UNDER THE DESERT STARS
[Illustration: Eloping with his beloved one from the earth, to seek a
haven of refuge on some other planet, they saw the earth and moon whiz
past them, with an imposing comet in distance.]
UNDER
THE DESERT STARS
_A Novel_
BY
FRANK KOESTER
AUTHOR OF “THE PRICE OF INEFFICIENCY,”
ETC., ETC.
Illustrated by
L. C. VAN BENSCOTEN
MCMXXIII
WASHINGTON SQUARE PUBLISHING COMPANY
57 WEST 10TH STREET, NEW YORK, N. Y.
Copyright, 1923,
BY FRANK KOESTER
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE HYPNOTIC VICTIM 1
II. AT THE MORGUE 23
III. THE MOON-SHINERS 34
IV. IN SPORTING EUROPE 54
V. THE GREAT DESERT 77
VI. THE DANCE OF THE VAMPIRE 95
VII. THE LOVERS ON THE BEACH 111
VIII. IN THE CLUTCHES OF AN AMOROUS CAVEMAN 153
IX. ON CAMEL’S BACK THROUGH THE SAHARA 180
X. THE LOVER’S DREAM 201
XI. UNDER THE KNIFE 235
XII. THE RUM-RUNNERS 253
XIII. THE DEADLY RIVAL 271
XIV. GETTING HIS IDEAL MATE 291
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Frontispiece_
THE ORGY 63
THE DUEL 73
THE VAMPIRE DANCE 101
ON THE BEACH 113
THE INTERIM 155
THE STRUGGLE 165
IN DISTRESS 177
THE SAND STORM 203
SAVED 315
UNDER THE DESERT STARS
CHAPTER I
THE HYPNOTIC VICTIM
The early spring sun was riding low in the heavens, going westward
to seek its rest. The haze of twilight was creeping in upon the city
from across the bay and the canyon-like streets of lower New York were
already steeped in shadow.
Above the city rose the hum of industry and from the rivers the saucy
whistles of tugboats, with their heavy laden barges, were telling those
who would listen that they, too, were doing their bit.
But all this was lost to the girl standing at the promenade rail of the
Queensborough Bridge, that massive structure spanning the East River,
linking Brooklyn with New York. The girl, beautiful to an extreme, both
in face and form, stood clutching the railing with a convulsive grip.
Her eyes were set on something far in the distance and so far as the
passersby were concerned, she was in another world.
Curious but hurried glances were aimed at her, but that was all. New
Yorkers are always in a hurry and a passing glance satisfies the
questions that arise in the minds of most of them.
Carl Lohman, however, was different. His profession had taught him to
observe. So it was natural that he, noticing the strained attitude
of the girl, should give more than a casual glance. Her handkerchief
had fallen at her feet and he stooped down to restore it. His action
elicited the slightest notice from her, so he ventured to remark: “I
beg your pardon, Miss, but I believe this is yours.”
At this, the girl slightly turned her head to see who had spoken to
her. Carl noticed, then, the strange look in her eyes. The fixed stare
in them seemed to be seeking something beyond the vision of mortal ken.
What dream, what strange meditation had so rudely been broken into?
Mechanically she took one hand from the rail and accepted the dainty
square of lace which Carl extended to her. A bow, so slight as to be
scarcely perceptible was her only reply. This was but the outward show.
Inwardly she felt relieved to some extent. A glance told her that this
man, with his intellectual countenance and commanding presence, was no
ordinary flirt. Then, without a word, she walked away.
Carl, believing that the handkerchief had been dropped with a purpose
and curious to know more about the fascinating girl, hurried to her
side and endeavored to start a conversation.
“Rather a warm day, is it not?”
No answer being given he continued: “Really tropical for this time of
year.”
Again no response. Carl realized that he had been mistaken. She had not
intended to start a flirtation. He looked at her closely. Yes, that was
it. She was nervous and trembling as from some all-powerful emotion. He
would help her if he could.
“Madam, you are ill. May I be of some assistance?” and he extended his
arm for support.
