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COPYRIGHT INFO
Secret Agent X: Claws of the Corpse Cult is copyright © 2013 by Wildside Press LLC. All rights reserved. For more information, contact the publisher.
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Claws of the Corpse Cult originally appeared in the
April 1938 issue of Secret Agent “X” magazine, copyright © 1938 by Periodical House, Inc. “Latin Blood” originally published in Speed Detective, August 1946, Vol. 5, No. 1.
This edition copyright © 2005 by Wildside Press.
All rights reserved.
CHAPTER I
The Mummified Hand
Hawaii! Radiant, sun-kissed oasis in the limitless expanse of the Pacific. Pin-point around which the world of the East and the world of the West revolve. Hawaii! Birthplace of the hula and cradle of two worlds’ conflicts. Hawaii! Tourists’ paradise and haven for the dregs of five continents! Where the beach comber and the assassin tread the same sands as the socialite, where the fringes of humanity brush the skirts of the anointed. Hawaii! Where spies play with the fate of nations; in whose shadows all men look the same color, and the worth of a man’s life is counted in pieces of gold. Hawaii! Refuge of traitors and expatriates; where plots are hatched in incensed drawing rooms, behind whose musty curtains are spawned unknown, unnamed horrors. Hawaii!
Hawaii! Where two worlds mingle in a seething cauldron; where the gentle hand may sheathe a bloody dagger; where the quiet pulse may mask turbulent lusts. Hawaii!
Gilbert Marden belonged to the new world, but his home—the most beautiful mansion in Honolulu—lay in the lap of the old, and across its threshold had passed many strange treasures. From Xanadu to Ceylon, the Orient had opened her vast bosom, and into the hands of this wealthy, adventurous American had poured bizarre curios.
Gilbert Marden should never have lived long enough to be confined in a wheelchair. That was the thought that passed through the mind of the slender young man at Marden’s right as he studied his host. Those searching, fathomless eyes; the erect, wide-shouldered body; the eloquently powerful hands—wide spaces, strange vistas, violent action were the trumpet that should call Gilbert Marden into the world. Never the imprisoning cage of the wheelchair.
Marden jerked his head at the white-jacketed Filipino servant, indicating that he would wheel himself when they left the dining room. A pleasant smile played across Marden’s thick-lipped mouth. Blue eyes glanced up at the slender young man from beneath fiercely jutting white eyebrows.
“Regan,” Marden said, “I feel it particularly necessary to justify my present condition in your eyes—you who are a newcomer, a malahini—in Hawaii. You, now, who meet me in this state of semi-invalidism, cannot possibly imagine how active a man I have been. Nor how active I will be again, once this cursed leg of mine is on the mend.”
The man called Regan, a tall, boyish figure with dark hair and skin, allowed keen eyes to rove about the dining room with its priceless drapes of China silk, its immense table of uniquely-carved teak, its glittering, crystal-prismed chandelier.
“On the contrary,” Regan said, his voice pleasantly low, his words cleanly cut, “I would say that a man must live an active life to amass such treasures as these. Mr. Holme’s misfortune in not arriving at the islands in time to attend this dinner party has been my own fortune. Had Mr. Holme not appointed me as his proxy, I probably would have missed seeing this remarkable mansion. And I would have missed making the acquaintance of a most generous and entertaining host!”
Gilbert Marden bowed his bald head in acknowledgement of Regan’s compliment. A slight shadow fell across his face. “Unless,” he confided, “the Sino-Japanese difficulty comes to a speedy conclusion, this house and all within it may fall beneath the auctioneer’s hammer. My plants and concessions are in South China and so far have remained outside the battle region. But I can scarcely hope it will always remain so. I would gladly sacrifice my fortune if it would aid America to remain neutral.”
“America will remain neutral,” Regan said quietly. There was almost a ring of authority in his voice, a ring which brought him a questioning glance from the eyes of the four men at the table.
“You,” said Marden to Regan, “are of course in the enviable position to know of what you speak, being secretary to Mr.—ah, Mr. Holme?” Marden made a gesture with his hand as though to indicate that he knew well enough that “Mr. Holme” was but an alias for a certain Washington official who preferred to be known simply as K9. Under his beetling brows, the piercing eyes of Marden observed more closely the man who made this statement. As if to know better a man who could make so important a statement so authoritatively, so decisively. Regan’s eyes, he noticed, had more of the quality of eyes that had seen strange things, that had looked into guns, that had faced death, rather than had spent hours poring over documents. And the hands, he noted in the same fleeting glance, might seem more at home curling around the handle of a kris, or around the butt of a gun, than enfolding the proverbial pen of the secretary.
Marden spread a thick-fingered hand. “But let’s not talk of war. May I suggest, gentlemen, that we follow the ladies into the drawing room? I have a rare treat for you this evening—the first exhibition of a unique Oriental curio. Something I risked my life to obtain and no doubt still imperil myself by keeping.”
The faces of all the men turned eagerly toward their host. These guests of Gilbert Marden had known the delights of adventure, and the very suggestion of anything that savored of it whetted their interest. There was Don Selwick, whose brilliant achievements in the field of marine engineering had taken him to strange corners of the world. Wine had flushed Selwick’s sunken cheeks, but it took the spice of adventure to kindle the fire within his pale, pocketed eyes.
There was Rex Gorham, who had been a submarine navigator during the world war. There was something about the polish of Gorham’s hair, the waxy points of his mustache, and the set of his trimly muscled body that lent a uniform nattiness to his conventional dinner clothes.
And there was Barry Lane, whom the man called Regan had met many a time before. Lane, in marked contrast to the sartorially exact Gorham, wore his clothes with a certain slovenliness that Bond Street could not have corrected. His easy-going, unaffected manner served well to mask the grave responsibilities which had often rested upon his young shoulders. Lane was a Secret Service agent of the United States government.
Barry Lane stood up. He stretched contentedly if not politely.
“Only curio I consider quaint enough to risk my life in keeping,” he said, “is my head.”
Gilbert Marden, in his wheelchair, led the way from the dining room into a no less ostentatious drawing room. Two women were there—Myra Silinski, a friend of Marden; and Barry Lane’s bride of a few months.
Myra Silinski was tall, sleek-hipped, eye-arresting. Slightly flaring nostrils lent her an air of hauteur. Her gown was black, fitted as though it had been painted on her body. There was music in her movement, sensuous music.
Janet Lane’s dark eyes followed Myra Silinski, fully conscious of the fact that Myra had something that she could never possess. For there was nothing sophisticated in the appearance of Barry Lane’s bride. Her charm lay in the freshness of youth.
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The man called Regan—the man who seemed to observe nothing,
