The Monster Men
by Edgar Rice Burroughs
Contents
1 THE RIFT
2 THE HEAVY CHEST
3 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
4 A NEW FACE
5 TREASON
6 TO KILL!
7 THE BULL WHIP
8 THE SOUL OF NUMBER 13
9 INTO SAVAGE BORNEO
10 DESPERATE CHANCE
11 “I AM COMING!”
12 PERFIDY
13 BURIED TREASURE
14 MAN OR MONSTER?
15 TOO LATE
16 SING SPEAKS
17 999 PRISCILLA
1
THE RIFT
As he dropped the last grisly fragment of the dismembered and mutilated
body into the small vat of nitric acid that was to devour every trace
of the horrid evidence which might easily send him to the gallows, the
man sank weakly into a chair and throwing his body forward upon his
great, teak desk buried his face in his arms, breaking into dry,
moaning sobs.
Beads of perspiration followed the seams of his high, wrinkled
forehead, replacing the tears which might have lessened the pressure
upon his overwrought nerves. His slender frame shook, as with ague, and
at times was racked by a convulsive shudder. A sudden step upon the
stairway leading to his workshop brought him trembling and wide eyed to
his feet, staring fearfully at the locked and bolted door.
Although he knew perfectly well whose the advancing footfalls were, he
was all but overcome by the madness of apprehension as they came softly
nearer and nearer to the barred door. At last they halted before it, to
be followed by a gentle knock.
“Daddy!” came the sweet tones of a girl’s voice.
The man made an effort to take a firm grasp upon himself that no
tell-tale evidence of his emotion might be betrayed in his speech.
“Daddy!” called the girl again, a trace of anxiety in her voice this
time. “What _is_ the matter with you, and what _are_ you doing? You’ve
been shut up in that hateful old room for three days now without a
morsel to eat, and in all likelihood without a wink of sleep. You’ll
kill yourself with your stuffy old experiments.”
The man’s face softened.
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart,” he replied in a well controlled
voice. “I’ll soon be through now—soon be through—and then we’ll go away
for a long vacation—for a long vacation.”
“I’ll give you until noon, Daddy,” said the girl in a voice which
carried a more strongly defined tone of authority than her father’s
soft drawl, “and then I shall come into that room, if I have to use an
axe, and bring you out—do you understand?”
Professor Maxon smiled wanly. He knew that his daughter was equal to
her threat.
“All right, sweetheart, I’ll be through by noon for sure—by noon for
sure. Run along and play now, like a good little girl.”
Virginia Maxon shrugged her shapely shoulders and shook her head
hopelessly at the forbidding panels of the door.
“My dolls are all dressed for the day,” she cried, “and I’m tired of
making mud pies—I want you to come out and play with me.” But Professor
Maxon did not reply—he had returned to view his grim operations, and
the hideousness of them had closed his ears to the sweet tones of the
girl’s voice.
As she turned to retrace her steps to the floor below Miss Maxon still
shook her head.
“Poor old Daddy,” she mused, “were I a thousand years old, wrinkled and
toothless, he would still look upon me as his baby girl.”
If you chance to be an alumnus of Cornell you may recall Professor
Arthur Maxon, a quiet, slender, white-haired gentleman, who for several
years was an assistant professor in one of the departments of natural
science. Wealthy by inheritance, he had chosen the field of education
for his life work solely from a desire to be of some material benefit
to mankind since the meager salary which accompanied his professorship
was not of sufficient import to influence him in the slightest degree.
Always keenly interested in biology, his almost unlimited means had
permitted him to undertake, in secret, a series of daring experiments
which had carried him so far in advance of the biologists of his day
that he had, while others were still groping blindly for the secret of
life, actually reproduced by chemical means the great phenomenon.
Fully alive to the gravity and responsibilities of his marvellous
discovery he had kept the results of his experimentation, and even the
experiments themselves, a profound secret not only from his colleagues,
but from his only daughter, who heretofore had shared his every hope
and aspiration.
It was the very success of his last and most pretentious effort that
had placed him in the horrifying predicament in which he now found
himself—with the corpse of what was apparently a human being in his
workshop and no available explanation that could possibly be acceptable
to a matter-of-fact and unscientific police.
Had he told them the truth they would have laughed at him. Had he said:
“This is not a human being that you see, but the remains of a
chemically produced counterfeit created in my own laboratory,” they
would have smiled, and either hanged him or put him away with the other
criminally insane.
This phase of the many possibilities which he had realized might be
contingent upon even the partial success of his work alone had escaped
his consideration, so that the first wave of triumphant exultation with
which he had viewed the finished result of this last experiment had
been succeeded by overwhelming consternation as he saw the thing which
he had created gasp once or twice with the feeble spark of life with
which he had endowed it, and expire—leaving upon his hands the corpse
of what was, to all intent and purpose, a human being, albeit a most
grotesque and misshapen thing.
Until nearly noon Professor Maxon was occupied in removing the
remaining stains and evidences of his gruesome work, but when he at
last turned the key in the door of his workshop it was to leave behind
no single trace of the successful result of his years of labor.
