SQUARE WHITE DEATH
For once, Tiny’s aboriginal face lost its stoic indifference. She stared at the ivory cube as if it were a charm which guaranteed the coming of evil events.
“Him bad medicine,” she muttered, indicating the snow-white block.
“I cannot understand what significance it has.” Patricia turned the cube slowly in her slender fingers. “It seems solid—there is no hollow sound when it is tapped.”
“You know where your dad get him?” Tiny asked.
“Father found it under a ledge about two miles from here, years ago,” Patricia replied. “It lay amid a cluster of human skeletons. The skeletons looked as if they had been there for centuries. No one knew anything about them.”
“Sure!” said Tiny. “That how he find it. That alone enough make it bring bad luck.”
Patricia eyed the white cube thoughtfully.
“Dad never dreamed the thing was of any value,” she said. “Three weeks ago, he found a prowler searching this cabin. The fellow escaped. A little later, dad received a mysterious demand for the cube. He refused to turn it over.”
“Better if him give it up,” muttered Boat Face.
Patricia nodded miserably. “Maybe. We began finding those mysterious werewolf marks around the place. We got other demands for the cube. Then we found dad dead. The doctors called it heart failure.”
“They make blood bubble,” said Tiny. She nodded elaborately. “Your pa, him murdered.”
“I think so, too, Tiny,” Patricia said jerkily.
“You bet!” The squaw nodded again. “Him die from same thing that almost get me and Boat Face a minute ago.”
“You mean the thing that made you unconscious?”
Again Tiny nodded. “You bet.”
“But what was it?” Patricia pondered.
“We go to sleep,” said Tiny, as if that explained everything.
Nor did Patricia come any nearer a solution of the mystery, although she asked many questions, and finally went outside and searched the immediate neighborhood.
The rocky earth bore no footprints. That meant nothing, however. The marauders could easily have avoided leaving tracks.
The weird banshee crying had not come from the gloomy brush since Patricia had returned to the cabin. The blush of dusk still spread over the sea.
Unexpectedly, a long, doleful sound moaned out, causing echoes to bang against the cliffs. The noise was greatly different from the earliest banshee cries, yet Patricia started violently.
The sound repeated itself a moment later. She knew, then, what it was.
“The trader’s launch!” she exclaimed. “They’re letting us know that they have some mail.”
* * * *
So rugged was this region in which the Savage cabin lay, that no automobile could penetrate. A stout wagon could get through, but only with difficulty. To come and go, either a speed boat or a seaplane was the most feasible conveyance. A rustic boathouse on the beach held a fast launch.
Mail was delivered to the Savage hunting lodge in an ingenious fashion. A trader who lived up the coast made regular daily trips to the settlement. His route was past the Savage place.
A few hundred feet from shore, there was a floating buoy box. In this, the trader was accustomed to leave the Savage mail.
The estate had no other communication with the outside world. During his sojourns there, Alex Savage had always made it a point not to be disturbed. The place was his refuge from business worries.
Patricia secured binoculars, and focused them on the trader’s boat. There was light enough for her to make it out distinctly.
She saw the trader place at least one piece of mail in the box. Then his boat went on.
“Get the launch!” Patricia commanded Boat Face. “I’m going to keep my eyes on the mail box until we get out to it. That’s another mysterious thing that has happened. Our mail has been disappearing!”
Boat Face was slow about complying with the order; he seemed reluctant to leave the cabin. Only when Tiny shouted angrily, “You big bum! You do what Miss Pat say!” did he shuffle off toward the boat.
It was fully five minutes before the breed got the launch out of the boathouse and alongside the little wharf in front of the cabin.
During this time, Patricia had not removed her binoculars from the inspection of the buoy box.
“I’m betting nobody got that mail this time!” she declared.
She kept her glasses fixed on the box as Boat Face guided the launch out. At no time had she seen anything suspicious.
The floating mail box was an ordinary buoy with a container countersunk in the top. It turned and bobbed with the waves, being anchored by a light chain to a heavy concrete weight.
Capturing the box with the aid of a boat hook, Patricia opened it.
The container was empty!
“But this is impossible!” Patricia exclaimed incredulously. “I saw mail put in it. I’ve watched it since. Every instant!”
