & the Rosettas. Behind the wheel, Richard Wentworth navigated effortless, his calf-skin gloved hands at ten-and-two, his gray-blues eyes glancing in the rear-view mirror. In the distance was a Mediterranean Revival manor on the hill, shimmering in the morning fog burn-off.
William Randolph Hearst, its owner, had named the manor La Cuestra Encantable—the Enchanted Hill—but to most, it was known as San Simeon, or, simply, the Castle. The latter brought a smile to Wentworth’s face. His Uncle Cyril—of Wentworth Steamline Co.—had christened his flag-ship liner, The Wentworth Castle, in honor of, or perhaps in spite of, the newspaper magnate.
The evening before, Wentworth and his paramour, Nita Von Sloan, had been entertained at the Castle. Just a small get-together—only 50 or so—though neither Doug, nor Mary, nor any other A-listers were present. They still had managed to enjoy a swell time. Wentworth entertained the guests with a virtuoso performance on his Stradivarius, while Marion Davies shone with her sparkling personality—though not her Shakespearian recital, no matter how loud William Randolph had applauded. Wentworth was enthralled with a young ingénue, Iris Meredith, who had just completed a bit part in Hat Check Girl; while Nita chuckled over the good humor of radio-singer Warren Hull.
Everyone had had a grand time slinging gossip, especially speculations on the recent robbery of a costume warehouse. It was strange; who would want to steal a load of film props from DeMille, Chaney, and others. There was surely no market, no collectors, for the stuff.
After the beautiful people had tired of such speculations, they had gathered on the terrace, searching south, hoping to catch sight of the “Ghost Lights of Guadeloupe,” dancing across nearby Nipomo Beach. The Lights hadn’t been spotted in months, and remained a no-show that night, much to the disappointment of the gathered idle-rich.
Looking away from the rear-view mirror, Wentworth glanced toward the ocean, his eyes falling on Nita—the smooth oval of her face, her shining, glistening blue eyes, the tresses of her chestnut hair blowing freely in the breeze.
“Some party, Nita dear?”
“Yes, Dick,” she replied as she lit a Camel with the slim, silver lighter Hearst had presented to Wentworth as a gift. “What was that about ‘rosebud’?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” he replied with a wry smile.
By the time the Sun was high overhead, the Daimler was far from the coast, traveling through the Diablo Range of Central California. Then, the sizzling summer heat began to take its toll on the motorcar. Its radiator hissed for water. The gas gauge was gargling for petrol. Pulling off the Paso Robles highway, Wentworth drove the demanding auto down an oak-lined, quiet road. The town sign declared: Marion. Elevation: 573 feet. Population: 1,543.
“Marion?” Nita read.
“Well, at least, it isn’t Rosebud.”
They both laughed as he guided the Daimler through Main Street, and immediately realized something was queer. All the businesses appeared closed. Surely, not even a sleepy little town like Marion rolled up its sidewalks at one in the afternoon. Yet, all the non-descript, brick-and-mortar buildings were silent; the badly maintained asphalt street was generously littered with leaves and discarded newspapers.
“They could use some civic pride,” Nita said, as Wentworth coasted into a Texaco Station, and cut the engine.
“Or a new mayor.”
“Perhaps you should run, Dick.”
“What? I’m all for charities, but…” He stopped short when he notices a tower in the valley, just pass the end of town. Constructed of wood, rising 100 feet into the air, it appeared to look every bit like an oil derrick, which wasn’t that uncommon anywhere in California. Yet, something was strange about this one: atop was a 20-foot diameter greenish-copper ball.
“Wonder what that is?”
“It’s a virilium assimilator,” replied a woman, walking out of the Texaco station.
“You don’t look like a Service Station attendant,” quipped Wentworth.
And she didn’t. She was an attractive brunette, though it was difficult to confirm as she wore large, round eye-glasses and a conservative gray ankle-length skirt with a matching jacket over a white blouse. Her hair was tied back in a serious bun; her feet nestled in sensible black shoes.
“My name is Georgette Cuvelier,” she said, managing a smile which appeared both seductive and condescending at the same time.
“Are you with the Welcoming Committee?”
“You might say that.”
Wentworth was about to make another glib remark when he heard a click behind him. He glanced in the rear-view mirror and froze. Standing on the Daimler’s rear end were two ugly goons dressed in the garb of Ancient Dynasty Egypt: bare-chested, head cloth, white linen kilt and sandals. Plus, each toted a non-Dynastic Tommy Machine Gun, both pointed at him.
“Is it Halloween already?” Wentworth inquired.
“Yes, and I’m the Shadow,” Georgette said, leveling a .45 automatic at Nita’s head. “Now, get out. Both of you. On the driver’s side. No tricks.”
“Dick,” Nita said. “What should we do?”
“I suggest we do as the lady says,” replied Wentworth. He opened his door and slid out. When he leaned back in to help Nita, the butt of a Tommy Gun came crashing down on the back of his head.
And all went black as a widow’s gown.
“Rosebud,” Wentworth mumbled as the cobwebs coalesced in his head. “Nita”
Groggily, he managed to sit up on his bunk, holding his throbbing head in his hands, moaning as he rubbed his temples. Then, reality came crashing down: “Nita!” he repeated.
He bolted to his feet, his eyes scanning the room. But all he saw was the bareness of his fifteen-by-fifteen cell: a bunk, a toilet, a sink. The bleakness of his cage and his situation was interrupted by a low humming melody floating through the barred window. He couldn’t place to tune at first. Then it dawned on him: Amazing Grace!
Climbing on his bunk, Wentworth gripped the iron bars of the window, and looked out across the deserted street. Standing in front of Martin’s General Store was an young, raven-haired girl dressed in a blue sun-dress, spotted with yellow daisies, wiping the accumulated dust and grime from the showcase window with her white cotton glove, peering in at the revealed goodies on displayed: a variety of toys and, especially, a cherry-red bicycle, the Grand Prize for a sweepstakes drawing which never took place: Guess the Correct Number of Marbles… Win a Brand-New Schwinn Red Chief!