“Thank you, but I am all right,” was the rather testy retort.
“You are a stranger here, are you not?”
The girl looked at him carefully, and hesitatingly inquired, “Why do
you ask? Simply because I did not reply to your questions?”
“No, not that,” came from Carl; then, “Our American girls, or rather I
should say, New York girls, resent being addressed by a stranger, even
though he should offer aid when needed.”
“Aid was not and is not now required. And to answer your questions, I
am a stranger here,” came swiftly.
“So I thought,” said he, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.
“What made you think so?” parried the other, looking at him cautiously
from under her heavy lashes.
“Oh, because. Well, you see women of your type and eyes are strange
here. I have lived here long enough to learn that.”
“Strange?” she asked, with a forced smile and shrugging shoulders.
“Yes. Beautifully strange.”
“Do you really think so?” She was beginning to feel at ease.
“Yes. And as for being a stranger, I would say you are a European and
have not been in this country very long. At any rate the fads of the
moment have had no effect upon your taste.”
“Thank you,” she returned with a smile.
“Just here on a visit, if I dare ask?”
Their eyes met. Each was trying to fathom the mind of the other. For a
minute she was silent, then in a decisive tone of voice she replied,
“You are right. I arrived here a week ago from abroad.”
“From where--abroad?”
“That is asking questions.” She was fencing for time.
“Oh, come on.”
“What’s that?” frowning.
“You misunderstand me. I mean tell me where you came from. England?”
“Do I look English?”
“No. Not at all.” Admiring her gift of quick and thoughtful repartee,
he supplemented, “No, you are neither English nor French.”
“But England and France are not the only countries, although they like
to think so when they do not require the help of other countries,” she
answered sarcastically.
Their walk had by this time brought them to the bridge terminal.
“Would you mind calling a taxi?” she asked.
“With pleasure,” he replied, and called a passing car.
It was with a heart that sank at the answer, that he asked, at the
parting, “May I see you again?”
A smile curved her exquisitely carven lips and seemed to brighten her
face and lend added luster to her eyes as she slowly shook her head in
the negative.
Carl stepped forward to help her into the taxi, but before he could
realize it, she had gathered her skirts, revealing a dainty pair of
ankles and entered the machine. A moment later the door was closed and
the car sped away, leaving Carl standing at the curb, watching it with
charmed eyes.
Hat still in hand, and entirely oblivious of the curious eyes of those
who had witnessed the incident, he pondered over her lithe and graceful
form, the large fathomless eyes and the subtle charm of her musical
voice. But his heart would have pulsed with added vigor had he heard,
as the taxi started, her scarcely audible “Auf Wiedersehen.”
A final look at the parting car gave him a pleasing view of her smiling
face, as she gave him a gracious nod. He bowed and waved his hand in
return, murmuring half aloud, “Some girl!”
Suddenly his musing was rudely broken into by the passing of a truck
and the growled warning from its driver to get away from the curb.
Brought thus back to the stern world of reality and the commonplace, he
gave his cane a vicious twirl and muttered beneath his breath, “Damn
it! That’s what I call hard luck”--throwing away his cigarette.
Having given vent to this expletive, he turned and went his way, seeing
nothing but that beautiful smiling face which was the center and pivot
of his confused mind.
At the Claza, Sana, for that was the name of this strange girl,
alighted from the taxi, and after paying and dismissing the driver,
stepped quickly into the hotel.
She took the elevator to the eighth floor. But a change had come over
her. Her face was pale and she was visibly perturbed, as she went down
the corridor.
Her hand sought a door knob, and as she hesitated for an instance, her
perturbation seemed to leave her. She entered the room without knocking
and as she did so, a middle aged man, François de Rochelle, looked up
in surprise and forced a thin smile of welcome to his lips.
His words of greeting, “Sana, you are back again,” must have rung in
his own ears with their true bluntness, so he quickly added, “So soon,
mon cherie?”