The following afternoon found him and Virginia crossing the station
platform to board the express for New York. So quietly had their plans
been made that not a friend was at the train to bid them farewell—the
scientist felt that he could not bear the strain of attempting
explanations at this time.
But there were those there who recognized them, and one especially who
noted the lithe, trim figure and beautiful face of Virginia Maxon
though he did not know even the name of their possessor. It was a tall
well built young man who nudged one of his younger companions as the
girl crossed the platform to enter her Pullman.
“I say, Dexter,” he exclaimed, “who is that beauty?”
The one addressed turned in the direction indicated by his friend.
“By jove!” he exclaimed. “Why it’s Virginia Maxon and the professor,
her father. Now where do you suppose they’re going?”
“I don’t know—now,” replied the first speaker, Townsend J. Harper, Jr.,
in a half whisper, “but I’ll bet you a new car that I find out.”
A week later, with failing health and shattered nerves, Professor Maxon
sailed with his daughter for a long ocean voyage, which he hoped would
aid him in rapid recuperation, and permit him to forget the nightmare
memory of those three horrible days and nights in his workshop.
He believed that he had reached an unalterable decision never again to
meddle with the mighty, awe inspiring secrets of creation; but with
returning health and balance he found himself viewing his recent
triumph with feelings of renewed hope and anticipation.
The morbid fears superinduced by the shock following the sudden demise
of the first creature of his experiments had given place to a growing
desire to further prosecute his labors until enduring success had
crowned his efforts with an achievement which he might exhibit with
pride to the scientific world.
His recent disastrous success had convinced him that neither Ithaca nor
any other abode of civilization was a safe place to continue his
experiments, but it was not until their cruising had brought them among
the multitudinous islands of the East Indies that the plan occurred to
him that he finally adopted—a plan the outcome of which could he then
have foreseen would have sent him scurrying to the safety of his own
country with the daughter who was to bear the full brunt of the horrors
it entailed.
They were steaming up the China Sea when the idea first suggested
itself, and as he sat idly during the long, hot days the thought grew
upon him, expanding into a thousand wonderful possibilities, until it
became crystalized into what was a little short of an obsession.
The result was that at Manila, much to Virginia’s surprise, he
announced the abandonment of the balance of their purposed voyage,
taking immediate return passage to Singapore. His daughter did not
question him as to the cause of this change in plans, for since those
three days that her father had kept himself locked in his workroom at
home the girl had noticed a subtle change in her parent—a marked
disinclination to share with her his every confidence as had been his
custom since the death of her mother.
While it grieved her immeasurably she was both too proud and too hurt
to sue for a reestablishment of the old relations. On all other topics
than his scientific work their interests were as mutual as formerly,
but by what seemed a manner of tacit agreement this subject was taboo.
And so it was that they came to Singapore without the girl having the
slightest conception of her father’s plans.
Here they spent nearly a month, during which time Professor Maxon was
daily engaged in interviewing officials, English residents and a motley
horde of Malays and Chinamen.
Virginia met socially several of the men with whom her father was
engaged but it was only at the last moment that one of them let drop a
hint of the purpose of the month’s activity. When Virginia was present
the conversation seemed always deftly guided from the subject of her
father’s immediate future, and she was not long in discerning that it
was in no sense through accident that this was true. Thereafter her
wounded pride made easy the task of those who seemed combined to keep
her in ignorance.
It was a Dr. von Horn, who had been oftenest with her father, who gave
her the first intimation of what was forthcoming. Afterward, in
recollecting the conversation, it seemed to Virginia that the young man
had been directed to break the news to her, that her father might be
spared the ordeal. It was evident then that he expected opposition, but
the girl was too loyal to let von Horn know if she felt other than in
harmony with the proposal, and too proud to evince by surprise the fact
that she was not wholly conversant with its every detail.
“You are glad to be leaving Singapore so soon?” he had asked, although
he knew that she had not been advised that an early departure was
planned.
“I am rather looking forward to it,” replied Virginia.
“And to a protracted residence on one of the Pamarung Islands?”
continued von Horn.
“Why not?” was her rather non-committal reply, though she had not the
remotest idea of their location.
Von Horn admired her nerve though he rather wished that she would ask
some questions—it was difficult making progress in this way. How could
he explain the plans when she evinced not the slightest sign that she
was not already entirely conversant with them?
“We doubt if the work will be completed under two or three years,”
answered the doctor. “That will be a long time in which to be isolated
upon a savage little speck of land off the larger but no less savage
Borneo. Do you think that your bravery is equal to the demands that
will be made upon it?”
Virginia laughed, nor was there the slightest tremor in its note.
“I am equal to whatever fate my father is equal to,” she said, “nor do
I think that a life upon one of these beautiful little islands would be
much of a hardship—certainly not if it will help to promote the success
of his scientific experiments.”
She used the last words on a chance that she might have hit upon the
true reason for the contemplated isolation from civilization. They had
served their purpose too in deceiving von Horn who was now half
convinced that Professor Maxon must have divulged more of their plans
to his daughter than he had led the medical man to believe. Perceiving
her advantage from the expression on the young man’s face, Virginia
followed it up in an endeavor to elicit the details.
