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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.

* * * *

The man called Regan—the man who seemed to observe nothing, yet who saw everything—had watched Barry Lane, Janet, and Myra with more than ordinary interest. There was something odd in Myra’s open patronage of Janet Lane. And something unnatural in Barry’s coolness toward Myra Silinski. Lane had been almost insolent at times and always nervous when the tall, blonde woman was near. It was patronage and hostility too well staged to deceive the keen eyes of Regan. Perhaps, it did not even deceive the unsophisticated Janet Lane.

“Myra. Mrs. Lane—” began Gilbert Marden.

Myra Silinski rose from her chair. “We are waiting, Gilbert, for that unique surprise you have in store for us. Mrs. Lane and I are really quite eager.”

Behind him, Regan heard Don Selwick murmur to Rex Gorham: “The first time Silinski ever included herself and another woman in the same breath.”

So Selwick, too, had noticed the little act Myra Silinski was putting on.

“Come into the curio room, my dear,” Marden said. “Mine is the misfortune not to be able to offer you my arm. Perhaps you, Barry—”

But Barry Lane had hastily attached himself to his wife and paid no respect to Marden’s suggestion. So it was that Rex Gorham escorted Myra into the curio room. Regan and Selwick ambled in side by side.

“Wonder what the old boy has picked up this time.” Selwick mused aloud, “Most unusual person, Regan. Most unusual. And this new treasure he is so secretive about ought to be quite a prize. Marden isn’t a man to go in for dramatics, yet he has repeatedly warned us that this latest curio is not only a bit horrifying, but possibly dangerous.”

Selwick’s pocketed eyes rested on Regan’s clearly defined features. “Didn’t quite catch your occupation when we were introduced. Secretary to someone or something?”

Regan nodded. “Secretary to Mr. Ronald Holme, who arrives this evening from San Francisco.”

Selwick nodded, though Regan’s information had not been enlightening. “Gathered that you were in some branch of government work. You and young Lane seem to be on very good terms.”

Regan smiled. “We attended the same college. I am simply Mr. Holme’s secretary. Mine is an easy berth, but then I am not as energetic as Barry Lane.”

“No,” Selwick said, not as if he was entirely sure about that. Regan’s eyes, at least, were energetic. They seemed to be always looking at you when you tried to steal an aside glance at him. And his hands—strange, powerful hands for a man whose occupation was sedentary.

They entered the curio room, where in glass-fronted cabinets reposed a fortune in rarities of the Eastern world. Gilbert Marden had maneuvered his wheelchair about so that he faced them all. There was the light of anticipation in his eyes, and as he spoke, his voice became grave and impressive.

“I must warn you,” he said, “that what you are about to see may provoke a sensation of revulsion. I have mentioned this before, but Myra and Mrs. Lane have assured me that they are hardy souls, not subject to feminine qualms. But aside from the disgust this exhibition may awaken, I must also mention that what you are about to see, according to the story, may endanger your very lives. Profane glances, according to those who once guarded this relic, were never to rest upon it and go unpunished. Do you still desire to see this—my latest acquisition?”

“There’s no dampening our enthusiasm with threats, Mr. Marden,” said Janet Lane with a low laugh.

“We are all eagerness,” said Myra Silinski.

Marden bowed his bald head. “Very well then, since you insist.” He turned his chair about and rolled it straight for an enameled steel cabinet that looked as strong as a safe. He stopped in front of this cabinet, saw within the shiny surface of its door the reflection of the doorway of the curio room. And standing in that doorway was the figure of a man.

Marden turned his head quickly. His mouth dropped open. Marden’s guests also turned to look toward the door and beheld a man so tall and thin that he appeared the personification of Famine itself. His skin was nearly black, his features extremely delicate. On his forehead was an odd mark—something like a three-tined fork. A turban of pale blue cloth brought his height to something above six feet and six inches.

The man called Regan knew immediately that this gaunt intruder was a Hindu of the Brahmin caste.

The Hindu bowed low to Marden and then to the other guests.

“I hope,” the Hindu said in meticulous English, “that I am not intruding. Mr. Marden has been so gracious with his hospitality during my stay in Honolulu that I have developed the careless habit of entering unannounced.”

“Perfectly all right, Dal Rama,” Marden said with a smile. “I believe you’ve met Selwick, Madam Silinski and Gorham. The other charming lady is Mrs. Lane. Then Mr. Lane and Mr. Regan.”