The girl closed her intense blue eyes tight, her brows furrowing, eyebrows almost meeting, her mouth fixed in a grimace as she concentrated on the cat’s-eyed marbles in the large pickle jar. The marbles rolled, bounced off one another, back-and-forth in her mind as she calculated the volume of the jar, those of the marbles. Adding. Multiplying. Vectoring. The correct number of marbles is…
“Natty! Natty! Ah, there you are!” an attractive, slender, thirtyish brunette called. “You know you’re not to be out here. Not now!”
“But, Mama…”
“No buts, Little Girl,” the mother said. “We must go!”
“Halt!” a booming voice commanded. “Turn around!”
Trying to hide her fear, the mother turned, shielding her daughter behind her. “We were…”
“There are no excuses,” the hulking figure dressed as an Egyptian soldier began. Then, the man realized who he was talking to. “Sorry, Mrs. Saunders. I hadn’t realized it was you. Still, you and Natasha, shouldn’t be out here. Not now. The procession is about to begin. Don’t you hear the loudspeakers?”
“Yes, but my daughter…”
“You must return home at once,” said the guard without compassion, waving his Tommy Gun.
Before being led off, Natasha glanced back at the jar of marbles as the correct number flashed before her eyes: 672.
At once, a small fire seemed to spontaneous ignite amongst an accumulation of dried leaves and litter in the gutter.
No one noticed except for Richard Wentworth from his cell window. But he had no time to ponder this, as the hypnotic Amazing Grace was suddenly replaced by a monotonous blare of heralding trumpets.
Down Main Street crawled a royal procession, led by heralds, who gave way to a stretch litter carried on the burly shoulders of six beefy men dressed only in kilts and sandals, walking lock-stepped, their faces blank, expressionless masks, though their eyes glowed an eerie purple haze.
Upon the litter, on a golden throne under a sun-shade, sat a thirtyish man ensembled as the Living God—as Pharaoh! Upon his head sat the Double Crown of Lower and Upper Egypt. He held in his hands, crossed over his heavy chest and broad collar of gold, the regal flail of ebony and gold enamel, and the bejeweled scepter of Majesty. Glistening in the last of the setting sun’s glory was a golden arm-band emGuved with a highly-stylized obsidian swastika, set within a circle of pearl, surrounded by a square of crushed rubies.
“Nazis!” Wentworth hissed. “Why did it have to be Nazis?”
This was entirely different than the Pathe’ Newsreels he’d seen. There was no real fanfare, no cheering crowds, no Seig Heils, just a faux-Pharaoh being carried towards the end of town.
Towards that weird “oil rig.”
Abruptly, the booming loud-speakers and the heralding trumpets ceased. Yet, the procession hadn’t ended. Slowly down the street rolled a dozen brand-new, shiny white garbage trucks, following after the Pharaoh.
Before Wentworth had a chance to ponder this odd juxtaposition, he heard some scrapping on the wooden floor and a man demanding: “Let me go, you blundering Fascists!”
Jumping off his bunk, Wentworth rushed to the door as a pair of neo-Pharaonic Nazi guards tossed the man on the floor of the adjoining cell, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Where’s Nita?” asked Wentworth, thrusting his arm through the bars, trying desperately to grabs one of the guards.
His attempt fell short and the guards just laughed at him and left.
The other prisoner rose to his feet, dusting off his beige trench-coat. Picking his brown fedora from the floor, he shook off the dust before plucking down over his head, tilting it just-so to the right. Beneath his coat he wore a rumpled brown suit, vest, white shirt and black tie. He turned and said:
“You’re Richard Wentworth, aren’t you?”
“Er, yes. How did you know?”
“The society pages,” the man said, offering his hand through the adjoining bars. “My name is Dickson, Harry Dickson.”
“Commissioner Kirkpatrick has mentioned you,” Wentworth said, shaking the proffered hand. “He referred to you as some kind of ‘American Sherlock Holmes.’ Perhaps you can tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s not at all elementary.”
“Probably not. My friend Nita Van Sloan has been kidnapped and I have been tossed in this hole. And some Nazi-cum-Pharaoh is parading through the streets. Plus there’s a girl named Natasha who seems to be able to start fires with her mind. I don’t see a connection.”
“It’s a long and convoluted story…”
“We don’t seem to be going anywhere, so why don’t you start at the beginning,” Wentworth said.
The two men settled down on their separate bunk, and the detective began:
“I was hired to solve what initially seemed to be two separate cases, yet they both dove-tailed here, in Marion.” He drew in a breath, slowly let it out. “First, my friend Leo Saint-Clair asked me to check into the rumors of an Egyptian cult, here, in California…”
Wentworth nodded. “Ever since Carter discovered Tut’s tomb, the world has had a case of Tut-mania. A few years back, a business associate of mine stopped a crazy Egyptologist who thought he was the re-incarnation of the Boy-King.”6
“Yes, Saint-Clair was involved in that, I believe. But that wasn’t an isolated incident. There have been other cases: a re-animated mummy named Imhotep. In England, Dr. Anton Phibes used the Curses of Pharaoh to murder the doctors he thought responsible for the death of his wife... I, myself, encountered Living Mummies hiding underground in Scotland... It’s been maddening…”
“Amazing,” Wentworth said, shaking his head. “But what’s going on here? Who is that Georgette broad, and the Nazi who dresses himself up as a Pharaoh?”
“Georgette Cuvelier,” Dickson said with what Wentworth thought was a degree of infatuation, “is the daughter of the late Professor Flax, once known as the ‘Human Monster.’ She, too, is a criminal mastermind known as L’Araignée—the Spider. I was surprised to see her here, because her talents lie in the iron-fisted rule of her criminal web, not mixed up with Nazi thugs.”