He arose from his chair and walking over to Sana, took her face
tenderly in his hands and remarked, rather peevishly, “You are pale,
joujou. Did not the weather agree with you? I thought the fresh air
blowing over the bridge would do you good. Did you not go there?”
The contented smile faded from Sana’s face and was replaced by one of
pitiful sadness as she queried blankly, “Where?”
The far-off stare in the girl’s eyes and her strange attitude gave de
Rochelle food for thought that was not of the most pleasant kind.
With a scarcely conscious gesture Sana removed her hat and mechanically
walked to the couch where she sat down, to look with a vacant gaze
out of the window over Central Park. De Rochelle, pushing aside some
papers, sought a seat next to her, and placing his arm about her
shoulder, asked in a voice that bespoke his own anxiety, “What is it,
mon cherie? What troubles you today? Come, let me feel your pulse.”
She laughed lightly, although not with contentment, as his hand
encircled her wrist and he placed his ear upon her chest, in an effort
to gauge the pulsations of her heart.
For a few moments there was a silence between them. Then de Rochelle,
raising his head and looking straight into her eyes, said, “There is
nothing the matter with you.” Then kissing her, he whispered, “And your
lips are just as sweet as ever.”
Sana, slightly bored, freed herself gently from his arms, and as she
did so, murmured “Oh, it is nothing.” Throwing her head backward, she
added, “I do not feel very well, but it is beyond me to say what it is.”
A nameless fear had suddenly arisen within her heart. Yes, that was it.
The fear of speaking to him of the incident on the bridge. It would
probably cause him worry and it would rob her of the delicious dreams
she would weave about the man who was already enthroned in the most
secret recesses of her heart.
So saying no more she rose from the couch, and left the apartment to go
to her own room, leaving de Rochelle alone, in consternation and uneasy
contemplation.
When she reached her room, Sana threw herself upon the bed, burying her
face in the pillows. Presently, however, she rose to a sitting posture,
and tangled her fingers madly in her hair, asking herself unanswerable
questions.
“Why should I want to commit suicide? Does not François love me, and
do I not love him with all my heart? Putting myself away in such a
cowardly manner--would he ever get over it? And then, too, what of my
dear mother?”
Having tortured her mind in that fashion, she slipped from the bed and
approaching the dresser, she rested her hands heavily upon an open
drawer and glared into the mirror. With piercing eyes she gazed at
herself and gradually a smile came to her face and a new light gleamed
in her eyes.
“Beautifully strange--yes, he was right. I am too young to die. And I
am not going to.”
With a determination born of a new and greater hope, she threw her
head back and her long, lustrous hair, thus shaken loose, unrolled its
dark coils down over her shoulders and far below her waistline. Her
clothes seemed too tight, so she loosened them, stripping off her outer
garment. There was something sirenic about her beauty as she stood
there with wild-hanging hair, her breasts heaving with excitement. She
commenced to rearrange her disheveled hair, and a smile crept to her
lips as she admired the reflection in the glass. She was indeed well
aware of her fascinating and dangerous beauty.
And well she might be. The well-rounded neck, the soft, graciously
curved and perfectly proportioned shoulders and arms, the slight tan of
the skin, the great magic eyes and the pretty face with its lofty brow,
surmounted by waves of dark hair, gave her the positive stamp of a
strange and unique beauty: a type one so seldom finds to admire. It was
not artificial, nor was it yet exotic--reality was its only expression.
Standing before the glass, she unconsciously made a few gestures and
movements which held in them a captivating influence when wielded by
one who was naturally so comely. Unconsciously, too, she took inventory
of her personal charm. It was her woman’s instinct that told her that
all men would be her willing slaves, should such a thing be her
desire. But it was not. François was her first lover, and she wanted
him to be the only one. Everything was to be for him and him alone.
Unfortunately, most women after they secure the man for whom they have
angled do not know how to hold their catch. They neglect the very
things that first drew the man to them, they forget their art in a
feeling of possession and security. And then they wonder why there are
so many divorces.
