Kenneth Robeson - Doc Savage 031 - The Majii

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THE MAJII
A Doc Savage Adventure by Kenneth Robeson
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? Chapter I. MAKER OF JEWELS
? Chapter II. MAKER OF HORROR
? Chapter III. CHOSEN OF THE MAJII
? Chapter IV. THE MAN ON THE STRETCHER
? Chapter V. THE CAUTIOUS FOE
? Chapter VI. MURDER ON THE LOOSE
? Chapter VII. SUSPICIONS
? Chapter VIII. THE NIZAM'S STORY
? Chapter IX. DOC HAS A WATERLOO
? Chapter X. LADY OF TRICKS
? Chapter XI. STAMPEDE
? Chapter XII. THE NIZAM SURPRISE
? Chapter XIII. THE LOOMING TERROR
? Chapter XIV. BLACK HOLE
? Chapter XV. MAGIC OF THE MAJII
? Chapter XVI. THE AIDING LADY
? Chapter XVII. ALADDIN'S CAVERN
? Chapter XVIII. THE DEAD MAJII
Scanned and Proofed by Tom Stephens
Chapter I. MAKER OF JEWELS
"I AM about to, be killed," the woman said.
The taxi driver whom she addressed had been half asleep behind the wheel of his parked cab, but the text of
the woman's speech was not conducive to further slumber. He sat up straight.
The woman asked, "Have you ever heard of Doc Savage?"
"Who ain't?" growled the driver. "Say, what kind of a gag—"
"You will take us to Doc Savage," directed the woman. "And hurry."
The driver looked beyond the woman, after which his mouth fell open and his cigarette dropped off his lip and
began to burn his coat front. The woman was veiled, but it was not that which shocked the hackman and
scared him.
It was the four men behind the woman. They were four very tall men who had heads like cocoanuts in color,
and who wore four of the most resplendent uniforms that the taxi driver had ever seen. Each of the four carried
a modern automatic military rifle which was not much less than a portable machine gun.
"Well," snapped the woman. "Have you a tongue?"
"Sure." The driver swallowed twice. "I'll take you to Doc Savage." Then, under his breath, "Ain't this a
crackpot world!"
The woman spoke one ripping sentence which was absolutely unintelligible to the driver, but seemed to mean
much to the four men with the uniforms and the rifles.
They all got in. The woman received much deference. She had bundled herself in a voluminous, shapeless
cloak, but she had a nice ankle.
The cigarette burned through the hackman's trousers, scorched him and he jumped violently—then all but
fainted, for, with a speed born of much practice, one of the brown men snapped up his rifle.
The woman cried out. Wildness, haste in her voice told the taximan the brown one was about to shoot. But
she was in time. The automatic rifle lowered.
The driver found himself some blocks away, going in the wrong direction, before he got over his fright. He
corrected his direction. The woman spoke to him.
"Is Doc Savage in New York?" she asked.
"Don't know," the driver said hoarsely. "He goes all over the world."
The cab was headed for a nest of buildings in the center of Manhattan, out of which towered one of the tallest
skyscrapers in the metropolis.
"What," asked the woman, "does New York think of Doc Savage?"
"He's quite a guy," said the driver. "He helps people out of trouble. Does it for the excitement."
"Then he should be interested in saving my life, as well as others, including, very possibly, his own," the
woman said.
"Yeah, I guess so," said the driver. He had already decided that the woman was some kind of nut.
The woman said no more, and the driver gave attention to his piloting, reflecting at the same time that the
woman, while she spoke distinct and understandable English, had a pronounced foreign accent, but of what
nation, the driver could not tell, he being no linguist.
They were down in the garment sector now, and the streets were comparatively deserted at this hour.
"Stop!" the woman commanded suddenly.
Her voice was shrill, tense. The driver swerved his machine in to the curb, then stared at his cargo as they
unloaded hurriedly and scampered into a subway entrance. They disappeared.
The hackman had not been paid, but he only stared, for the truth was that he felt a relief at getting rid of his
fares, for they were potential trouble, he felt.
But a low, coarse voice rumbled in the driver's ear in a manner to halt his feeling of relief.