“I still don’t understand what’s going on, but I don’t know if I really care. I only care about finding Nita.”
“Before I was caught snooping around by Georgette and her men,” said Dickson, ignoring Wentworth’s plea, “I discovered that the man calling himself the Living Pharaoh is one Tang-Akhmut, a Copt who took his religion a tad too seriously, and is connected to some cult known as the Temple of Love, which is just a cover for his real masters: the newly-elected Chancellor of the National Socialist Party, a man named Adolph Hitler, and his henchman, Heinrich Himmler. They both dream of heralding the supremacy of the Aryan race.”
Wentworth took in the info with a nod. “I thought that Schopenhauser’s theories claimed that the ‘White Race’ superiority was due to a harsh, demanding environment which led to the evolution of a racial ideal: tall, blond and blue-eyed ‘supermen.’ But I also seem to recall that Hitler and most of the rest of his Nazi horde are far from blond and blue-eyed.”
“They still believe themselves to be the Master Race. The highest civilization on Earth since the ancient people of India and Egypt.”
“Thus the King Tut bit?”
“Exactly.”
“But why are they here?”
“Best as I can determine, this cult is an off-shoot of the Vril Society, whose origin is centered in the Occult, and which is said to have received secret revelations dealing with ancient and future mysteries, and the coming of a New Age. Lots of dogma, esoteric nonsense about the Holy Grail, the Spear of Longinus, and God knows what else.” He took a breath and continued: “They also believe in magical violet-black stones, and something called the Black Sun, powered by crystals containing an unknown element they called Vrilium, an isotope of radium.”
“Appropriate. The symbol for radium is Ra.”
“As in Amon-Ra, the Egyptian God… I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And does any of this have anything to do with that derrick with the odd metallic ball on top?”
“A failed experiment by Nikola Tesla. Have you heard of him?”
“Wentworth Enterprises has conducted some experiments dealing with Tesla’s theories and applications.”
“That tower, out there, was built by Tesla in 1923, for some type of experiment, but was abandoned.”
“What type of experiment?”
“No one knows,” Dickson said, re-positioning himself on his cot. “And Tesla has been mum on the subject. Some believe he was trying to repeat his Wardenclyff experiments to provide a universal power source. Others say he was trying to contact Mars.”
“And this girl, Natasha, I saw outside the window, with the power of pyrokinesis… Who is she?”
Dickson huffed out. “This brings us to my second assignment, this one for the Secret Service, which surprisingly meshed with my first investigation. Albert Einstein…”
“The E-equals-em-cee-squared guy?”
“Uh-huh. He’s fled to the U.S.—to Princeton, in fact. He made a request from the U.S. government. He wants them to find his illegitimate daughter, Liserl, who was born out-of-wedlock, and put up for adoption. The Secret Service managed to track her to Serbia, where she was raised by an aunt. She married a young military man who died towards the end of the Great War, leaving her with a baby daughter to raise. Then—poof! —the trail dried up. That is, until she turned up here on the arm of Tang-Akhmut.”
“So this pyrokinetic kid is Einstein’s granddaughter?” Wentworth said, rising to his feet, rubbing the nape of her neck. “Well, that’s just peachy.” He turned back to the cell’s barred window, glancing out the deserted street as the last of the daylight shadows crept down the asphalt.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” said Dickson.
“Agreed, but I knew Houdini and you’re no…”
“No, I’m not, but my dad was an illusionist,” Dickson said from outside his cell. “I can get us out of here...”
Suddenly, an elderly man appeared. His face was wrinkled, jowls hanging, his hair a grayish-white. He wore a white doctor’s smock, a stethoscope slung around his neck. “Sorry,” he said, “I thought you might need my help.”
“Who are you?” Dickson said, staring into the old doctor’s surprisingly alive, intelligent blue eyes.
“My name is Dr. Fairchild. I took care of the guard,” said the old man, jangling the now useless jail keys. “Do what you must. I have my own important business to attend to.”
He then turned around and left, surprisingly fast for a man of his age.
Glancing into the main office, the two escapees saw the Egyptian-garbed “sheriff” passed out across the desk, the remains of a spiked cup of coffee spill being absorbed by the green blotter.
Quickly, they rifled the gun racks. Dickson opted for a pair of .38 revolvers, while Wentworth selected a pair of .45 automatics, shoving boxes of ammo into his pockets.
“I don’t have much experience with hand-guns,” Wentworth said, studying the .45’s barrel absently.
“Just be careful.”
“Now what, Dickson?”
“Obviously, my dear Wentworth, the game’s a foot.”
“You’ve spent way too much time in the England.”
“Tut-tut, Old Man.”
Dr. Fairchild darted quickly, stealthily, keeping to the shadows, as he circumvented Main Street, hurrying down a dark alley, stopping at a storm cellar. A quick glance told him he was alone, unobserved. Opening the door, he descended the creaking stairs, into the small basement, only lit by a low-watt, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
On a wooden work bench lay a man of about 25, his face and hands blistered. Unconscious. Perhaps comatose.
“Bobby,” the doctor said, rubbing the man’s hand with aloe. “What have they done to you, my brother?”
Wentworth and Dickson met no resistance as they ran down the street, arriving at the place where the pharaonic parade had gone. And what they saw there froze them:
A double row of giant golden sphinxes—five on a side—looking as if they weighed five tons each, created a pathway toward a 14-foot high, 30-foot wide, pylon, a gateway dominated with a giant relief of Rameses in his chariot, smiting his enemies.
“The Ten Commandments,” Wentworth said, shaking his head.
“What?” Dickson asked.
“The Ghost Lights of Guadeloupe,” Wentworth added, picking up a chip of the outer casting of one of the sphinxes, rubbing it between his fingers. “It’s concrete, not stone.”
“What?” Dickson repeated, his eyes taking in the wonders of the pylon and the Tesla Tower in the near distance. “What Ghost Lights?”