Sana, who was but nineteen, was well versed in feminine artfulness and
had already mastered all its varied forms and gestures. Her inheritance
from her mother, and the refinement and culture she had acquired, gave
her both finesse and charm in addition to her amazing loveliness.
Facing the glass, she shook her head and said to herself, “To destroy
myself? Never! Gypsy blood would not sanction that.”
Sana hastily dressed herself and without advising de Rochelle of her
movements, left the hotel and sought a friend of hers who lived on 57th
Street.
This was a Mrs. O’Brien, a woman, worldly wise and one who had married
young and often. Sana had met her on the steamer “George Washington,”
on her way from Cherbourg to New York. Mrs. O’Brien was returning from
her latest honeymoon, and the chance meeting between the two had
ripened into a most intimate friendship. Regardless of what gossip may
have said about her, Mrs. O’Brien was real in every sense of the word.
It was to her, therefore, that Sana turned in her trouble. Mrs. O’Brien
listened to Sana’s tale with a motherly interest, and explaining in
part her intentions, she took Sana to the office of the famous Dr.
White, on the same block.
The doctor, an elderly and affable gentleman, had been in New York for
many years, and the fame that had preceded him from Europe, where he
had been a professor at the University of Heidelberg, increased with
his years of practice in America.
He and Mrs. O’Brien were well acquainted and with a cheery “Good
evening” he led the two women from the reception room, into his office,
which was splendidly furnished and embellished with numerous books,
charts and artistic curiosities. There was nothing about the place to
give the visitor the chill that generally comes on entering a doctor’s
office. Instead the room seemed to be pervaded with an atmosphere of
congenial warmth.
The three seated themselves preparatory to the consultation. Sana broke
the momentary silence by speaking clearly and calmly.
“My fiancé, François de Rochelle, for whom I also work as secretary,
induces me daily to walk across the bridge to get fresh air. Whenever
I do so I always feel a great desire to jump over the rail and drown
myself in the waters below. This sensation increases, like my love for
him, as the days go by. Why it is, I do not know. I love my fiancé
dearly and he returns my love with equal fervor. We intend to be
married immediately upon our return to Paris. I do not wish François to
be worried over me, and for that reason I have never confided in him my
desire to commit suicide. Neither have I mentioned to him my intention
to consult a doctor.”
She paused, but Dr. White said only “Yes, go on.”
“Once in a while, of an evening, as a matter of amusement François
hypnotizes me. It always makes me feel much better. But the following
day, when I walk across the bridge, the horrible impulse to do away
with myself, forces itself upon me. Day by day the desire increases in
intensity. I should have killed myself today if it had not been for a
man who spoke to me just as I was about to leap over the rail. Can you
tell me what the trouble is, doctor?”
Dr. White was deep in thought. He had often practised the subtle art
of hypnotism as an aid to his medical work. He knew, therefore, the
sinister truth that lay behind Sana’s words.
Rousing himself at her question, he looked at Sana closely and asked,
“Will you consent to enter the hypnotic state under my influence?”
Sana recalled to mind some of the risque situations she had found
herself in upon waking from the trances, induced by her lover. The
memories caused her to pause an instant, then raising her hands she
cried, “No, no!”
The doctor seemed to comprehend the thoughts that were surging through
her mind, and he interrupted with, “You need have no fear. Your friend,
Mrs. O’Brien is here and the experiment may be of benefit to both you
and your fiancé.”
Her reply to the man’s kindly remonstration showed how easily he had
dispelled her fears.
“Yes, perhaps it will be better so.”
Sana reclined restfully back within the cushioned chair and the doctor
bent over her. With his hands he made a few passes before her face,
with a steady look of intensity he performed the preliminaries of the
hypnotist. His piercing glance held her gaze. His eyes seemed fairly
to devour hers. Soon her eyes dimmed and slowly commenced to close.
Her mind was giving way to his dominating will. Slowly the girl’s eyes
closed entirely, the muscles of her body relaxed and her mind sought
another plane.
Dr. White straightened up and turning to Mrs. O’Brien said softly, “She
is gone.”