The result of her effort was the knowledge that on the second day they
were to sail for the Pamarung Islands upon a small schooner which her
father had purchased, with a crew of Malays and lascars, and von Horn,
who had served in the American navy, in command. The precise point of
destination was still undecided—the plan being to search out a suitable
location upon one of the many little islets which dot the western shore
of the Macassar Strait.
Of the many men Virginia had met during the month at Singapore von Horn
had been by far the most interesting and companionable. Such time as he
could find from the many duties which had devolved upon him in the
matter of obtaining and outfitting the schooner, and signing her two
mates and crew of fifteen, had been spent with his employer’s daughter.
The girl was rather glad that he was to be a member of their little
company, for she had found him a much travelled man and an interesting
talker with none of the, to her, disgusting artificialities of the
professional ladies’ man. He talked to her as he might have talked to a
man, of the things that interest intelligent people regardless of sex.
There was never any suggestion of familiarity in his manner; nor in his
choice of topics did he ever ignore the fact that she was a young girl.
She had felt entirely at ease in his society from the first evening
that she had met him, and their acquaintance had grown to a very
sensible friendship by the time of the departure of the Ithaca—the
rechristened schooner which was to carry them away to an unguessed
fate.
The voyage from Singapore to the Islands was without incident. Virginia
took a keen delight in watching the Malays and lascars at their work,
telling von Horn that she had to draw upon her imagination but little
to picture herself a captive upon a pirate ship—the half naked men, the
gaudy headdress, the earrings, and the fierce countenances of many of
the crew furnishing only too realistically the necessary savage
setting.
A week spent among the Pamarung Islands disclosed no suitable site for
the professor’s camp, nor was it until they had cruised up the coast
several miles north of the equator and Cape Santang that they found a
tiny island a few miles off the coast opposite the mouth of a small
river—an island which fulfilled in every detail their requirements.
It was uninhabited, fertile and possessed a clear, sweet brook which
had its source in a cold spring in the higher land at the island’s
center. Here it was that the Ithaca came to anchor in a little harbor,
while her crew under von Horn, and the Malay first mate, Bududreen,
accompanied Professor Maxon in search of a suitable location for a
permanent camp.
The cook, a harmless old Chinaman, and Virginia were left in sole
possession of the Ithaca.
Two hours after the departure of the men into the jungle Virginia heard
the fall of axes on timber and knew that the site of her future home
had been chosen and the work of clearing begun. She sat musing on the
strange freak which had prompted her father to bury them in this savage
corner of the globe; and as she pondered there came a wistful
expression to her eyes, and an unwonted sadness drooped the corners of
her mouth.
Of a sudden she realized how wide had become the gulf between them now.
So imperceptibly had it grown since those three horrid days in Ithaca
just prior to their departure for what was to have been but a few
months’ cruise that she had not until now comprehended that the old
relations of open, good-fellowship had gone, possibly forever.
Had she needed proof of the truth of her sad discovery it had been
enough to point to the single fact that her father had brought her here
to this little island without making the slightest attempt to explain
the nature of his expedition. She had gleaned enough from von Horn to
understand that some important scientific experiments were to be
undertaken; but what their nature she could not imagine, for she had
not the slightest conception of the success that had crowned her
father’s last experiment at Ithaca, although she had for years known of
his keen interest in the subject.
The girl became aware also of other subtle changes in her father. He
had long since ceased to be the jovial, carefree companion who had
shared with her her every girlish joy and sorrow and in whom she had
confided both the trivial and momentous secrets of her childhood. He
had become not exactly morose, but rather moody and absorbed, so that
she had of late never found an opportunity for the cozy chats that had
formerly meant so much to them both. There had been too, recently, a
strange lack of consideration for herself that had wounded her more
than she had imagined. Today there had been a glaring example of it in
his having left her alone upon the boat without a single European
companion—something that he would never have thought of doing a few
months before.
As she sat speculating on the strange change which had come over her
father her eyes had wandered aimlessly along the harbor’s entrance; the
low reef that protected it from the sea, and the point of land to the
south, that projected far out into the strait like a gigantic index
finger pointing toward the mainland, the foliage covered heights of
which were just visible above the western horizon.
Presently her attention was arrested by a tossing speck far out upon
the rolling bosom of the strait. For some time the girl watched the
object until at length it resolved itself into a boat moving head on
toward the island. Later she saw that it was long and low, propelled by
a single sail and many oars, and that it carried quite a company.
Thinking it but a native trading boat, so many of which ply the
southern seas, Virginia viewed its approach with but idle curiosity.
When it had come to within half a mile of the anchorage of the Ithaca,
and was about to enter the mouth of the harbor Sing Lee’s eyes chanced
to fall upon it. On the instant the old Chinaman was electrified into
sudden and astounding action.
“Klick! Klick!” he cried, running toward Virginia. “Go b’low, klick.”
“Why should I go below, Sing?” queried the girl, amazed by the demeanor
of the cook.