Wentworth relayed the story of the “Ghost Lights” as he had heard at the Hearst party, concluding: “The lights were from the people excavating the sets from Cecil B. DeMille’s film, which he had buried in the sands of Nipomo Beach after shooting, so that other filmmakers couldn’t make use of them.”
Dickson studied the pylon, noting that the cartouche of Rameses the Great had been chiseled out, and replaced by another name. Fortunately, he’d picked up the skill to decipher hieroglyphs. The cartouche contained these icons: a twisted stalk of flax, a reed leaf, a load of bread, a serpent, a raised arm, and a mouth. He read aloud: “H-I-T-L-E-R.”
“The ego…”
Dickson read more, picking out words chiseled here and there: “Fuhrer For Life… National Socialist German Workers Party… Nazis… the Greatest of the Greats… Life… Health… Prosperity…”
“All for the glory of a paper-hanger,” Wentworth mused.
“You know, there’s irony here,” the detective said, sweeping his hand at the pylon, “Ramses, here, is smiting his enemies… the Asiatics… from what we refer today as the Middle East… that is, the Semites.”
“I guess that fits. But didn’t you say the Nazis believe their ancestors were Egyptians?”
“Yes,” Dickson said. “But Egyptians, then, were not Semites.”
“Well, enough of this journey down the Nile. I have to find Nita!”
“Okay, you go find her, and I’ll see what more I can discover about what’s happening here. It’s surely more than just crazy Nazi-Pharaoh stuff. Especially if Georgette Cuvelier is involved.”
“Keep alert.”
“You, too.”
Heading towards the valley, down through the pylon’s gateway, Dickson waved a farewell to Wentworth heading towards the outskirts of town, in search of Nita Van Sloan.
Nita had found herself naked, in a strange place. That, in itself, was nothing unusual. What was unusual was that she was locked in an iron cage, hanging against a wall, in a cave dimly lit with flickering torches mounted in sconces. Again, this was not as frightening as the fact that she was only one of a score of naked men and women likewise suspended in cages. Stranger still: none of the captives appeared to be conscious. Beneath each was a wooden table, and upon each was a greenish-brown oblong object, some five-foot long, two wide and one high.
What is it? Nita pondered. Some type of vegetation…
Then: Pop! Pop! Crackle! Snap!
…as white sizzling, bubbling, foamy humanoid forms oozed out of these… Giant Pea Pods?
Nita had no more time to ponder this weirdness, or her own immediate predicament, when two burly Egyptian goons carried in another giant pod, vein-like vines wrapping around it, pulsating, nourishing it.
They set it on the table beneath her, and departed.
Then, the man appeared, grinning, his black eyes like coals in his handsome face. In his hand, he carried a branding iron. The blistering white-hot tip of was a five-inch long, stylized scorpion. He approached Nita. His grin widened. He raised the branding iron. He smiled more broadly.
Nita screamed.
At that moment, Richard Wentworth, a .45 in each hand, was searching for his girl-friend on the outskirts of town, creeping towards a neo-classic colonial manor: two-story with a four-pillared portico consisting of an upper porch supported by the house and four Doric columns.
Shadows cloaked his movements as he made way to the portico steps, mounting them. Light blazed from only one bottom floor room and he chanced a quick look inside. It was a study, empty of human occupation, though filled with wonders: cedar book shelves, glass showcases full of scarabs, figurines, amulets, and other objets d’art. Statues of Osiris, Isis, Horus, and Anubis dotted the room. Above an ornate throne of ebony and plated-gold hung a three-by-four foot, gilded framed painting of Adolph Hitler.
Wentworth slipped through the window, tipping, catching himself on the edge of an ornate wooden box. A sarcophagus. Sans mummy, he was pleased to discover.
Save for the painting of the former paper-hanger, Wentworth was impressed with the art collection, until he rubbed against the statue of Osiris and discovered that, like the sphinxes outside, it consisted of painted concrete.
Shrugging, he turned and then spotted, against the far wall, six steamer trunks, a couple opened, revealing the wardrobe from DeMille’s Ten Commandments. No doubt, the source of attire for this city’s goons. Rummaging through the other trunks, he found old playbills, costumes, props, and even an old make-up kit of Lon Chaney. A
It was then that something his half-brother Kent had told him once: there is evil in the hearts of men… preying on superstitious beliefs… feeding on shadows and monsters… fears which are the masters of men.
Wentworth grinned sardonically as he dived into trunks containing costumes from The Hunchback of Notre-Dame, London After Midnight, and other films: a hump, vampire fangs, fright wig, top hat...
Something had just snapped in Richard Wentworth’s brain…
Dickson saw a set of headlights down in the valley, coming from the Tesla Tower, and ducked behind a stack of steel barrels labeled Petro. The tower was abuzz with flood-lit activity, though he could not determine exactly what was happening. All he could discern was a group of faux-Egyptian goons standing around, Tommy Guns relaxed in their arms, watching the townspeople moving like zombies, toting something out of a mine, loading objects into a garbage truck.
What are they mining?
As a garbage truck rolled slowly by the stack of gasoline barrels, Dickson creeped out of hiding, hopped on the tail gate and peeked into the carriage pit, wiping away a layer of straw to reveal:
“Pods… giant pea pods.”
He dropped from the truck, stunned, wondering what fiendish plot for world domination was being hatched here…
“My darling Harry, I knew that a hick county jail couldn’t contain you.”
Slowly, Dickson turned to face Georgette Cuvelier, flipping back a lock of her hair which had fallen in her face. Her moist pouty lips went unnoticed by the detective. He was, at the moment, more interested in the two Tommy Gun-toting goons flanking her. They appeared to mean business.
“Have you found a new Daddy-Longlegs, my dear Spider?” Dickson smiled lop-sidedly as he watched her polish her glasses with a lavender silk kerchief.
She calmly replaced her glasses and stepped forward, then abruptly slapped him across the face.