"Where'd she go, buddy?" the voice demanded.
THE driver's head jerked around, and he saw that there was another taxi in the street behind him, with at
least three men inside. The cab must have been following.
The man who had asked the question had a thick body and a hard manner—the manner of a man
accustomed to treating other people as they do not want to be treated.
"Where'd they go?" the man growled. "Where were you takin' 'em?"
He twisted back his coat lapel to show something that the driver did not see distinctly but which he took to
be a detective's badge.
"Doc Savage's office," gulped the driver, who had no love for trouble.
The thick-bodied man looked as if he had indigestion at the information, and he grimaced, seeming on the
point of saying several things, none of them pleasant. Then he looked up and down the street furtively.
He dipped a hand in his pocket, brought it out palm down, but with a dollar bill held between the extended
fingers. He passed the bill in to the driver, but when the latter reached for it, the hand slashed suddenly for
the fellow's throat.
Awful horror came on the driver's face, and he threshed about, making gargling sounds, while a red flood
bubbled and cascaded down his chest.
The thick-bodied man ran back to his waiting taxi, carefully wiping and pocketing the queer razor-blade affair
with which he had cut the throat. He got into his machine.
"South," he said. "Give it all you got."
The driver was obviously no regular hackman. He looked as tough as the three in the rear.
"Well?" he said over his shoulder.
"The Ranee is heading for Doc Savage," said the thick-bodied man who had killed the taxi driver.
There was utter silence while the cab lunged along the gloomy streets, and inside it there was all of the cheer
of a hearse interior.
"It ain't too late to get out of this thing," said one of the men. "We can grab a plane or a boat or something."
"Lingh may be able to handle Doc Savage," snapped the thick man.
"Yeah," grunted the other. "But let Lingh do it. I don't want none of this Doc Savage."
The thick man laughed, but not joyfully. "Get wise to yourself. Lingh probably has us covered."
They seemed to think that over, and, judging from the expression on their features, it was not pleasant
thinking.
"Why'd you fix the hack driver?" one asked finally.
"He knew they were headed for Doc Savage," said the thick-bodied man. "He might have identified their
bodies, and told what he knew, and that would have got to Doc Savage."
The cab took a corner, tires sizzling.
"Where to now?" asked the driver.
"Times Square subway station," said the thick-bodied man. "We're gonna head off the Ranee and her four
boys with rifles."
THE Times Square subway station is possibly the busiest in the metropolis, but even it has quiet moments,
of which the present happened to be one.
Cars of the train, as it rumbled and hissed to a stop in the station, were full of bright light and had only a few
passengers.
The thick-bodied man and his companions were separated the length of the two-block long platform, and they
got on the train without excitement, two at one end, three at the other, after which they walked through the
train, looking carefully into each coach before they entered it.
Thus it was that they converged at the ends of one certain car which held their quarry.
The leader said to the two with him, "Lingh wants the Ranee alive. Remember that."
"Wonder why?" countered one of the pair.
"Don't know," said the man. "Doubt if Lingh knows. Think his orders come from some one else."
"Let's go," the other grunted.
They walked down the aisle, hands in bulging coat pockets.
Ranged side by side on the cane-bottomed seat running lengthwise of the subway coach, the veiled woman
and her gaudy, dark riflemen escort were very quiet, watchful. They seemed a little confused, too, by the roar
and shudder of the underground train.
They stood up suddenly before the thick man and his companions were near. The uniformed escort held the
rifles across their chests, soldier fashion, alert.
"Easy does it," snapped the thick man.
He put a hand on the veiled woman's arm. That started it. Her escort clapped rifle stocks to shoulders.
The thick man yelled, "All but the Ranee, guys!"
Pockets split open to let out flame and noise. The thick man's aides were using sawed-off, hammerless
revolvers which would not jam in cloth, and they shot as rapidly as fingers could work triggers, calmly,
confidently.
It was plain they expected to blast down the uniformed opposition with the first volley. That did not happen.
The tall, cocoanut-headed guards staggered, but did not fall.
"Watch it!" screamed the thick man. "They're wearing some kind of an armor!"