“Klick! Klick!” he urged grasping her by the arm—half leading, half
dragging her toward the companion-way. “Plilates! Mlalay plilates—Dyak
plilates.”
“Pirates!” gasped Virginia. “Oh Sing, what can we do?”
“You go b’low. Mebbyso Sing flighten ’em. Shoot cannon. Bling help.
Maxon come klick. Bling men. Chase’m ’way,” explained the Chinaman.
“But plilates see ’em pletty white girl,” he shrugged his shoulders and
shook his head dubiously, “then old Sing no can flighten ’em ’way.”
The girl shuddered, and crouching close behind Sing hurried below. A
moment later she heard the boom of the old brass six pounder which for
many years had graced the Ithaca’s stern. In the bow Professor Maxon
had mounted a modern machine gun, but this was quite beyond Sing’s
simple gunnery. The Chinaman had not taken the time to sight the
ancient weapon carefully, but a gleeful smile lit his wrinkled, yellow
face as he saw the splash of the ball where it struck the water almost
at the side of the prahu.
Sing realized that the boat might contain friendly natives, but he had
cruised these waters too many years to take chances. Better kill a
hundred friends, he thought, than be captured by a single pirate.
At the shot the prahu slowed up, and a volley of musketry from her crew
satisfied Sing that he had made no mistake in classifying her. Her fire
fell short as did the ball from the small cannon mounted in her bow.
Virginia was watching the prahu from one of the cabin ports. She saw
the momentary hesitation and confusion which followed Sing’s first
shot, and then to her dismay she saw the rowers bend to their oars
again and the prahu move swiftly in the direction of the Ithaca.
It was apparent that the pirates had perceived the almost defenseless
condition of the schooner. In a few minutes they would be swarming the
deck, for poor old Sing would be entirely helpless to repel them. If
Dr. von Horn were only there, thought the distracted girl. With the
machine gun alone he might keep them off.
At the thought of the machine gun a sudden resolve gripped her. Why not
man it herself? Von Horn had explained its mechanism to her in detail,
and on one occasion had allowed her to operate it on the voyage from
Singapore. With the thought came action. Running to the magazine she
snatched up a feed-belt, and in another moment was on deck beside the
astonished Sing.
The pirates were skimming rapidly across the smooth waters of the
harbor, answering Sing’s harmless shots with yells of derision and
wild, savage war cries. There were, perhaps, fifty Dyaks and
Malays—fierce, barbaric men; mostly naked to the waist, or with
war-coats of brilliant colors. The savage headdress of the Dyaks, the
long, narrow, decorated shields, the flashing blades of parang and kris
sent a shudder through the girl, so close they seemed beneath the
schooner’s side.
“What do? What do?” cried Sing in consternation. “Go b’low. Klick!” But
before he had finished his exhortation Virginia was racing toward the
bow where the machine gun was mounted. Tearing the cover from it she
swung the muzzle toward the pirate prahu, which by now was nearly
within range above the vessel’s side—a moment more and she would be too
close to use the weapon upon the pirates.
Virginia was quick to perceive the necessity for haste, while the
pirates at the same instant realized the menace of the new danger which
confronted them. A score of muskets belched forth their missiles at the
fearless girl behind the scant shield of the machine gun. Leaden
pellets rained heavily upon her protection, or whizzed threateningly
about her head—and then she got the gun into action.
At the rate of fifty a minute, a stream of projectiles tore into the
bow of the prahu when suddenly a richly garbed Malay in the stern rose
to his feet waving a white cloth upon the point of his kris. It was the
Rajah Muda Saffir—he had seen the girl’s face and at the sight of it
the blood lust in his breast had been supplanted by another.
At sight of the emblem of peace Virginia ceased firing. She saw the
tall Malay issue a few commands, the oarsmen bent to their work, the
prahu came about, making off toward the harbor’s entrance. At the same
moment there was a shot from the shore followed by loud yelling, and
the girl turned to see her father and von Horn pulling rapidly toward
the Ithaca.
2
THE HEAVY CHEST
Virginia and Sing were compelled to narrate the adventure of the
afternoon a dozen times. The Chinaman was at a loss to understand what
had deterred the pirates at the very threshold of victory. Von Horn
thought that they had seen the reinforcements embarking from the shore,
but Sing explained that that was impossible since the Ithaca had been
directly between them and the point at which the returning crew had
entered the boats.
Virginia was positive that her fusillade had frightened them into a
hasty retreat, but again Sing discouraged any such idea when he pointed
to the fact that another instant would have carried the prahu close to
the Ithaca’s side and out of the machine gun’s radius of action.
The old Chinaman was positive that the pirates had some ulterior motive
for simulating defeat, and his long years of experience upon pirate
infested waters gave weight to his opinion. The weak spot in his
argument was his inability to suggest a reasonable motive. And so it
was that for a long time they were left to futile conjecture as to the
action that had saved them from a bloody encounter with these
bloodthirsty sea wolves.
For a week the men were busy constructing the new camp, but never again
was Virginia left without a sufficient guard for her protection. Von
Horn was always needed at the work, for to him had fallen the entire
direction of matters of importance that were at all of a practical
nature. Professor Maxon wished to watch the building of the houses and
the stockade, that he might offer such suggestions as he thought
necessary, and again the girl noticed her father’s comparative
indifference to her welfare.