“You know that I never kiss and kill.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. “Well, that is: hardly ever.”
The goons grabbed him, disarmed him as Georgette watched, an amused smile on her face. Dickson tried to struggle, but found the effort useless.
“Isn’t that a shame,” tut-tutted Georgette as she walked away, saying over her shoulder to the guards: “Take him to the cave… make him a new man.”
Nita’s blue eyes grew even wider as the Scorpion advanced toward her with the red-hot poker, grinning maniacally. He spit on the scorpion tip. It sizzled. He studied the delectable nude body of the socialite, checking her out as if she was a side of prime beef. Teasing her, terrifying her, he failed to provoke another scream from her. She wouldn’t scream, or beg or even speak. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“This isn’t for you, my dear,” the Scorpion said with a grin. Then, he frowned, his eyebrows meeting, forming a continuous line. “Well, not yet anyway.”
He approached a pod atop a table beneath a nearby cage. The pod had been completely transformed into the woman who had been in the cage above, yet still immobile, in a pre-sentient state of awareness. The caged woman—the human—was no more, having been transformed into grayish fluff, her vital essences now incorporated into the pod-creature.
The Scorpion laughed as he pressed the tip of the branding iron onto the doppelganger’s buttock. The flesh sizzled. The scorpion brand burnt red. The pod-person did not react. At the edge of consciousness, though not humanity.
“No,” he said, grinning at Nita, “you need not be branded.”
“You mean…” she began.
“Not yet, my pretty, pretty,” he said, producing a plastic bottle, squeezing a misty green spray into her face. She immediately became groggy. He reached in and stroked her hair: “It’s time to sleep. Once you have been transformed, then you shall become my bride.”
If she were conscious, Nita would have definitely screamed.
Now decked out in a hunchback-vampire costume, Wentworth creeped out of the den’s window and was slipping away when he turned, noticing a light in the a second-floor room.
Scaling a trellis, he came to the window and snuck a peek. A bedroom: reds and pinks; canopy bed and fireless hearth. A girl—Natasha—sat behind an oak roll-top desk, concentrating, scribbling numbers on slips of paper, mumbling about alternative interior angles and inverse reciprocals.
Suddenly, in the hearth, a dry log burst into flames.
Wentworth noted this, then heard voices below him, from the den. He climbed back down the trellis. Flattening himself against the wall, he listened to the voices coming through the window.
Tang-Akhmut sat on the golden throne beneath the portrait of Hitler, while Georgette Cuvelier sat on a posh red settee, her legs crossed, flicking non-existent lint from her silk stocking.
“All goes well… as planned,” she said.
“What about Harry Dickson?” the Pharaoh asked, absently scratching his neck with the end of his flail.
“He’s been taken care of. He won’t be a problem anymore.”
“And the other man—Wentworth?”
“We’re still searching for him. The Scorpion has the girl he was with. But he shouldn’t be a problem. He’s just a rich fool who has more money than he knows what to do with. Hell, he’s probably half-way back to New York by now, girl or no girl.”
“Typical capitalist,” the Pharaoh mused. “How is the merchandise?”
“Being loaded on the trucks. They’re set to roll at dawn. Soon, one-by-one, every politician in the nation will be replaced by an alien, all under our control.”
“My control!” he interjected forcefully.
“Yes,” she said with a hiss that the Pharaoh seemed not to detect. “Under your control, of course.”
“Ha, Spencer in his Eugenics got it wrong. It’s not the elimination of inferior beings with sterilization that matters, but their substitution. Not the creation of a Master Race, but of a race of slaves!”
“Yes. With my network—my web—I have control of a good chunk of the criminal activity, here, in the States. Just think of the power we’ll have with even more judges, politicians, and cops in our collective pockets.”
“Our pockets?” the Pharaoh asked, not letting the plural pass this time.
“Your pockets, Your Majesty,” she replied between clenched teeth.
“And the child Natasha?”
“She will be processed once we have channeled her mutant abilities at the Tesla Tower, and attracted more pods from Outer Space. Her mother has already been processed.”
Tang-Akhmut thought for a moment. “Still, even if the experiment succeeds and we manage to contact more of these…”
“Pods.”
“Yes, pods. It will take years for them to come here, to be harvested by us…”
“So what? By the time they arrive, the infrastructure will be in place, and the new arrivals will be easily integrated into the pool of pods held in reserve. Which, of course, is important as these doppelgangers have only a lifetime of five years due to the present of oxygen in our atmosphere which burns them out.”
“Pod replicates of replicates will continue the Third Reich’s domination of the United States… of Europe… of the World.”
“Yes.”
“Heil, Hitler!” Tang-Akhmut declared with a half-hearted salute to the painting as he stood.
He left the room. Georgette followed, refusing to lock-step.
Outside, Wentworth had heard enough. He had to find Nita and get the Hell out of this god-forsaken place.
The two machine gun-toting goons ushered Dickson, his hands over his head, toward a cave opening. Suddenly, one guard said: “What was that?
“What was what?” the other guard asked.
“That… there! Against the horizon!”
Illuminated by the full Moon, a strange creature lurched; then, dashed across the horizon. Only to stop and stare at them. In the glow of the lights illuminating the Tesla Tower, the guards could discern the figure: long stringy hair, glistening fangs, and black wings floating, scintillating in the night’s breeze.
“A Nosferatu!” a guard said in a thick German accent.
Dickson didn’t know who—or what—the apparition was, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He threw himself backwards, slamming into the backs of the two goons, scrambling them and their machine guns.
The detective tried to grab one of the Tommy Guns, but it was booted away by the second guard who then kicked Dickson in the chin, driving him backwards, landing him flat on his buttocks. Groggily, the Detective shook his head, trying to get a beat on what was happening. He discovered with surprise that the mock Egyptian guards were no longer paying attention to him. Firing from their hips, the goons sprayed bullets at the abominable apparition on the horizon. But to no avail. The wraith moved as if the mist itself. After five seconds of continuous fire, the Tommy Guns’ drums where depleted.