After that, there was screaming and noise and death in the moaning subway. Two of the tall men with the
gaudy uniforms and the heads remindful of cocoanuts crumpled where they sat. The two others got in front of
the veiled woman, shielding her, firing, screeching in their strange, foreign tongue.
Five men, altogether, were on the floor, badly wounded, when some one who knew a bit about the mechanics
of the car managed to yank an emergency lever and the train ground to a stop, half inside of a lighted station.
The two uniformed men with the veiled woman got out on the platform and ran. The thick man tried to follow,
with his single companion who had survived, but was shot at and, frightened, ducked back.
The wounded and dying screamed and groveled on the car floor, and that seemed to remind the thick man of
something, for he turned deliberately, saw that one of the uniformed foreigners alone had a chance of living,
and shot the man in the head. Then he ran, with his companion, out of the subway.
The veiled woman and her two escorts had vanished.
THE episode of the subway was newspaper headlines before the night was over, and it was a very mystifying
matter to the police, who admitted they failed to make heads or tails of it, beyond the fact that they had
identified three of the dead as local police characters known for their viciousness.
The desk clerk of the Hotel Vincent, a small but rather ornate hostelry which charged exorbitant rates and got
the patronage of show-offs and people of importance, was reading the newspaper accounts of the subway
slaughter. The hour was near midnight.
The clerk came out of the paper to an awareness of impatient fingers drumming the desk. It chanced that he
noticed the finger nails on the drumming hand at first. It was a woman's hand and the nails were enameled
blue. The clerk glanced up.
The woman before him was an unknown quantity inside the folds of a black veil and a voluminous cloak.
When she spoke, it was in an accent distinctly foreign.
"I desire to see Rama Tura," she said.
The clerk lifted his brows, then made a show of sifting through the guest cards.
"Very sorry," he said. "We have no one by—"
The folds of the woman's cloak shook a little, and the clerk's eyes grew round, for she had exposed the
business end of an automatic pistol.
"You will take me to Rama Tura's quarters," suggested the woman. "I know he directs you to say he is not
here."
Two tall men wearing topcoats came in from where they had been waiting outside. They had heads which
made the clerk think of cocoanuts.
The clerk sized up the situation, and since he was neither a hero nor a fool, he came from behind the desk,
and the veiled woman and her two companions followed him into the elevator.
They rode to the sixteenth floor, where the clerk served as guide down a deeply carpeted Moorish hall to a
door that was strapped with ornamental iron.
The clerk was on the point of knocking when one of the tall, dark men reached out and knocked him back of
the ear with a revolver butt. The other dark man caught the clerk, and they held him while they knocked on
the iron-strapped door.
"What is it?" queried a sleepy foreign voice from behind the panel.
"Cablegram," said the veiled woman, making her voice low and hoarse, so that it sounded remarkably like a
boy's.
The man who opened the door certainly belonged to the same race as the veiled woman's two companions.
His head had the identical hard round lines, the same fibrous brown hair.
He uttered the beginning of a cry when he saw his visitors. The sound did not get far, being stopped by a gun
barrel which glanced off his head. He, too, was caught before he fell.
"Harm him not!" snapped the woman. "He is only a servant!"
She spoke in English, probably due to excitement, but was not too rattled to translate it into the tongue
which the pair with her understood.
Three doors opened out of the room. The woman had not been there before, because she opened two and
found closets, then tried the third, and discovered it led into what seemed to be the bedroom of a suite.
She went in with her small automatic pistol in hand, squinting in the luminance that came from a shaded
bedside lamp.
The man who lay in the bed seemed, at first glance, to be dead.
HE was lean, this man in the bed, so lean that the coverlets seemed little more than wrinkled where they lay
over his body. His head, however, was huge, a big and round brown globe that resembled something made
out of mahogany and waxed over with shiny skin. His eyes were closed. He did not move. There was
something unearthly about him.
The woman stood and stared at him through her veil.
Her two companions, having lowered the unconscious hotel clerk and the senseless man who had answered
the door, and having locked the door, now came in. They stared at the man on the bed, and their eyes were
as if they looked upon a deity.
Both got down on hands and knees and touched foreheads to the floor.
"Fools!" shrilled the woman.