She had been shocked at his apathy at the time of the pirate attack,
and chagrined that it should have been necessary for von Horn to have
insisted upon a proper guard being left with her thereafter.
The nearer the approach of the time when he might enter again upon
those experiments which had now been neglected for the better part of a
year the more self absorbed and moody became the professor. At times he
was scarcely civil to those about him, and never now did he have a
pleasant word or a caress for the daughter who had been his whole life
but a few short months before.
It often seemed to Virginia when she caught her father’s eyes upon her
that there was a gleam of dislike in them, as though he would have been
glad to have been rid of her that she might not in any way embarrass or
interfere with his work.
The camp was at last completed, and on a Saturday afternoon all the
heavier articles from the ship had been transported to it. On the
following Monday the balance of the goods was to be sent on shore and
the party were to transfer their residence to their new quarters.
Late Sunday afternoon a small native boat was seen rounding the point
at the harbor’s southern extremity, and after a few minutes it drew
alongside the Ithaca. There were but three men in it—two Dyaks and a
Malay. The latter was a tall, well built man of middle age, of a sullen
and degraded countenance. His garmenture was that of the ordinary Malay
boatman, but there was that in his mien and his attitude toward his
companions which belied his lowly habiliments.
In answer to von Horn’s hail the man asked if he might come aboard and
trade; but once on the deck it developed that he had brought nothing
wherewith to trade. He seemed not the slightest disconcerted by this
discovery, stating that he would bring such articles as they wished
when he had learned what their requirements were.
The ubiquitous Sing was on hand during the interview, but from his
expressionless face none might guess what was passing through the
tortuous channels of his Oriental mind. The Malay had been aboard
nearly half an hour talking with von Horn when the mate, Bududreen,
came on deck, and it was Sing alone who noted the quickly concealed
flash of recognition which passed between the two Malays.
The Chinaman also saw the gleam that shot into the visitor’s eye as
Virginia emerged from the cabin, but by no word or voluntary outward
sign did the man indicate that he had even noticed her. Shortly
afterward he left, promising to return with provisions the following
day. But it was to be months before they again saw him.
That evening as Sing was serving Virginia’s supper he asked her if she
had recognized their visitor of the afternoon.
“Why no, Sing,” she replied, “I never saw him before.”
“Sh!” admonished the celestial. “No talkee so strong, wallee have ear
all same labbit.”
“What do you mean, Sing?” asked the girl in a low voice. “How perfectly
weird and mysterious you are. Why you make the cold chills run up my
spine,” she ended, laughing. But Sing did not return her smile as was
his custom.
“You no lememba tallee Lajah stand up wavee lite clothee in plilate
boat, ah?” he urged.
“Oh, Sing,” she cried, “I do indeed! But unless you had reminded me I
should never have thought to connect him with our visitor of today—they
do look very much alike, don’t they?”
“Lookeelike! Ugh, they all samee one man. Sing know. You lookee out,
Linee,” which was the closest that Sing had ever been able to come to
pronouncing Virginia.
“Why should I look out? He doesn’t want me,” said the girl, laughingly.
“Don’t you bee too damee sure ’bout lat, Linee,” was Sing’s inelegant
but convincing reply, as he turned toward his galley.
The following morning the party, with the exception of three Malays who
were left to guard the Ithaca, set out for the new camp. The journey
was up the bed of the small stream which emptied into the harbor, so
that although fifteen men had passed back and forth through the jungle
from the beach to the camp every day for two weeks, there was no sign
that human foot had ever crossed the narrow strip of sand that lay
between the dense foliage and the harbor.
The gravel bottom of the rivulet made fairly good walking, and as
Virginia was borne in a litter between two powerful lascars it was not
even necessary that she wet her feet in the ascent of the stream to the
camp. The distance was short, the center of the camp being but a mile
from the harbor, and less than half a mile from the opposite shore of
the island which was but two miles at its greatest breadth, and two and
a quarter at its greatest length.
At the camp Virginia found that a neat clearing had been made upon a
little tableland, a palisade built about it, and divided into three
parts; the most northerly of which contained a small house for herself
and her father, another for von Horn, and a common cooking and eating
house over which Sing was to preside.
The enclosure at the far end of the palisade was for the Malay and
lascar crew and there also were quarters for Bududreen and the Malay
second mate. The center enclosure contained Professor Maxon’s workshop.
This compartment of the enclosure Virginia was not invited to inspect,
but as members of the crew carried in the two great chests which the
professor had left upon the Ithaca until the last moment, Virginia
caught a glimpse of the two buildings that had been erected within this
central space—a small, square house which was quite evidently her
father’s laboratory, and a long, low thatched shed divided into several
compartments, each containing a rude bunk. She wondered for whom they
could be intended. Quarters for all the party had already been arranged
for elsewhere, nor, thought she, would her father wish to house any in
such close proximity to his workshop, where he would desire absolute
quiet and freedom from interruption. The discovery perplexed her not a
little, but so changed were her relations with her father that she
would not question him upon this or any other subject.