Dickson reacted, banging hard into the back of one of the guards, sending him crashing hard to the ground, then jumping on him and ham-fisting his face. The other guard threatened to join the fray, when three gun shots boomed through the air, striking him squarely in the chest. He didn’t even have time to scream before his legs crumbled.
Having beaten his man into unconsciousness, Dickson rubbed his knuckles, then scooped up his .38s from the guard’s waistband, kneeling, posing with both firearms aimed at the silhouetted figure, wondering: friend or foe? Then, he realized the truth:
“Is that you Wentworth?”
“It’s not the Shadow!” came the booming reply, followed by an eerie, echoing crackle which morphed into a long shrill.
Richard Wentworth stood still. His .45s were still smoking. For the first time in his life, he felt really alive. The power… the kick of automatics in his hands, had invigorated him. This wasn’t like skeet-shooting or target practice. This was something different, something more primal. The handguns erupting fury from his palms as he became one with them, forging a strange kinship between his mind and his trigger fingers… It was something he couldn’t explain. Something he imagined his half-brother might also feel. Perhaps, it had something to do with the costume he now wore…
Or perhaps not.
Strangely, the gunfight had drawn no attention to the two men. And, even stranger, Dickson didn’t question Wentworth’s get-up as he approached him, other than to say: “Halloween, already?”
With a shrug, Wentworth replied: “I have to find Nita.”
Dr. Fairchild had left his comatose brother in the cellar, and was making his way back towards the valley when a voice boomed out: “Hey, you!”
The old doctor stopped dead in his tracks and turned. A Tommy-Gun was leveled at him.
The faux-Egyptian guard dragged him to the town’s doctor’s office and, there, ordered him to tend to an unconscious colleague stretched out on the examination table.
But before Dr. Fairchild could even began the examination, gunfire erupted outside. The guard rushed to the window to see what was going down. He could see nothing and turned back, but had no time to react as the old doctor brought a plaster skull crashing down on his head.
The goon dropped like a fly. Tossing aside the remaining fragments of the skull, the old doctor sat on the edge of the desk, not really sure of what had just happened. His fingers fell upon a hand-stamp. Picking it up, he stared at it. Then, absently, he rolled the stamp across a pad of ink as he glazed down at the unconscious guard.
Without thought of his Hippocratic Oath, Dr. Fairchild brought the hand-stamp down hard on the guard’s forehead, with force enough that the face of the stamp snapped, driving the ragged handle deep into the man’s skull. Through the blood, the guard’s forehead now read: Canceled.
Dr. Fairchild smiled.
I have to find Nita,” Wentworth repeated.
“Yes, but I think we have a more immediate problem,” said Dickson.
“Of course.” Wentworth filled the Detective in on the conversation he had overheard between Tang-Akhmut and Georgette Cuvelier.
“Hmm,” said Dickson thoughtfully, sorting out the data in his mind. “So, their plan is to take over the pols and cops in the U.S., and replace them with… what? Members of a collective? Communists?”
“No, more like zombies from Outer Space.”
Then, they heard shuffling feet and turned in unison, guns leveled at the source, ready for action. They saw Dr. Fairchild approaching, cradling an unconscious, younger man in his arms.
“I come in peace,” said the doctor. “This is my brother, Robert.”
The old doctor didn’t appear surprised or frightened by Wentworth’s disguise—perhaps became of his own. After placing his brother into the protective arms of Dickson, the old doctor began rubbing his own face. The wrinkles disappeared from his jowls, cheeks and brow. Tearing the strip which secured his gray wig revealed his jet-black hair. Finally, the removal of the two padded-wire hooks from his lower jaw completed his transformation into a must younger, healthier, competent man.
“Now I recognize you,” said Wentworth. “You’re Dr. Jeffrey Fairchild, the head of Mid-City Hospital!”
Fairchild nodded. “I came here to rescue my brother, who’d managed to get himself mixed up in this Nazi crap.”
“Why the old man disguise?” Dickson asked after a quick glance at Wentworth. Hell, perhaps Halloween has indeed arrived and no one thought to inform me, thought the Detective.
“I adopted the kindly old doctor disguise because people feel more comfortable, put more trust in a seasoned professional, than with a younger man. Also, an older man is considered a non-entity, making it easier to blend into the background. Thus, while searching for my brother, I used this disguise.”
“What’s wrong with your brother?” Dickson asked, glancing down at the unconscious man cradled in his arms.
“From what I can diagnose, some form of radio-metric poisoning.” Fairchild noticed Dickson was becoming antsy with the “radioactive” man in his arms and took his brother back into his own arms. “The poisoning was from Vrilium. A low-yield beta producer. No more dangerous than an x-ray exam, if not prolonged. As in my brother’s case.”
“You have any idea what’s going on here?” Wentworth asked.
“First, you two have been Heaven-sent. I’ve been trying to get out of town with my brother for a week, but have been forced to remain here by these Nazis. But I’ve learnt quite a bit about their plans.”
“Do tell,” Wentworth said with a haunting crackle.
“It has to do with the Tesla Tower, which the inventor abandoned in 1923,” Fairchild began, pointing at the structure in the valley. “Some say he was trying to contact Mars or Venus, but was forced to call it quits when his finances fell through. Tang-Akhmut believes that Tesla succeeded in contacting aliens, but not from our neighboring planets, but from what astronomer Ernst Öpik believes is a section of space containing comets on the outskirts of our Solar System. These aliens—these pods—received Tesla’s message and followed its electromagnetic pulse, taking eight years—that is, last year—to land here, on Earth.
“Tang-Akhmut and Miss Cuvelier also believe that a similar event occurred in relation to Tesla’s experiments at Wardenclyff, New Jersey, which resulted in the Tunguska Event, in Siberia: an explosion which leveled thousands of forest acres, eight years after Tesla’s Jersey demo.”
