Moon of Skulls by Robert E. Howard Read Free Book Online Page B

across the dark lawn to a side door, still carrying the grisly “disguise” under my arm. The door was locked, as I had anticipated, and I did not wish to arouse anyone until I was safely in the house, where the sound of voices would not carry to one who might have followed me. I took hold of the knob with both hands, and, exerting slowly the inhuman strength that was mine, began to twist. The shaft turned in my hands and the lock within shattered suddenly, with a noise that was like the crash of a cannon in the stillness. An instant more and I was inside and had closed the door behind me.
    I took a single stride in the darkness in the direction I believed the stair to be, then halted as a beam of light flashed into my face. At the side of the beam I caught the glimmer of a pistol muzzle. Beyond a lean shadowy face floated.
    “Stand where you are and put up your hands!”
    I lifted my hands, allowing the bundle to slip to the floor. I had heard that voice only once but I recognized it — knew instantly that the man who held that light was John Gordon.
    “How many are with you?”
    His voice was sharp, commanding.
    “I am alone,” I answered. “Take me into a room where a light cannot be seen from the outside and I’ll tell you some things you want to know.”
    He was silent; then, bidding me take up the bundle I had dropped, he stepped to one side and motioned me to precede him into the next room. There he directed me to a stairway and at the top landing opened a door and switched on lights.
    I found myself in a room whose curtains were closely drawn. During this journey Gordon’s alertness had not relaxed, and now he stood, still covering me with his revolver. Clad in conventional garments, he stood revealed a tall, leanly but powerfully built man, taller than I but not so heavy — with steel-gray eyes and clean-cut features. Something about the man attracted me, even as I noted a bruise on his jawbone where my fist had struck in our last meeting.
    “I cannot believe,” he said crisply, “that this apparent clumsiness and lack of subtlety is real. Doubtless you have your own reasons for wishing me to be in a secluded room at this time, but Sir Haldred is efficiently protected even now. Stand still.”
    Muzzle pressed against my chest, he ran his hand over my garments for concealed weapons, seeming slightly surprized when he found none.
    “Still,” he murmured as if to himself, “a man who can burst an iron lock with his bare hands has scant need of weapons.”
    “You are wasting valuable time,” I said impatiently. “I was sent here tonight to kill Sir Haldred Frenton —”
    “By whom?” the question was shot at me.
    “By the man who sometimes goes disguised as a leper.”
    He nodded, a gleam in his scintillant eyes.
    “My suspicions were correct, then.”
    “Doubtless. Listen to me closely — do you desire the death or arrest of that man?”
    Gordon laughed grimly.
    “To one who wears the mark of the scorpion on his hand, my answer would be superfluous.”
    “Then follow my directions and your wish shall be granted.”
    His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
    “So that was the meaning of this open entry and non-resistance,” he said slowly. “Does the dope which dilates your eyeballs so warp your mind that you think to lead me into ambush?”
    I pressed my hands against my temples. Time was racing and every moment was precious — how could I convince this man of my honesty?
    “Listen; my name is Stephen Costigan of America. I was a frequenter of Yun Shatu’s dive and a hashish addict — as you have guessed, but just now a slave of stronger dope. By virtue of this slavery, the man you know as a false leper, whom Yun Shatu and his friends call ‘Master,’ gained dominance over me and sent me here to murder Sir Haldred — why, God only knows. But I have gained a space of respite by coming into possession of some of this dope which I must have in order to live, and I fear and hate this Master.