As the two chests were being carried into the central campong, Sing,
who was standing near Virginia, called her attention to the fact that
Bududreen was one of those who staggered beneath the weight of the
heavier burden.
“Bludleen, him mate. Why workee alsame lascar boy? Eh?” But Virginia
could give no reason.
“I am afraid you don’t like Bududreen, Sing,” she said. “Has he ever
harmed you in any way?”
“Him? No, him no hurt Sing. Sing poor,” with which more or less
enigmatical rejoinder the Chinaman returned to his work. But he
muttered much to himself the balance of the day, for Sing knew that a
chest that strained four men in the carrying could contain but one
thing, and he knew that Bududreen was as wise in such matters as he.
For a couple of months the life of the little hidden camp went on
peacefully and without exciting incident. The Malay and lascar crew
divided their time between watch duty on board the Ithaca, policing the
camp, and cultivating a little patch of clearing just south of their
own campong.
There was a small bay on the island’s east coast, only a quarter of a
mile from camp, in which oysters were found, and one of the Ithaca’s
boats was brought around to this side of the island for fishing.
Bududreen often accompanied these expeditions, and on several occasions
the lynx-eyed Sing had seen him returning to camp long after the others
had retired for the night.
Professor Maxon scarcely ever left the central enclosure. For days and
nights at a time Virginia never saw him, his meals being passed in to
him by Sing through a small trap door that had been cut in the
partition wall of the “court of mystery” as von Horn had christened the
section of the camp devoted to the professor’s experimentations.
Von Horn himself was often with his employer, as he enjoyed the
latter’s complete confidence, and owing to his early medical training
was well fitted to act as a competent assistant; but he was often
barred from the workshop, and at such times was much with Virginia.
The two took long walks through the untouched jungle, exploring their
little island, and never failing to find some new and wonderful proof
of Nature’s creative power among its flora and fauna.
“What a marvellous thing is creation,” exclaimed Virginia as she and
von Horn paused one day to admire a tropical bird of unusually
brilliant plumage. “How insignificant is man’s greatest achievement
beside the least of Nature’s works.”
“And yet,” replied von Horn, “man shall find Nature’s secret some day.
What a glorious accomplishment for him who first succeeds. Can you
imagine a more glorious consummation of a man’s life work—your
father’s, for example?”
The girl looked at von Horn closely.
“Dr. von Horn,” she said, “pride has restrained me from asking what was
evidently intended that I should not know. For years my father has been
interested in an endeavor to solve the mystery of life—that he would
ever attempt to utilize the secret should he have been so fortunate as
to discover it had never occurred to me. I mean that he should try to
usurp the functions of the Creator I could never have believed, but my
knowledge of him, coupled with what you have said, and the extreme
lengths to which he has gone to maintain absolute secrecy for his
present experiments can only lead to one inference; and that, that his
present work, if successful, would have results that would not be
countenanced by civilized society or government. Am I right?”
Von Horn had attempted to sound the girl that he might, if possible,
discover her attitude toward the work in which her father and he were
engaged. He had succeeded beyond his hopes, for he had not intended
that she should guess so much of the truth as she had. Should her
interest in the work have proved favorable it had been his intention to
acquaint her fully with the marvellous success which already had
attended their experiments, and to explain their hopes and plans for
the future, for he had seen how her father’s attitude had hurt her and
hoped to profit himself by reposing in her the trust and confidence
that her father denied her.
And so it was that her direct question left him floundering in a sea of
embarrassment, for to tell her the truth now would gain him no favor in
her eyes, while it certainly would lay him open to the suspicion and
distrust of her father should he learn of it.
“I cannot answer your question, Miss Maxon,” he said, finally, “for
your father’s strictest injunction has been that I divulge to no one
the slightest happening within the court of mystery. Remember that I am
in your father’s employ, and that no matter what my personal
convictions may be regarding the work he has been doing I may only act
with loyalty to his lightest command while I remain upon his payroll.
That you are here,” he added, “is my excuse for continuing my
connection with certain things of which my conscience does not
approve.”
The girl glanced at him quickly. She did not fully understand the
motive for his final avowal, and a sudden intuition kept her from
questioning him. She had learned to look upon von Horn as a very
pleasant companion and a good friend—she was not quite certain that she
would care for any change in their relations, but his remark had sowed
the seed of a new thought in her mind as he had intended that it
should.
When von Horn returned to the court of mystery, he narrated to
Professor Maxon the gist of his conversation with Virginia, wishing to
forestall anything which the girl might say to her father that would
give him an impression that von Horn had been talking more than he
should. Professor Maxon listened to the narration in silence. When von
Horn had finished, he cautioned him against divulging to Virginia
anything that took place within the inner campong.
“She is only a child,” he said, “and would not understand the
importance of the work we are doing. All that she would be able to see
is the immediate moral effect of these experiments upon the subjects
themselves—she would not look into the future and appreciate the
immense advantage to mankind that must accrue from a successful
termination of our research. The future of the world will be assured
when once we have demonstrated the possibility of the chemical
production of a perfect race.”