"This man is Rama Tura, chosen disciple of the Majii," murmured one of the kowtowing pair in his native
tongue.
"He is an old fakir," snapped the veiled woman.
The two guards seemed inclined to argue the point, but respectfully.
"He has the power of dying and returning to life when he so desires," one stated. "You can see now that he is
dead. And was he not brought from our native land to this one in a coffin?"
The woman's cloak shook slightly, as if she had shuddered. She stepped forward and touched the weird form
on the bed.
"You find him cold," said one of the guards. "He is a corpse. It is not good that we broke in here."
The woman's eyes became bright and distinct as seen through her veil.
"Is it that you no longer serve me?" she demanded.
The two got up off their hands and knees.
"Our lives, our bodies, are yours, Ranee," one said gloomily. "Our thoughts are birds that fly free. Is it your
wish that we cage them?"
"You might clip their wings that they may walk on solid ground," said the Ranee. "You may also take your
knives and cut off Rama Tura's big ears. It is my guess that he will revive from the dead in time to save them."
The men nodded, produced long shiny knives with black handles, and advanced upon the recumbent Rama
Tura. Towering over him, they hesitated.
"He is chosen disciple of the Majii," gulped one. "Even the great American scientists have not been able to
prove otherwise. For does he not take worthless glass and make it, by the touch of his power, into jewels for
which men pay fortunes?"
"He is a fakir," repeated the woman. "He is a troublemaker. For years, he has been a nuisance. He is a
common, ordinary beggar who for years made his living by performing street-corner tricks for tourists."
"He has powers no man understands," insisted the other stubbornly. "Out of worthless pebbles, he makes
great jewels."
"Cut his ears off and see if he is magician enough to make them grow back again," the woman directed. "It is
about those jewels that I wish him to explain."
The grotesque thing of bones on the bed opened its eyes.
"I am the dead who lives at will," he said. "What do you want?"
Chapter II. MAKER OF HORROR
THE veiled woman looked down at him and made some slight sound which in her land meant ridicule and
disgust.
"You see," she said. "He awakened before he lost his ears."
There was absolutely no expression on the round, shiny head on the pillow. The eyes were open, but did not
shift. The mouth was open, but the lips did not move when words came.
It was as if the weird-looking fellow were a corpse into the mouth of which a ventriloquist was throwing
speech. He spoke English.
"To abuse the dead is sacrilege," he said. "But maybe your sin is mitigated because you do not have the
mind to conceive my powers, my abilities and my condition. To you, I am the enigma of omnipotence, the—"
"You are a clever old fake," snapped the woman. "You are no different from other men, except certainly, more
ugly. Now, you will tell me about those jewels, or my men will take your ears, after the fashion in my land."
"You are from Jondore?" asked Rama Tura.
"I," said the woman, "am the Ranee, the widow of the Nizam, ruler of all Jondore, descendant of rulers."
"Your voice had a familiar sound," murmured the strangelooking being on the bed. "Why are you here?"
"I will tell you, old fakir," the woman said angrily. "I am in New York by chance. I was making a trip around
the world. And here I heard of this jewel-making séance of yours. I cabled my late husband's brother, Kadir
Lingh, present ruler of Jondore, that I intended to investigate you."
She hesitated.
"I have a hideous suspicion," she said.
Rama Tura showed a slight sign of life. "What suspicion?"
The woman did not answer directly, but snapped. "Your organization is wide. I have reason to think my cable
did not reach Jondore. I have been followed, my movements checked by men of Jondore. Your men! Once,
they shot at me!"
"This cannot be true," murmured Rama Tura.
"Tonight I started to see a man who can handle things like this," snapped the woman. "I was attacked. Later,
I found watchers about the headquarters of the man I wanted to see. They were your men."
"Who is this one you intended to see?" Rama Tura queried.
"Doc Savage," said the Ranee. "But you know that."
"Ah," murmured Rama Tura.
"You are a devil incarnate," the Ranee told Rama Tura grimly. "You are scheming to take the lives of many
people, in order to accomplish an insane scheme."
But Rama Tura seemed interested in Doc Savage.