The doctor drew his chair close to and directly in front of Sana. In a
clear voice that seemed more to make itself felt rather than heard, he
propounded his queries.
“What does your fiancé, François de Rochelle, do when you are under his
hypnotic influence?”
Slowly came the answer, “He teaches me some dance steps and also makes
love to me.”
“Do you really love him?”
“Well, I would do anything to please him, but----”
“But what?”
“I did not love him before we were engaged.”
“How did that happen?”
No answer forthcoming, Dr. White commanded sharply, “Come, come, answer
me.”
Sana responded with “I did not care for him enough. One evening while
at dinner with him in a private dining-room of a famous Parisian
restaurant he hypnotized me, and directed me to love him and prepare
for our marriage. From then on I began to love him, and when he was
sure of my affection he disclosed to me the secret of why I loved him.
But I did not mind, for my love was already deep rooted.”
“Are you wealthy? Did you inherit much money?”
“No. Just a few thousands.”
“Is your life insured?”
“Yes, for $50,000.”
“Who will get this money in case you die?”
“François.”
“Is de Rochelle’s life insured likewise?”
“Yes, for $10,000.”
Then like a bolt of lightning came the question, “Did de Rochelle ever
direct you to commit suicide by leaping from the Queensborough Bridge?”
Sana shivered slightly. Her entire body seemed to shrink as she reached
forth her arms and groped blindly in the empty air.
“Answer me!” The doctor fairly hissed the words.
In a tone scarce above a whisper came the delayed reply, “François
forbade me to speak on this subject, should I ever be in a trance
induced by any other than himself. I will not--I cannot answer that
question. I will not!”
“Answer me. Did François direct you to commit suicide? I demand an
answer.”
“I refuse to speak of this matter.”
Finding himself powerless to draw from that unconscious mind the answer
he had hoped to get, Dr. White turned to Mrs. O’Brien, his face but
thinly veiling the disappointment he felt.
“Say nothing of this latter question to the girl,” he cautioned, “it
would only serve to distract her.”
He turned to the girl, and once more making a pass before her eyes,
directed, “Wake up.”
Sana opened her eyes, rose to an upright position and slowly gazed
blankly about her. Then recalling where she was and for what purpose
she had come, a more tranquil look crept into her eyes.
After Sana had recovered herself, Dr. White requested that she and Mrs.
O’Brien call the following day. To this they readily consented and the
appointment was made.
After Mrs. O’Brien and the girl had left the office, Doctor White sank
into a chair, muttering “Strange--very strange.”
For a long time he sat there, with his head bowed in deep thought.
Suddenly, he stood up, saying half aloud, “Professor Grant. That’s the
man for this.”
Going to his telephone he called up the professor’s home.
“Hello, Grant. This is White. Can you possibly be at my office tomorrow
noon? I wish you would come. I have a most interesting case on my
hands--most interesting.” A pause, then, “You will? Fine. I knew I
could rely upon you. At noon, sharp.”
The following day Sana and Mrs. O’Brien went to the doctor’s office. He
and Prof. Grant were waiting for them.
Dr. White introduced Prof. Grant, adding for Sana’s benefit, “Prof.
Grant can be trusted. I am sure he will be able to help you. Just do as
he asks, and everything will come out all right.”
Sana smiled pleasantly at Prof. Grant, who taking her by the hand said,
“I shall put you under a hypnotic spell, and while under its influence
you must answer each and every question I put to you. It is very
important and necessary that you do so, for your own benefit. A cure
cannot be effected until you have spoken as you are bidden. Remember
that.”
“I shall do as you say. Yes, I will. I want to be cured for the sake of
François.”
Little did she dream what the outcome would be. Sana, of course,
knew nothing of the diabolical schemes of de Rochelle. The victim of
hypnotic influence can never recall to mind, while conscious, what took
place during a trance.
Prof. Grant was a powerfully built man, with a heavy black beard and a
pair of black eyes that seemed to seek the innermost recesses of the
soul.