“Number One, for example,” suggested von Horn.
Professor Maxon glanced at him sharply.
“Levity, Doctor, is entirely out of place in the contemplation of the
magnificent work I have already accomplished,” said the professor
tartly. “I admit that Number One leaves much to be desired—much to be
desired; but Number Two shows a marked advance along certain lines, and
I am sure that tomorrow will divulge in experiment Number Three such
strides as will forever silence any propensity toward scoffing which
you may now entertain.”
“Forgive me, Professor,” von Horn hastened to urge. “I did not intend
to deride the wonderful discoveries which you have made, but it is only
natural that we should both realize that Number One is not beautiful.
To one another we may say what we would not think of suggesting to
outsiders.”
Professor Maxon was mollified by this apology, and turned to resume his
watch beside a large, coffin-shaped vat. For a while von Horn was
silent. There was that upon his mind which he had wished to discuss
with his employer since months ago, but the moment had never arrived
which seemed at all propitious, nor did it appear likely ever to
arrive. So the doctor decided to broach the subject now, as being
psychologically as favorable a time as any.
“Your daughter is far from happy, Professor,” he said, “nor do I feel
that, surrounded as we are by semi-savage men, she is entirely safe.”
Professor Maxon looked up from his vigil by the vat, eyeing von Horn
closely.
“Well?” he asked.
“It seemed to me that had I a closer relationship I might better assist
in adding to her happiness and safety—in short, Professor, I should
like your permission to ask Virginia to marry me.”
There had been no indication in von Horn’s attitude toward the girl
that he loved her. That she was beautiful and intelligent could not be
denied, and so it was small wonder that she might appeal strongly to
any man, but von Horn was quite evidently not of the marrying type. For
years he had roved the world in search of adventure and excitement.
Just why he had left America and his high place in the navy he never
had divulged; nor why it was that for seven years he had not set his
foot upon ground which lay beneath the authority of Uncle Sam.
Sing Lee who stood just without the trap door through which he was
about to pass Professor Maxon’s evening meal to him could not be blamed
for overhearing the conversation, though it may have been culpable in
him in making no effort to divulge his presence, and possibly equally
unpraiseworthy, as well as lacking in romance, to attribute the
doctor’s avowal to his knowledge of the heavy chest.
As Professor Maxon eyed the man before replying to his abrupt request,
von Horn noted a strange and sudden light in the older man’s eyes—a
something which he never before had seen there and which caused an
uncomfortable sensation to creep over him—a manner of bristling that
was akin either to fear or horror, von Horn could not tell which.
Then the professor arose from his seat and came very close to the
younger man, until his face was only a few inches from von Horn’s.
“Doctor,” he whispered in a strange, tense voice, “you are mad. You do
not know what you ask. Virginia is not for such as you. Tell me that
she does not know of your feelings toward her. Tell me that she does
not reciprocate your love. Tell me the truth, man.” Professor Maxon
seized von Horn roughly by both shoulders, his glittering eyes glaring
terribly into the other’s.
“I have never spoken to her of love, Professor,” replied von Horn
quietly, “nor do I know what her sentiments toward me may be. Nor do I
understand, sir, what objections you may have to me—I am of a very old
and noble family.” His tone was haughty but respectful.
Professor Maxon released his hold upon his assistant, breathing a sigh
of relief.
“I am glad,” he said, “that it has gone no further, for it must not be.
I have other, nobler aspirations for my daughter. She must wed a
perfect man—none such now exists. It remains for me to bring forth the
ideal mate for her—nor is the time far distant. A few more weeks and we
shall see such a being as I have long dreamed.” Again the queer light
flickered for a moment in the once kindly and jovial eyes of the
scientist.
Von Horn was horrified. He was a man of little sentiment. He could in
cold blood have married this girl for the wealth he knew that she would
inherit; but the thought that she was to be united with such a
_thing_—“Lord! It is horrible,” and his mind pictured the fearful
atrocity which was known as Number One.
Without a word he turned and left the campong. A moment later Sing’s
knock aroused Professor Maxon from the reverie into which he had
fallen, and he stepped to the trap door to receive his evening meal.
3
BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
One day, about two weeks later, von Horn and the professor were
occupied closely with their work in the court of mystery. Developments
were coming in riotous confusion. A recent startling discovery bade
fare to simplify and expedite the work far beyond the fondest dreams of
the scientist.
Von Horn’s interest in the marvellous results that had been obtained
was little short of the professor’s—but he foresaw a very different
outcome of it all, and by day never moved without a gun at either hip,
and by night both of them were beside him.
Sing Lee, the noonday meal having been disposed of, set forth with rod,
string and bait to snare gulls upon the beach. He moved quietly through
the jungle, his sharp eyes and ears always alert for anything that
might savor of the unusual, and so it was that he saw the two men upon
the beach, while they did not see him at all.
They were Bududreen and the same tall Malay whom Sing had seen twice
before—once in splendid raiment and commanding the pirate prahu, and
again as a simple boatman come to the Ithaca to trade, but without the
goods to carry out his professed intentions.