“Werewolf!” mumbled Boat Face, and shrugged beefy shoulders.
Patricia examined the buoy box. The mail container had no lock, since thieves were scarce in this region. However, a wave could not possibly have tossed the mail out.
Patricia had Boat Face run the launch in a big circle. She could not find a thing to shed light on the mystery.
Her face was somewhat white as the launch swerved shoreward.
* * * *
“I can’t understand it,” Patricia said grimly.
“Werewolf!” muttered Boat Face. “Him heap bad customer.”
The girl ignored the redskin’s prognostications. She leveled her binoculars inquiringly at the shore line. The cliffs were cracked here and there by canyons, scratched by watercourses. Huge boulders were piled at the foot of the cliffs. Some of these were fully as large as city apartment houses.
“I don’t see a thing,” she said.
“Werewolf, him can disappear,” said Boat Face.
“You say ‘werewolf’ to me again, and I’m going to have Tiny work out on you!” snapped Patricia.
Boat Face subsided uneasily. Boat Face was something rare in the brotherhood of red men—a henpecked husband. Most bucks make their squaws walk a chalk line, but not Boat Face. On occasion, the lethargic Tiny would shed her stoical air long enough to give Boat Face what metropolitan cops call a “good shellacking.” The implement which Tiny used was the same as that employed by her paleface sisters, a rolling pin.
“Did you ever hear of Doc Savage?” Patricia asked suddenly.
“Me no hear of him,” said Boat Face, flinching as if he had felt his squaw’s rolling pin.
“He’s a cousin of mine,” said Patricia. “He lives in the United States. I understand he does remarkable things.”
“What kind of things?” asked Boat Face.
“He gets people out of trouble.”
“Unh!” Boat Face grunted expressively. “How him make money out of business like that?”
“He doesn’t do it for money, if what I’ve heard is true,” Patricia announced. “He goes all over the world and helps others, and doesn’t charge them anything. He just does it for the excitement.”
“Sound like him crazy,” Boat Face offered.
Patricia frowned at the servant.
“You’re getting a bit insolent lately, Boat Face!” she said pointedly.
“You t’ink so, eh?” Boat Face asked indifferently.
“I don’t think—I know!” the girl snapped.
“Me not care what damn gal t’inks!” said Boat Face, plainly sneering.
Bronze-haired Patricia sprang suddenly to her feet. She shot forward like a metallic tigress. Her small right fist swung with the timing and precision of a trained boxer’s.
Boat Face saw it coming. He tried to dodge, was a fraction too late. Pop! Patricia’s knuckles caught him in the right eye.
The blow had snap and power. Boat Face’s arm flailed, he wavered off balance, then toppled overboard.
Patricia ran to the rudder as the launch left the floundering brave behind. She turned the craft back, came alongside, and, with her boat hook, hauled Boat Face over the gunwale.
“You apologize for swearing at me,” she gritted, “or I’ll knock you overboard again!”
Boat Face squirmed. He was a greatly embarrassed redskin. If this ever got out, the other Indians would laugh him out of Canada. He had not dreamed Miss Patricia was such a hellcat.
“Me sorry!” he muttered.
“Starting right now, you are going to jump quick when I give you an order!” Patricia informed him.
“Yes’m,” said Boat Face meekly.
“The first thing you are going to do in the morning is to take the launch down the coast to the nearest telegraph office, and send a telegram,” Patricia advised.
“Who telegram go to?”
“To Doc Savage,” Patricia said grimly. “I need his help!”
* * * *
In preparing for the night, the cabin windows and doors were locked. This done, it seemed impossible that any one could enter without creating an alarm. Patricia did not think it necessary for the two servants and herself to stand guard.
Night came, a tidal wave of gloom that poured in from the eastward. Darkness crawled down the canyons like predatory black monsters stalking the sun.
Boat Face had quarters in a small room at the rear of the cabin. His ample mate occupied the same cubicle.
Tiny was a substantial squaw. It was doubtful if anything would ever excite her enough to spoil her sleep. She began to snore with astonishing promptness soon after she had retired.