Taking Sana’s wrist he gazed into her eyes with a stare that ever
increased in piercing power and concentration. At first her glance met
his frankly, but within a fleeting moment of time, before she could
realize what was happening, Sana closed her eyes, and with relaxing
muscles sank back in her chair--totally under the magic spell woven by
those piercing eyes.
Grant came to the point quickly, with “Tell me. Did your fiancé,
François de Rochelle, direct you to commit suicide while under his
influence? What was the purpose? Tell me.”
Sana hesitated.
Grant fairly shouted, “Answer me. I command it!”
Slowly the words came, barely audible to the eager listeners.
“Yes, each time that he hypnotized me he directed and commanded me to
drown myself by leaping from the bridge into the river. When I was not
under his power, he induced me to walk every day across the bridge.
He told me it would do me good to get the air. While in a trance, he
also forbade me to ever mention to him, while in a normal state, of my
desire to drown myself. He impressed upon me, also, that should I ever
be under the hypnotic influence of another and be questioned regarding
this, I was to refuse to answer.”
“Did he ever intimate his purpose in wanting you to kill yourself?”
“One night he laughed, so I recall, saying that he would then have
plenty of money and could return to France to marry his schoolday
sweetheart.”
“Are you sure of that?” demanded Grant.
“Yes. He even told me her name. I knew her well. Her name is Edith
Durex.”
“Ah! Tell me, how often and for how long has he been hypnotizing you?”
“Every evening last week.”
“Did you intend carrying out his demands?”
“Yes. I would do anything for François. Only yesterday was I prevented
from doing so by a stranger. But I will do it as soon as I get the
chance. The feeling grows stronger within me every time I cross the
bridge. And something makes me go to the bridge each day.”
As Sana gave voice to these strange remarks, Mrs. O’Brien could hardly
suppress her exclamation “My God!”
Grant and White stepped aside and held earnest conversation for a
moment. Grant spoke decisively, “The secret is out, and we would be
parties to the crime if we did not take steps to prevent the act. The
girl cannot be allowed to return to de Rochelle. Suppose you ask Mrs.
O’Brien to take care of her for a few days?”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” and Dr. White stepped over to Mrs.
O’Brien, with the question, “Do you think you could take your friend to
your home and keep her for a few days? It would be the means of helping
her out of her trouble.”
Mrs. O’Brien, who was nearly overcome with pity for Sana, instantly
consented, so eager was she to do something.
“Fine,” from White, giving Grant a slight nod to indicate that his
request had been favorably met.
It was then that Prof. Grant, with a smile on his face, stepped to the
side of the insensible girl. His voice seemed to ring doubly deep and
clear, “From now on you will never again be possessed of that desire to
commit suicide. You are forever free.”
Taking again her right wrist, he softly said, “It is all right, madam,”
and with a start Sana returned to consciousness. The happy smile upon
her face told better than words her relief.
As they were about to leave Dr. White stepped to Sana’s side and said
gently, “Miss Sana, please accompany Mrs. O’Brien to her home. If you
wish to go to the hotel you may do so, but not until after six o’clock.
Do you understand?”
Sana nodded agreeably and assisted by Mrs. O’Brien she left the two men
to their thoughts.
Grant broke the silence. They had been silently thinking of some plan
to follow.
“A letter will do the trick. We shall put the fear of the Almighty in
that rascal’s heart.”
“All right. Let’s get busy. No time can be lost in dealing with him.”
The letter was written immediately and dispatched to the hotel by
messenger.
One can only imagine the thoughts that surged through de Rochelle’s
head when he read the following:
M. François de Rochelle
Hotel Claza
New York, N. Y.
Dear Sir:
Your secretary, Miss Sana, attempted to jump from the Queensborough
Bridge to drown herself, as directed and demanded of her, while
under your hypnotic influence, so that you could collect the $50,000
insurance and marry your old time sweetheart.
We advise you to leave this city before five o’clock this evening,
as by six o’clock we shall have reported the case to the District
Attorney.
Yours truly,
H. Grant,
Robt. E. White.