The two squatted on the beach at the edge of the jungle a short
distance above the point at which Sing had been about to emerge when he
discovered them, so that it was but the work of a moment or two for the
Chinaman to creep stealthily through the dense underbrush to a point
directly above them and not three yards from where they conversed in
low tones—yet sufficiently loud that Sing missed not a word.
“I tell you, Bududreen, that it will be quite safe,” the tall Malay was
saying. “You yourself tell me that none knows of the whereabouts of
these white men, and if they do not return your word will be accepted
as to their fate. Your reward will be great if you bring the girl to
me, and if you doubt the loyalty of any of your own people a kris will
silence them as effectually as it will silence the white men.”
“It is not fear of the white men, oh, Rajah Muda Saffir, that deters
me,” said Bududreen, “but how shall I know that after I have come to
your country with the girl I shall not myself be set upon and silenced
with a golden kris—there be many that will be jealous of the great
service I have done for the mighty rajah.”
Muda Saffir knew perfectly well that Bududreen had but diplomatically
expressed a fear as to his own royal trustworthiness, but it did not
anger him, since the charge was not a direct one; but what he did not
know was of the heavy chest and Bududreen’s desire to win the price of
the girl and yet be able to save for himself a chance at the far
greater fortune which he knew lay beneath that heavy oaken lid.
Both men had arisen now and were walking across the beach toward a
small, native canoe in which Muda Saffir had come to the meeting place.
They were out of earshot before either spoke again, so that what
further passed between them Sing could not even guess, but he had heard
enough to confirm the suspicions he had entertained for a long while.
He did not fish for gulls that day. Bududreen and Muda Saffir stood
talking upon the beach, and the Chinaman did not dare venture forth for
fear they might suspect that he had overheard them. If old Sing Lee
knew his Malays, he was also wise enough to give them credit for
knowing their Chinamen, so he waited quietly in hiding until Muda
Saffir had left, and Bududreen returned to camp.
Professor Maxon and von Horn were standing over one of the six vats
that were arranged in two rows down the center of the laboratory. The
professor had been more communicative and agreeable today than for some
time past, and their conversation had assumed more of the familiarity
that had marked it during the first month of their acquaintance at
Singapore.
“And what of these first who are so imperfect?” asked von Horn. “You
cannot take them into civilization, nor would it be right to leave them
here upon this island. What will you do with them?”
Professor Maxon pondered the question for a moment.
“I have given the matter but little thought,” he said at length. “They
are but the accidents of my great work. It is unfortunate that they are
as they are, but without them I could have never reached the perfection
that I am sure we are to find here,” and he tapped lovingly upon the
heavy glass cover of the vat before which he stood. “And this is but
the beginning. There can be no more mistakes now, though I doubt if we
can ever improve upon that which is so rapidly developing here.” Again
he passed his long, slender hand caressingly over the coffin-like vat
at the head of which was a placard bearing the words, _Number
Thirteen_.
“But the others, Professor!” insisted von Horn. “We must decide.
Already they have become a problem of no small dimensions. Yesterday
Number Five desired some plantains that I had given to Number Seven. I
tried to reason with him, but, as you know, he is mentally defective,
and for answer he rushed at Number Seven to tear the coveted morsel
from him. The result was a battle royal that might have put to shame
two Bengal tigers. Twelve is tractable and intelligent. With his
assistance and my bull whip I succeeded in separating them before
either was killed. Your greatest error was in striving at first for
such physical perfection. You have overdone it, with the result that
the court of mystery is peopled by a dozen brutes of awful muscularity,
and scarcely enough brain among the dozen to equip three properly.”
“They are as they are,” replied the professor. “I shall do for them
what I can—when I am gone they must look to themselves. I can see no
way out of it.”
“What you have given you may take away,” said von Horn, in a low tone.
Professor Maxon shuddered. Those three horrid days in the workshop at
Ithaca flooded his memory with all the gruesome details he had tried
for so many months to forget. The haunting ghosts of the mental anguish
that had left him an altered man—so altered that there were times when
he had feared for his sanity!
“No, no!” he almost shouted. “It would be murder. They are—”
“They are _things_,” interrupted von Horn. “They are not human—they are
not even beast. They are terrible, soulless creatures. You have no
right to permit them to live longer than to substantiate your theory.
None but us knows of their existence—no other need know of their
passing. It must be done. They are a constant and growing menace to us
all, but most of all to your daughter.”
A cunning look came into the professor’s eyes.
“I understand,” he said. “The precedent once established, all must
perish by its edict—even those which may not be grotesque or
bestial—even this perfect one,” and he touched again the vat, “and thus
you would rid yourself of rival suitors. But no!” he went on in a high,
trembling voice. “I shall not be led to thus compromise myself, and be
thwarted in my cherished plan. Be this one what he may he shall wed my
daughter!”
The man had raised himself upon his toes as he reached his climax—his
clenched hand was high above his head—his voice fairly thundered out
the final sentence, and with the last word he brought his fist down
upon the vat before him. In his eyes blazed the light of unchained
madness.