Boat Face had been careful to remain awake. He knew how soundly his squaw slept. After Tiny had snored a half dozen times, Boat Face eased silently out of his small room and crept to the door of the chamber occupied by Patricia Savage. He listened intently, an ear mashed to the wooden panel.
Regular breathing assured him Patricia was asleep.
Careful to make no noise, Boat Face sidled to the bark-covered pillar in the living-room. Fumbling until he located the secret catch, he pressed it. The concealed door in the timber flew soundlessly open.
“Heap good!” Boat Face breathed. “Still here. Me use him for bait to croak urn damn werewolf! Yah—Boat Face not as dumb as ever’body seem t’ink around here.”
Patricia had replaced the ivory cube.
Boat Face withdrew the white block. He fingered it, hefted it. An evil grin warped his swarthy face. He swiped a greedy tongue over his lips.
He seemed to indulge in deep thought for a time. Then he returned the cube to its hiding place, and closed the cleverly constructed door. After this, he let himself out into the night.
His first stop was at the boathouse. There, he carefully unscrewed the plug in the gasoline storage barrel, and let the fluid gurgle out. Then he emptied the launch tank.
“Nobody go from here to send telegram for Doc Savage,” he chuckled. “Not right away soon, anyhow. Now, me go fix trap!”
Quitting the boathouse, he faded into the brush. The night swallowed him.
Boat Face was gone nearly an hour. When he appeared again in the vicinity of the cabin, his manner was equally furtive as before. He felt of his clothing, and made a disgusted face. He was soaked with water to the armpits.
“Trap, him all O. K.,” he chuckled. Then he stood in the murk near the cabin, pondering.
“Damn squaw will want to know how me get wet,” he muttered once. “Me no tell—she use rolling pin.”
As if to banish that possibility, Boat Face started to remove his wet clothing. The process was hardly under way, however, when a low hissing came out of the gloom. It was faint, and had apparently originated some distance away.
Boat Face’s manner showed that he had heard this hiss before, and that it had a definite meaning. He fastened the buttons he had loosened, then crept off in the gloom, toward the source of the hiss.
His objective proved to be a clump of spruce two hundred yards distant. These trees narrowly missed growing as thick as hair. Boat Face came to a stop near the dense covert.
“What you want?” he called in a low, grouchy tone.
Out of the sepia of the spruce came harsh words: “Have you found where that ivory cube is hidden?”
Boat Face stood in sullen silence. Apparently he was giving the matter thought.
“Me know!” he said finally.
“For crying out loud!” snarled the man in the thicket “Why didn’t you lemme know! Had you found it before we searched the cabin this evening?”
Boat Face seemed to give this thought, too.
“No!” he lied.
“Well, go bring me the block,” the unseen man directed.
“Me get five hundred dollars!” Boat Face reminded.
“O. K.! O. K.!” snarled the other. “Get the ivory cube. I’ve got your mazuma for you. Five hundred good Canadian dollars.”
Boat Face shuffled off.
* * * *
The wily redskin servant succeeded in entering the cabin without arousing anybody. He went directly to the hiding place in the rustic ceiling support and got the ivory cube. Then, easing outdoors again, carrying the ivory block, he shuffled for the spruce thicket rendezvous.
Before Boat Face had covered many yards, however, he came to a stop. His tongue traveled greedily over his thick lips. He scratched the end of his hook nose, fingering the white cube.
“Ugh!” he grunted. “Five hundred dollar not enough! Him worth a million. Them guys bad actors. But me got way to fix um.”
He nodded profoundly over this bit of logic.
“Me make that feller pay more,” he decided.
Boat Face turned at right angles toward the beach. He had never moved more soundlessly. The wilderness of boulders along the edge of the little bay swallowed his slinking form.
There was silence then, except for the calling of a night bird somewhere and the suck of small waves at rock crevices. Several times, there were splashings; these were such as might be made by leaping fish. A breeze shuffled leaves together, making a noise like mice running on paper.
Like a red-skinned ghost, Boat Face materialized in the vicinity of the spruce thicket.
“How!” he called.
“You got the cube?” asked the harsh voice of the unseen man.
“Me got him,” Boat Face admitted.
“Cough up, then. I’ve got the five hundred you were to get for delivering it.”
“Five hundred not enough,” pronounced Boat Face.