Dal Rama bowed to each in turn. Regan found himself listening as though he half expected to hear the joints of this skeleton of a man creak.

“Do not,” said Dal Rama, “allow my presence to interfere in any way with the entertainment you had planned for your guests, Mr. Marden. Your servant informed me that you were about to exhibit some curios.”

“Of course,” said Marden hastily. His hands gripped the wheels of his chair and rolled him quickly away from the steel cabinet to one of the glass-fronted ones. From shelves laden with curios, Marden took a small, grotesquely carved statue—a squat little figure of clay with a face half man and half Foo-dog.

Regan’s eyes narrowed. Gilbert Marden’s powerful hands were trembling as he took the statue.

“This little image,” said Marden rather hesitantly—And he was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of his white-jacketed Filipino house boys who bore a small silver tray on which was an envelope.

The house boy bowed. “Message for Mr. Regan.”

The man called Regan took the envelope, immediately recognized the handwriting on the outside as that of “Mr. Holme,” his immediate superior. Regan excused himself and retired into the drawing room to open the message. It read:

Flew out on the Clipper. At Lane’s bungalow.

Ronald Holme

Regan stepped to the door of the curio room where Marden was telling the story of the hideous image. “Lane,” he said quietly.

Barry Lane crossed the room, eyebrows querulously raised above his rimmed glasses.

“He’s here,” Regan said. “We’d better go to your place.”

Lane nodded. “Getting bored anyway. Couldn’t see a thing terrifying in Marden’s statuette. Shall we leave Janet here?”

Regan nodded. “I think that would be best.” He turned, and Lane followed.

* * * *

Mr. Ronald Holme paced the floor of the living room of Barry Lane’s bungalow with such a regular, pounding rhythm that the yellow vase on the center table fairly trembled. Holme was a small, slight, vigorous man, gray-haired, small-featured, with black, inquiring eyes. His thin lips clenched a dark panatela cigar.

Barry Lane lolled in a rattan chair. The man called Regan stood quietly in a corner, his gray eyes intent upon Lane.

Suddenly Holme stopped his pacing. He pointed at Lane with his cigar.

“You did not send for Regan and me just to discuss the weather on the mainland, did you, Lane? What’s this about your assistant, Corby Jones, being killed? And what was that in your code cablegram about imminent threat of war? That’s why I’m here, really, not because a secret service man has been killed. You know how firmly determined our government is to maintain peace. War? The subject is taboo. If I did not know you for a fundamentally sober person, I would have said you were drunk when you sent that cablegram. And now that we’re here, you’re damned uncommunicative!”

Barry Lane stretched his hands above his head. His spectacled eyes were rather uneasy as they rested upon the small, sharp face of Ronald Holme.

“The secret is not entirely my own. Others are involved. When I have succeeded in gathering all available material, I will of course hand it over to you. I cannot endanger the lives of others by telling you what I now only suspect. Honolulu is a hotbed of spies.”

“Naturally,” said the man called Regan, “because of its proximity to the trouble in the Orient.”

“Because of the Sino-Japanese war, rather,” Barry Lane said. “Mr. Holme, I must beg you to bear with me a little while, for unless we are all a bit more patient, America may very possibly find herself deeply involved in the trouble in the Orient.”

Holme quick-stepped across to Barry Lane’s rattan chair. “What do you mean?” he snapped. “America will remain neutral at all costs. The last war taught us enough, I should think. And you have the brass to sit there and tell me to be patient while you take so grave a burden upon your not incapable, but rather inexperienced shoulders!”

Barry Lane raised his hand. “Sorry,” he said briefly, “I must still ask you to be patient. Corby Jones’ death may be related to this matter of which I speak.”

“Of which you don’t speak,” cracked Holme. “At least, not so that anyone can understand you.” He puffed furiously on his cigar, wiped perspiration from his brow. In a softer tone he said: “Tell us about Jones’ death.”

A slight shudder rippled visibly across Lane’s shoulders. “A horrible death,” he said. “Jones was found down on the waterfront, his right hand severed at the wrist. Apparently, he had bled to death.”

“What does that have to do with this other matter about which you are so reticent?” asked Holme.

“Something,” murmured Lane. “I don’t know exactly. I can’t even guess. It’s a hunch, that’s all, fortified by this.” He took from the pocket of his jacket a small pasteboard box. “Got it in the mail this morning,” he said as he opened the box. “Take a look at it.”

