Adventure Tales #1, page 3
Another small press was next to reprint the work of the man sometimes known as Justin Case. In 1998, Black Dog Books, headed by artist, designer, and pulp fan Tom Roberts, published the first of its five Cave collections—The Death-Head’s March and Others. Subtitled The Geoffrey Vace Collection, three of the four stories included were written by Cave’s older brother, Geoffrey. Along the lines of Talbot Mundy’s tales of India, the Vace stories were originally published in Oriental Stories and Magic Carpet Magazine, the adventure-oriented companions to Weird Tales. The fourth story of the collection, “Step Softly, Sahib!” was written by Hugh Cave, using his brother’s pseudonym. “I did my best to keep that Nom-de-plume alive for him with stories in many different pulps…always hoping he would one day return to his typewriter.”
Other Cave collections from Black Dog Books include White Star of Egypt, which reprints a pair of tales from Spicy Adventure Stories; The Desert Host, the sole “sword-and-sorcery” story that Cave contributed to the pulps, written for Magic Carpet; Dark Doors of Doom, a trio of weird-menace yarns from the pages of the spicy pulps, all originally credited to Justin Case; and The Stinging ’Nting and Other Stories, four adventure yarns first published in 1931 in two pulps rarely seen today—Far East Adventure Stories and Man Stories. Black Dog’s Cave collections are digest-sized books with card-stock covers, available from the publisher for between five and nine dollars.
Although Hugh B. Cave is predominantly regarded today as a writer of dark fantasy, a large portion of his pulp era work was created for the mystery genre. At least one quarter of his pulp production was aimed at the rough-paper detective market. Beginning in 2000, modern readers were reintroduced to this versatile author’s crime fiction through three reprint collections issued by the small presses.
Fedogan & Bremer celebrated the author’s ninetieth birthday with the republication of Cave’s nine “Peter Kane” stories, originally written for Popular Publication’s Dime Detective. According to Don Hutchison’s introduction to the volume, “Kane…was introduced as (the) ‘ace shamus of the Beacon Agency, chronic drunk, two-fisted, hard-headed private dick with nothing to live for except the next drink’…a man who can down three liquid meals a day, get hit on the head more often than is really healthy, and still land on his feet right side up.”
While the first half-dozen Kane stories, originally published in 1934 and 1935, owe a large debt to the weird-menace field for which Cave had then been laboring for several years, the final three tales set a more comic tone and feature rather puzzling plots.
Dime Detective was also home to another Cave hero, truant officer Nick Coffey. The protagonist of three stories contributed to the Popular magazine in 1940, Officer Coffey was a favorite of Dime Detective’s editor Ken White as well as Cave’s agent, Lurton “Count” Blassingame. The stories concern good kids, driven into trouble via circumstances beyond their control. In 2000, Subterranean Press reissued two of the three Coffey stories in a chapbook limited to 250 numbered and 26 lettered copies, all signed by the author. The Sidecar Preservation Society issued the third Coffey story separately in 2001 as a fund-raising effort.
Black Mask was the premier detective magazine of the pulp era, the periodical where the hard-boiled detective story took root and evolved. Home to such greats of the mystery genre as Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Erle Stanley Gardner, Black Mask would also publish ten of Cave’s tales of detection, contributed to the magazine from 1934 through 1941. Ranging from the tough-guy cop of “Too Many Women,” to the greeting card executive who investigates crimes as a hobby in “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” to his last story for the magazine, the Hitchcockian “Stranger in Town,” Crippen & Landru’s Long Live the Dead amply demonstrates Cave’s versatility as an author.
Although Black Mask and Dime Detective Magazine were probably the best of the many detective pulps that were published during the pulp era, it was for Detective Fiction Weekly that Cave wrote most of his crime fiction. From 1936 through 1941, he contributed sixty-three tales of mystery and detection to the Munsey magazine. Crippen & Landru’s Come Into My Parlor collects nearly a dozen of these stories, which, according to the author, were “among the best of the pulp stories I wrote.”