"Of living men," he said tonelessly, "it may be that Doc Savage has greatest knowledge, but his learning is of
the material and the so-called scientific. He has not touched the abstract and invisible, the real power of
concentrated thought as a concrete entity."
"Drivel," said the Ranee.
"Can Doc Savage make jewels of pebbles?" queried Rama Tura.
"You cannot, either," snapped the veiled woman. "And you are going to stop it! Otherwise, I am going to put
Doc Savage and the police both upon your trail. I am going to tell them what is behind your actions."
"And what is behind it?" Rama Tura queried.
The woman swallowed. She seemed to brace herself.
"The Majii," she said.
Rama Tura looked very much as if he had been struck.
"So you have fathomed it," he mumbled hoarsely.
That, in turn, had a profound effect on the Ranee, for it was obvious now that her early conception had been
only a grisly suspicion, but that Rama Tura's words had convinced her that she had guessed the sinister
truth.
"Seize him!" she shrilled at her two companions. "If he is put out of the way now, it will save countless lives!"
Rama Tura sat bolt upright in his bed. His body was a pitiful string of bones. His chest resembled a gnarled,
thin brown root. He was entirely hideous to the eye.
"I fear," he said, "that I shall have to demonstrate."
HE sat perfectly still after that, and if at first he had been unwholesome, a brown, lecherous harridan, he was
more so now, seeming to emanate an aura of the indescribable.
There came into the room the feeling of a tomb, the very real yet somewhat impossible sensation which
comes upon those who stand in the presence of those that no longer live.
The Ranee struggled visibly against the feeling.
"Old buzzard!" she snapped. "You have practiced these tricks all of your life. Of course you are good at
them!"
Rama Tura said nothing. His eyes had not moved. His mouth had not closed.
Suddenly, there appeared in the far side of the room an incredible thing, a monster of shapelessness, a
fantastic ogre of a thing.
The Ranee, her two guards, stared at it. The light from the bedlamp hardly reached that far, and they could
not make out the exact identity of the thing, except that it was a creature possessing eyes, and so large that
it might have difficulty getting entirely into the room.
The air in the room began to change, to take on a definite odor, vague, repulsive, a bit warm, as if it might be
the breath of the horror which had appeared so weirdly and was watching them.
"It is my servant," the death-faced Rama Tura said tonelessly. "It is here for a purpose."
The Ranee continued to stare.
"It is my guard," said the man in the bed again, referring to the thing in the door. "It is lent to me by my
master, the Majii. It does strange things to men."
As if in verification to his words, both the guards now did an incredible an unbelievable thing. They presented
their own guns to their own heads and calmly committed suicide. A single long breath could have been drawn
between the time the first hit the floor and the other followed him.
The Ranee made a hissing sound of horror, spun and ran wildly. She did not go toward the door and the thing
she could see there, but toward another door, and tore it open wildly, finding beyond a sitting room, a
luxurious parlor of a place.
She plunged on and slammed against another door, which was unlocked and let her, luckily, out into the
corridor, from which a passing elevator cage carried her, silent and quivering, to the street.
The night swallowed her.
Chapter III. CHOSEN OF THE MAJII
THE newspapers made a big splurge next morning. The headlines said:
THIEVES ATTACK RAMA TURA
Raid on Quarters of Mysterious Mystic
Results in Death of Pair
Two alleged robbers were killed in the hotel apartment of Rama Tura, man of amazing powers, last night.
According to Rama Tura, the slaying followed a terrific hand-to-hand fight with three assailants, one a woman,
who escaped.
This story was corroborated by Rama Tura's servant, and the hotel clerk, who was himself forced to guide the
thieves to Rama Tura's quarters.
There was more of it, a detailed resumé of the banditry efforts as told by Rama Tura, and it was a convincing
yarn, perfectly logical.
The motive, according to Rama Tura, had been a desire on the part of the thieves to force him to reveal how
he made jewels out of worthless pebbles and bits of glass.
In the center of the front page of one newspaper was a box, editorial in nature, discussing the mysterious
Rama Tura, and his powers. It was headed:
WHAT IS HE?
Rama Tura came to the United States from the Orient, from a wild mountain province called Jondore.