“And,” Wentworth said, recalling the discussion he overheard outside the Pharaoh’s window, “these pods duplicate humans and take their place.”
“More than that,” Fairchild said, “they replace the human hosts, while he or she turns to dust. As does all their love, desire, dreams and ambition, their faith, leaving only a shell which is a mockery of humanity. They are truly soulless creatures—under the control of a mad-man!”
“Then how,” Wentworth said, “do they differ from regular politicians?”
“I know what you mean,” Dickson said, allowing himself a grin.
“From what I overheard,” Wentworth said, using his mathematical skills honed from years of calculating odds at the race tracks, “these doppelgangers only have a shelf-life of five years. If this Tesla Tower is fired up and succeeds in contacting more pods, they won’t get here until, er, 1940 or so.”
“But it wouldn’t matter,” Dickson said. “The infrastructure would already be in place, with substitute pods already on hand, to be used before more zombies from space arrive.”
“Then we have to stop them now!” Wentworth turned to Fairchild. “When is this all to take place?”
“Tonight. The Interocitor has been constructed. It is connected to an underground deposit of crystalline vrilium, and both are connected to the Tesla Tower, to charge the assimilator on top, to summon the pods. And now, they have a power source.”
“A power source?” Dickson said, “I thought…”
“No. The vrilium crystals are not the power source, but merely a channeler. The true power source is the girl Natasha.” He shifted his unconscious brother in his arm. “Einstein’s granddaughter! They’re going to harvest her mutagenic pyrokinetic abilities, just erupting due to her onset of puberty, as their power source.”
“We must stop them!” Dickson exclaimed. To Fairchild, he said: “You take care of your brother. Wentworth and I will take care of the Nazis!”
“We will?” Wentworth said.
Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream echoed through the still night air.
“Yes, we will stop them,” Wentworth hissed, his pearl white teeth clenched tight, with coldness in his soul.
Natasha was being dragged, screaming, struggling, towards the Interocitor’s two copper poles, each ten feet tall, their ends dug deep into the ground, embedded in a vein of vrilium. From the poles ran thick wires, hooked to a polyphase generator, then to the tower’s metallic ball cap: the assimilator from which the electromagnetic pulses will be projected. And Natasha was the polyphase generator!
Pharaoh Tang-Akhmut sat upon his Royal Litter, watching the proceeding with rapt interest. At his side, in the position of Fan-Bearer on the Right, stood Georgette Cuvelier, studying her fingernails, noting she had cracked one when she slapped Dickson. Another point against the gumshoe.
Seated next to Tang was Liserl, Natasha’s mother, who showed no emotions while her daughter screamed as she was being tied to the polyphasic poles. Liserl had just completed pea pod conversion: Zombification. The Pharaoh’s wish was now her command. At the moment, he commanded nothing of her save the use of her daughter. Liserl was therefore at peace, untroubled, emotionless, even as her still very much human daughter continued to scream.
Two goons bound the girl to the copper poles and placed a copper helmet on her head, its electrodes hooked to the poles. Then, they quickly departed the scene, fearful of the promised electrical show.
“Let my people come!” Tang-Akhmut declared, thrusting up his royal scepter, the gold shimmering in reflections of the flood-lights spotlighting the tower. With his other hand, he threw the master-switch.
The surge of electricity ran down the cable. Natasha stiffened as the electro-pulse surged through her. Her hair stood on end beneath the helmet. She wanted to scream again, but no longer could. Sparks began to fly. The dome of the Tesla Tower began to glow an eerie red as the electro-plated copper was energized, building towards a polyphasic potential which would project a coherent electromagnetic pulse into space.
“Concentrate on the Tower,” a voice suddenly said behind Natasha as she felt herself being unbound. “Concentrate!”
“I… I… can’t …”
“Do it!” the voice demanded. “Aim your thoughts at the Tower. Concentrate. Calculate pi to its furthest digit!”
Natasha concentrated. “Three … point… one… four… one… five… nine… two… six…”
“Good,” the voice encouraged.
Suddenly—directed by the girl’s thoughts, the wooden Tesla Tower burst into flames. The conflagration shot up the structure and danced about on the huge copper ball as Natasha continued concentrating, mumbling digits: “…three… nine… one… eight… seven…”
“Good girl,” the voice whispered.
With her eyes wide shut in concentration, Natasha didn’t see the whispering man leave and join up with Dickson, or hear him say: “Let’s do it!”
“But what about the townspeople?” the Detective asked Wentworth.
“They are better off dead than zombies.”
Dickson nodded.
The duo swung into action, their guns blazing as the Tesla Tower burnt, cutting down Nazi goons as they rushed them. Emptying their pistols. Tossing them aside. Scooping up fallen Tommy Guns. Emptying them. Also tossing them aside and retrieving others as the Nazis fell by the wayside.
The smell and the clouds of cordite threatened to suffocate the blazing heroes, but they battled on. Blood erupted, splattered, as bodies toppled all around.
The zombified townsfolk put up no resistance, yet they were caught in the crossfire, their life-force evaporating, the bodies dissolving into grayish fluff.
“Ashes to ashes,” Wentworth said with a chilling laugh as he mowed down the former humans, “dust to dust…”
The entire valley was alight with flames of deafening violence as Wentworth continued pumping round after round into the cowardly yellow Nazi bellies. Tossing aside an empty Tommy, scooping up another, he continued the massacre.
Dickson skirted off after the Pharaoh and Georgette Cuvelier. But the cordite clouds were too dense and prevented him from finding the evil masterminds who had fled when the violence erupted. All he found was Liserl. Shot. Her pod-body already dissolved into dust. In her last seconds of life, however, she retained a kernel of her humanity, muttering: “Tell Papa …I’m sorry.” And, with that epitaph, Albert Einstein’s daughter was gone, literally, with the wind.
Ironically, Dickson’s had found the scientist’s daughter and completed his assignment complete. Yet, he found no joy in it.
