The Crime Cult

“I’m to blame, but I was in it before I knew it. I joined the cult. I believed that crime was right. I brought Buchanan there. I wanted him to be one of us. Then I saw the book.”

“What book?”

“The Book of Death. We were all in it. Each had his page — a page of death. But we of the faith were immune — unless we broke the faith.

“I learned all that, and then I found that Buchanan was not one of us. He had not stood the secret test. He was to be — a sacrifice!

“I was afraid then. Afraid when Charn called for me alone and showed me the book. But I took some more of the drink that Charn gave me. It made me happy. I agreed to the sacrifice. I was there. I saw — I saw Buchanan die!

“That changed me. I had some of the drink. I knew it was dope — hashish, I thought. I left town the next day. I tried to forget. It was all right until the drink was gone. Then I seemed to become mad.

“I tried to get some hashish. I failed. I tried other narcotics. I could stand none of them. Then came terrible dreams — dreams with the names of others who were written in the book.

“Dale Wharton’s name was among them. I wrote him from Connecticut. He tried to come to see me secretly. He was being watched — by Charn. He was killed.

“George Andrews, another. I was going to see him. I arrived too late. He was hanging, dead. Then Charles Blefken. I had to warn him. I thought he was safe when I found him at his home.

“Then, when he left the room, I was frightened. I was afraid to stay. I found his body. I didn’t wait an instant. I hurried here. Now I am afraid to leave this place. Afraid — afraid—”

Middleton’s voice died away in a slow, hoarse whisper. The man’s head dropped back in the chair. Harry listened by the side window. He heard nothing. He knew that Cardona could not be entirely noiseless. There were still important facts to learn.

“The mark of Charn,” murmured Middleton vacantly. “The mark of Charn. I saw it placed on Buchanan’s forehead. The mark—”

He gave a slight cough; then came a whispered gargle. Harry waited for him to speak again. He heard a slight hissing from Middleton, as though the man were exhaling between his teeth.

Then, the dim form of the man by the window slid to the right. Harry could see the whiteness of his face as it fell forward.

ACTING impulsively, Harry drew the shade of the side window. He leaped across and drew the shade at the rear. He turned on the single light. He saw Middleton, slumped sidewise in the chair.

Harry approached and raised the man’s head. Middleton was dead!

Upon his forehead was a small round spot — no larger than a dime. Harry knew now what the sizzling had meant. Some unseen assassin of the dark had killed this man, and left the mark upon his forehead.

The mark of Charn!

As Middleton’s head dropped back; Harry saw another mark — a thin white line that encircled the dead man’s throat. Middleton had been strangled by a slender noose. More than that — the noose was here!

Upon the floor, Harry’s eyes spied a small thread of red. He picked it up and examined it. It was thin, but strong — made of a material that resembled catgut.

It was a long moment before understanding dawned on Harry. The method of the murder was obvious. The killer had reached through from the blackened window. Invisible in the dark, he had performed his terrible deed.

But why had he left the evidence? Had Harry’s presence frightened him away? No — the other murders had been perpetrated as boldly as this one, yet no such clew as this had remained—

Then came realization. The murderer had not expected Harry to find the cord of death. It was to lie there, to be found by the police.

Already on the way, the killer had expected the police to discover Harry Vincent, here, at the scene, beside the dead man, with a hopeless story!

He was to be branded as another archfiend — perhaps a disciple of Glendenning!

It did not take Harry more than a few seconds to act. Out went the light. He peered from the side window. Leaning, he could see the street, forty yards away. He saw a figure standing there.

Was it Joe Cardona, preparing the attack? Harry did not wait to learn. Softly, he drew the shade of the rear window and slipped out to the porch roof.

He clambered up the side of the house. On the roof, he headed for the other end of the flat-topped row.

Reaching his objective, Harry stopped beside a chimney. He was stooping, and his form could be but dim in the glow that came from the illumined streets. While Harry was standing there, another form appeared, but the young man did not see it.

This was the figure of a man, which rose from a crouched position near the edge of the roof. It approached with a crablike stride. It edged around the side of the chimney. It was close to Harry, now. Its arms were extending, and still, Harry Vincent did not know of its presence!

Something flipped upon Harry’s shoulder — a light, cordlike object. But at that instant, Harry, intent upon his escape, spied a projecting cornice at the rear edge of the roof.

With a leap, he was away. Over the edge, he went, dropping to safety on the roof of the porch below.

The other man was in pursuit; but his crablike gait was slow. He stopped at the edge of the roof, and a peculiar whistle followed. It was scarcely audible to Harry, in the alleyway in back of the house — the vantage point which he had now reached.

The creature on the roof swung downward. He became swift when he depended upon his arms instead of his legs.

Down by the porch below, Harry Vincent awaited, ignorant of the menace dropping from above. Again, a sudden impulse saved him. He saw an excellent way to leave this place — through a narrow passage that ran between houses on the rear street.

He headed there, swiftly. He came to a little street that led to the right. But it was a blind alley, ending abruptly. It looked like a good way out. Harry turned. Then, from the wall beside him, a man appeared.

Harry saw an upraised arm. He tried to ward off the coming blow. He was too late. He felt a terrific shock at the back of his head. He crumpled on the paving.

When he recovered consciousness, Harry found himself moving upward. He was in darkness, riding in a small elevator. He heard a few words spoken close beside him. Then he lapsed into senselessness.

BACK in the old house, Joe Cardona and another detective were staring at the body of Jerry Middleton. Cardona held the red cord in his hand.

He was gazing at it in perplexity. He and his companion were too intent at that moment to think of the black window beside them.

Even if they had glanced from it, they would have seen nothing. For the form which was peering from outside was as black as the night itself. In an instant, it was gone, upward.

Tracing its course along the roof, the figure stopped by the chimney, where Harry Vincent had been. It advanced to the edge of the roof, and a tiny, coin-sized glow of a flashlight rested on the cornice.

The light went out; the figure slid from the roof. When it appeared again, with the light, it was in the alleyway. It reached the spot where Harry Vincent had been struck down.

There was nothing here now. But that probing light must have revealed minute traces of the conflict.

For amidst the darkness echoed a low, sinister laugh — a vague and mysterious sound that would have terrified the ears of listeners. The Shadow had arrived too late. But his intuition had told him all that had occurred.

The Shadow knew; and The Shadow’s laugh presaged misfortune for those who had captured Harry Vincent!

CHAPTER XVI THE CRIME CULT

IT was the following night. Margaret Glendenning sat in the living room of her new abode — the glorious guest apartment of Henri Zayata’s home.