Rama Tura takes pebbles and makes diamonds, rubies, emeralds. Jewel experts say they are genuine
beyond doubt. They back their judgment by purchasing the stones.
One third of the selling price of these stones goes to American charity. Two thirds goes to a fund for charity
administration in Jondore, Rama Tura's native land. Rama Tura himself takes no money.
What manner of being is this Rama Tura? Is he a faker? This paper had three of the greatest jewel experts
pass on Rama Tura's products as genuine.
How does Rama Tura make his jewels? If he uses fakery, the most intense skeptics are baffled.
Rama Tura claims to be a disciple of the Majii. The Majii was a horrendous war chief who lived thirty centuries
ago and conquered much of the Oriental world of that day. The Majii was a magician who could bring himself
to life after being killed on the field of battle. He could slay thousands with a stare. He was cruel.
The Majii is believed by historians to be only a myth.
But Rama Turn is no myth. Just what is he?
Some other newspapers carried yarns along the same vein, elaborating on the queer personality of Rama
Tura, and one even went over the strange fact that Rama Tura apparently had actually been brought from
Jondore to the United States in a coffin.
One paper further stated that Rama Tura slept in his coffin, and was said to come alive only on special
occasions, but the police disproved this by stating that Rama Tura had been in his bed when the thieves
walked in on him.
Another journal hooked the robbery in with the slaughter in the subway, pointing out that the two thieves killed
in Rama Tura's apartment were of the same nationality as some of those killed in the subway, namely
Jondoreans.
The police hinted there might have been a quarrel prior to the robbery, but failed to indicate how such a thing
might have come about.
Several newspapers bore quiet advertisements that afternoon.
RAMA TURA WILL APPEAR TONIGHT
IN TEMPLE NAVA
To those who read this, and who had been following the affair in the newspapers, the item meant that Rama
Tura would that night make jewels out of worthless articles in Temple Nava.
TEMPLE NAVA was not a building by itself, but an establishment on the upper floor of a Park Avenue
building which was nothing if not exclusive.
It had been installed by a cult of wealthy thrill-seekers who had, after the depression came along, been too
busy to indulge in whimsies.
The furnishings, very rich, had been intact—no one could be found with enough money to buy such costly
gimcracks—when Rama Tura leased it and began to set New Yorkers by the ears.
The swanky Temple Nava was the gathering place of many of the nabobs of the metropolis that night. There
were many scientists and jewel experts. Rama Tura invited efforts to prove himself a fake.
There were many sensation-seekers, also, but those fry were not even permitted into the building. Policemen
handled the traffic, and to enter the premises, one had to exhibit a bit of cardboard bearing cabilistic symbols.
These were issued to the proper persons by detective agencies hired by Rama Tura.
It is a common thing for ladies to wear gloves the year around, so the presence of such covering on the hands
of one woman who presented a card attracted no undue attention. No one, of course, imagined the gloves
covered blue finger nails.
The lady herself did get a good deal of attention. A formal gown of black set off a remarkable figure, and her
wide brown eyes stared aloofly from a face that would have been perfection except for a certain grimness
about the mouth.
Her manner suggested someone bent on a mission that might not be exactly pleasant. She had an olive skin.
Her card was satisfactory, and she was admitted.
Not long after, a choleric dowager complained that she had lost her card of invitation, perhaps to a thief. She
happened to be well known, and she was admitted anyway.
Straight into Temple Nava stalked the woman with the remarkable figure and the determined manner.
Many men saw her and admired her. Others saw her and looked as if a hungry tiger had walked into their
midst. These latter were aides of Rama Tura. He seemed to have an incredible number of them. One hurried
to present himself before Rama Tura.
Rama Tura had just been carried into Temple Nava in a plain black coffin, and he was being photographed by
摘要：

THEMAJIIADocSavageAdventurebyKennethRobesonThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?ChapterI.MAKEROFJEWELS?ChapterII.MAKEROFHORROR?ChapterIII.CHOSENOFTHEMAJII?ChapterIV.THEMANONTHESTRETCHER?ChapterV.THECAUTIOUSFOE?ChapterVI.MURDERONTHELOOSE?ChapterVII.SUSPICIONS?ChapterVIII.THE...

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