The man called Regan stepped from his corner and leaned over Barry Lane’s chair. Holme reached out and took the open box from Lane’s hand. Holme muttered an oath.

Inside the box was a shriveled, blackened, mummified human hand, pierced at the heel of the palm by a half-inch hole.

“Jones’ hand?” gasped Holme. He shot a questioning glance at the man called Regan.

Regan shook his head. “I hardly think so. The mummification process used on this hand must have taken quite some time.”

Barry Lane took the box containing the gruesome hand and slipped it into his pocket. “You tell me what it means. I’ve thought about it so much today my mind is going around in circles.”

The telephone rang. Lane got lazily from his chair and went over to the side of the room where the jingling instrument rested upon a side table. He picked it up, said hello in a guarded voice. He listened in silence a moment, then said: “All right. In a few minutes.” He hung up.

Lane took off his glasses and polished them. “I’m sorry, but I’ll be forced to leave you for a little while. This concerns the matter we were discussing. I may have some information when I return.” He picked up his panama hat and abruptly left the room. The screen door on the front of the bungalow slammed.

“Secret Agent X,” said Holme sharply.

The man called Regan turned. His remarkably intelligent eyes brightened. “Yes—K9?”

Holme’s smile came and immediately faded. “What do you think of this man, Barry Lane?”

“A very good man,” the man called Regan answered. “But thoroughly normal. Too normal, perhaps.”

“What do you mean?”

A smile passed over the boyish face of Secret Agent X; rather, the smile illuminated a face that was not his own. For the face he wore was neatly counterfeited from a plastic, volatile material which contributed much to his unequaled ability to impersonate almost anyone. The alias of Regan was but one of many aliases; the face he wore, but one of a thousand faces.

“I happened to note the critical glance Barry Lane gave himself as he passed the mirror in the hall. Barry Lane is going to meet a woman.”

“Not his wife, eh?”

“Definitely not his wife,” said Secret Agent X. “And, if I am not mistaken, the woman is Myra Silinski.”

“Myra Silinski? Who’s she? Sounds like a Polish name.”

Secret Agent X fingered a cigarette from a package. Lean, graceful fingers had the Agent, fingers that could be as gentle as a woman’s and again as hard and cruel as steel hooks.

“Myra Silinski, regardless of her nationality, is what the Chinese might call a t’an fang-ti.”

“I don’t speak Chinese,” snapped Holme.

“A superior sort of spy, then,” the Secret Agent translated. “What government she represents we can only guess. What government would be highly delighted if America should side with the Chinese in the war?”

Holme scratched a hairless chin. “Oh,” he said. “You mean—”

Out of the night an unearthly cry that seemed neither animal nor human severed Holme’s sentence cleanly. It mounted to a wavering pinnacle, then drifted off in a horrific echo that must have sounded from Punch Bowl Hill to the waterfront...

Holme, man of steel nerve that he was, was momentarily frozen by that weird cry that was neither of anguish nor of triumph. It seemed, indeed, a vocal offering to some barbaric deity. But scarcely had the sound begun than Agent X pivoted, dashed from the room, from the door of the bungalow, and onto the deep, artistically landscaped lawn. His keen eyes darted first one way and then another. Close to a bed of poinsettias, he saw a black blotch against the moonlit lawn. His lean legs carried him toward the shrubbery at a run. For the blotch on the lawn was the body of a man, and the flowery fragrance of the night was marred by the sickening odor of new-let blood.

The man was Barry Lane. He lay stretched out on his back, eyes open, glazed. Across his rounded cheeks a sort of bluish shadow was spreading. He was talking, babbling incoherently. And as the Secret Agent bent over him he caught the words: “Above.... Golden Lotus ... King Street ... Sayonara ... Janet.” And then he was dead.

The knee of the Agent’s trouser leg was warm and sticky with blood that oozed from Barry Lane’s right wrist. Several inches apart from the wrist lay Barry’s hand, cleanly severed.

The Agent’s mind clicked like a telegraph sounder. Barry Lane dead. Lane, who possibly was on the track of something that threatened his country with war. One channel open to Agent X—to impersonate Barry Lane and carry on where the secret service man had been forced to leave off. But first, if his impersonation was to be successful, he must find the man who had killed Lane.