Natasha was still reciting digits when Wentworth stopped her, telling her that she had saved the day, and possibly the world.
“Mother went to sleep, didn’t she?” she asked Wentworth, ignoring his costume.
“Yes.”
Natasha wept.
Wentworth tried to comfort her, but found it difficult. It wasn’t in his character, and he was relieved to surrender her into Dickson’s care. Then, with his .45s leveled, he took in the scope of the destruction: the entire valley and the city was ablaze, the Tesla Tower so much kindling.
Wentworth gritted his teeth. “I still have to find Nita.”
Nita had fallen asleep. The pea-pod beneath her cage hissed… popped… crackled… as her doppelganger began to form. As her humanity siphoned away…
Against the cave wall, leaning back in his chair, the Scorpion applied a rasp to sharpen the emblem on his branding iron. Satisfied, he placed the iron into burning coal embers. He smiled, oblivious to the carnage taking place in the valley, dreaming only of the wealth that soon would be dropped in his lap when his trucks full of pods were delivered to the Crime Syndicate.
For now, he just waited for the original Nita Van Sloan to turn to dust and the faux-Nita to fully form, to become his love… his slave.
Then, chips of limestone erupted as bullets smashed into the cave walls, dust mixing with cordite, choking the oxygen in the tight confines, causing the caged humans—or what was left of them—to heave in coughing fits. Yet Wentworth’s .45s continued to lash tongues of flame from their barrels. Consumed by his mission, he dealt out justice in a mock imitation of the old wild, wild West.
Lightning fast the Scorpion scooped up the red-hot poker and stabbed at Wentworth, who ducked, avoiding the madman’s thrusts. He ejected spent clips from his .45s, ramming in replacements, turning back and firing.
Yet, through the dust and smoke, the Scorpion kept thrusting the poker straight at Wentworth’s eye, who barely had time to duck and pivot on his left foot, sweeping his right out, and toppling his attacker. The sizzling poker flew through the air, tumbling, until its fiery end came straight down toward the Scorpion. The villain tried to duck, but froze. The blazing scorpion hit, searing the band into the left side of his face.
He screamed and ran from the cave.
Wentworth let the madman go. There would be other days. Another time for vengeance! Twirling his cape, whipping the smoke and dust and cordite away, he tried not to cough. Then he saw her…
“Nita…” he choked out.
She was unconscious in her cage, curled up fetally. Her nude body waxy, draining of blood. On the table beneath, her mirror-image—also waxy and bloodless in appearance—was forming, like the first impression of a coin being minted. It was all there—yet it wasn’t!
Wentworth knew he had to act now or risk losing Nita …forever!
Reactively, he grabbed a machete hanging on the wall and hacked maniacally at the pod beneath Nita’s cage. Pseudo-blood and guts erupted from the pod creature, but there were no screams, no reflexive jerks, as the hacked pieces of cellulose flesh flew away and began to dissolve into fine gray fluff, which soon drifted away.
Wentworth scooped up a set of brass keys from a table and swiftly unlocked Nita’s cage, pulling her out, letting her down into his waiting arms.
Slowly, absently, Nita’s eyelids flickered, then slowly opened, groggily coming into focus on the apparition before her. She began to react, to scream. But suddenly, she realized it was Wentworth, recognizing the strong, comforting which held her.
“Oh, Dick, you came… I knew you would. I tried to stay awake… I love you!”
That simple statement told Wentworth this Nita was real—not an alien facsimile.
“Hush,” he said. “Let’s get out of this hell-hole!”
He draped a blanket over her naked body and carried her out of the cave, and back towards town. There, he found Harry Dickson kneeling, talking to the 13-year old orphan, Natasha, who still had tears in her eyes.
“What now?” Wentworth asked.
“We did some good here,” Dickson said, standing up, holding the girl’s hand in his. “But the main parties have escaped.”
“There will be other days, other places to deal with them.”
“I will report the death of Einstein’s daughter, but nothing about her being zombified. And, of course,” Dickson said, looking down at Natasha, “introduce him to his granddaughter. However, this invasion is best kept a secret. Let the authorities sort it out.”
“Agreed,” Wentworth said, tossing Nita over his shoulder, calmly grabbing his holstered .45 and absently shooting, exploding, the skull of a pod-person approaching them. “This must be cleaned up. People seems to allow their humanity to be drawn away and don’t seem to mind… Only when we have to fight for it do we realize how precious it is. Society must be protected from this organized anarchy at all costs!”
“I hope this isn’t just the beginning of the end.”
“We may look to the skies, but we have trouble right here. A vast criminal conspiracy, gangsters corrupting the police, the politicians, and other elected officials. Mad scientists! Nazis! Commies! Saboteurs! It’s a crime wave and honest cops like Kirkpatrick can’t tackle it alone. I’ll have to take a page out of the Shadow’s play-book and strike terror into the hearts of crooks and gangsters. Become a Master of Men…”
“…and women,” Nita whispered as Wentworth shifted her back into his arms.
“And, Nita, we cannot marry,” he said with a grin, “as long as the work of the Vampire… no, what did you say that Georgette dame is known as, Dickson? The Spider? Yes, a spider to tangle crime in my web. Wherever there is a criminal conspiracy, I will be there!”
Postscript: 1972
From: Billy Brown, Director, Consortium for Law-enforcement Action for the Security of Humanity.
To: The Shop
Our Psi Division has located a possible “Diamond File” subject who appears to be a direct descendant of Albert Einstein. His granddaughter, Natasha, according to reports, displayed pyrokinetic abilities and married a recessive carrier. Their daughter, Margaret, also a carrier, married the brother of astronaut Ted White. Margaret White gave birth to a girl: Carrietta, The girl, who prefers the name Carrie, is presently a teenager attending Ewen High School, in Chamberlain, Maine. Please check into her latent abilities and whether she might pose a threat to world security in the future.