The man in the thicket cursed softly. “So you’re a welsher, eh?”
“Welsher—what him?” asked Boat Face.
“It’s a guy who makes an agreement and don’t go through with it,” the other gritted.
“Me want ten thousand dollars,” Boat Face announced.
A choking sound came out of the spruce. “So Jesse James has put on feathers!”
“Me no like funny guys,” Boat Face said sullenly. “Ten thousand dollars! Put up or shut up!”
“Now listen, Indian!” the other argued angrily. “We played square with you. We even took you into our confidence and told you what the ivory block is, and why we wanted it. And now you’re welshing!”
“Put up or shut up!” Boat Face insisted.
The unseen man was briefly silent.
“Shut up it is!” he said abruptly.
There was a sharp swishing sound—a note that was half a whistle. It was followed by a dull thud which resembled a rock falling into mud.
Boat Face pitched soundlessly backward. The hilt of a knife protruded from his chest over the heart, and he gave only a few weak squirmings while he died.
The killer crawled from the spruce thicket at once. He kept on hands and knees, making him seem sinister, more spiderlike than human. He had a handkerchief bound over his face, mask fashion.
“Shut up, it was!” he snarled at the lifeless Boat Face. “A shut-up for you!”
With eager fingers he searched for the ivory cube. Searched again! He fell to cursing in a low, guttural voice which had suddenly betrayed a trace of foreign accent.
Then he cursed aloud.
The ivory cube was not in Boat Face’s clothing.
* * * *
Some minutes later, a curious conclave took place in a deep canyon far up on the mountain side. The meeting was held on the water-worn stone bottom of the canyon. Stygian realms never produced a more intense darkness than that which gorged the scene of the conference.
Several men were present. Not one of them could see his fellows in the ebony void.
“I made a hell of a bad move!” announced the man who had thrown the knife that brought death to Boat Face. “I should have searched him before I croaked him.”
“You are telling us!” snarled another voice.
“How was I to know he didn’t have the ivory cube?” the killer defended.
“The milk is spilled, hombres. Why cry?” said a man with a marked Spanish accent.
“That’s an idea!” agreed the slayer. “The redskin probably didn’t have the cube at all. My guess is that the girl still has it. We’ll soon get it from her!”
“Si, si! But what if the Señorita Savage does not know where it is?”
“She knows. Her old man would tell her.”
“Possibly. And it is possible, too, that we made a mistake in disposing of the Señor Alex Savage in such haste.”
“He caught me talkin’ to that redskin, didn’t he?” snarled Boat Face’s slayer. “It looked like my best move to put him out of the way and let the redskin get the cube.”
“Si, si!” agreed the other amiably. “You are not being criticized, my friend. Our chief may not like this, however. But we will consider other matters. You got the letter from the buoy box?”
The query was addressed to another member of the sinister gathering.
“Sure,” replied the man who had been spoken to. “It wasn’t a letter, though. It was a telegram.”
The man now thumbed on a flashlight. The brilliant beam, splattering at his feet, disclosed a contrivance which vaguely resembled a gas mask. This was a self-contained diving lung.
The diving lung held the explanation of how the man had gotten the letter from the buoy box without being seen by Patricia Savage. He had merely weighted himself, marched to the float underwater, climbed the mooring line, and reached into the box. In the poor light of dusk, Patricia had not seen his hand enter the container.
The man extracted a telegram from a pocket. “This is it.”
A gnarled brown hand whipped out and snatched both the telegram and the man’s flashlight. The telegram was exposed under the beam.
“Que lastima!” exploded the man who had seized the message. “What a pity! This is from Doc Savage to his uncle, whom he evidently does not know is dead. But it asks if the esteemed uncle got the telegram in which the Señor Doc Savage said he was coming for a visit.”
“They did not!” chuckled a man. “We secured that message as we did this one.”
“It is evident that Señor Doc Savage suspects something is wrong,” said the one who had read the telegram. “That is bad.”
Someone laughed fiercely.
“The boss will take care of that!”
“Si, si!” agreed the man with the telegram. “He is very ingenious, that maestro of ours. He will thoroughly dispose of this Doc Savage.”
A few minutes later, the sinister gathering dispersed.