“What I had, in many of my tales for Detective Fiction Weekly, were folks like you and you and you, who never wore a policeman’s uniform or were licensed to be crime fighters. These characters were just everyday people who became involved in crime-fighting more or less by ‘accident.’ And when I began writing that kind of story, with a hero who was not a professional crime-fighter, but just an ordinary Joe like most of us, the editor of Detective Fiction Weekly liked them and so did the readers.”
Both Crippen & Landru volumes were published in two states—a trade paperbound edition and a limited clothbound edition, signed and numbered by the author. Included with the latter was a separate pamphlet, reprinting an additional Cave pulp story not found in the paperbound edition of that particular book.
With over eight-hundred stories moldering away in the crumbling pages of seventy-year-old magazines never meant for permanence, these seventeen collections reprinting over 130 stories have only scratched the surface of Cave’s prodigious output. Hopefully, the appearance of Cave of a Thousand Tales, a biography of the author written by Milt Thomas and released by Arkham House in June of this year, will provide the impetus for further collections of this wonderful craftsman of the pulp era.1 After all, the Arizona Kid, Wildcat and Range Wolf, and Senor Bravo are all still having “Trouble Tamin’ Tumbleweed” in the pages of Western Story Magazine and Wild West Weekly.
1 Starmont House published a short biography of Hugh Cave, Pulp Man’s Odyssey, written by Audrey Parente, in 1988. It was followed in 1994 by Cave’s autobiographical Magazines I Remember, based on his long correspondence with fellow author Carl Jacobi and published by Tattered Pages Press.
SKULLS, by H. BEDFORD-JONES
I
The entire affair occupied an incredibly short space of time, considering what was involved. It happened in a corner of the smoking room of the Empress of China, the evening before we were to dock in San Francisco.
Looking back on it now, I suppose it is impossible to convey the full shock which accompanied the ghastly denouncement of Larsen’s story, Larsen was sharing my stateroom; we were friends. He was returning after spending a year away out in western China, gathering specimens for some museum. A thin, dark, sallow man, he possessed that rare charm which comes of deep, strong character. He was full of surprises; and, I have since thought, full of an inexorable, grim puritanical sort of righteousness, as well.
Mainwaring, who occupied the odd chair in our corner of the smoking room, had taken a liking to Larsen from the start, and stuck with us the whole voyage. We liked him, also. He was lonely and homesick, poor devil, anxious to be back home. He had spent several years in the Orient, in the silk business; a big chap he was, bearded, with gently imaginative blue eyes and a great reticence of manner.
We had the place pretty much to ourselves that evening, since everyone was packing, Mainwaring showed us a couple of very fine old netsukes, abominably indecent, which he meant to bring past the customs in his pocket. At this, Larsen flushed slightly and rose.
“I’ll show you chaps something interesting,” he said, and left us.
He returned presently, bringing a small Chinese box. This he opened, and took from wads of cotton two shallow, oval bowls, handing once to each of us. I examined mine. At first I took it for rhinoceros horn; it had the same rich brown coloring and feel. Then I perceived the lines upon it, and knew the thing for what it was—the top of a skull.
“Hello!” exclaimed Mainwaring with interest. “You must have been up in Tibet to get hold of these, eh? I’ve heard the lamas use human skulls for bowls.”
“Yes and no.” Larsen lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair, smiling oddly. “I got these at a lamasery, right enough, but it was across from the Tibetan border—up in the Lolo country in northern Yunnan.”
Mainwaring glanced up from the skull in his hands. His brows lifted in quick interest.
“Oh! By the way, did you ever hear of an expedition that got lost up in that country a couple of years ago? Three Americans—I can’t recall their names. I heard something about it at the time, but never learned whether they got out.”
Larsen nodded. His eyes held an air of singular intensity, yet his words were calm.
“Yes. Oh, yes! The Bonner party, eh? I knew old Bonner very well indeed, years ago. And his nephew Stickley; a fine chap, and an excellent botanist, Creighton was the third of that party. Yes, I got the whole story from the lamas up there. Rather interesting, in connection with these skull-bowls.”
“They got out, then?” questioned Mainwaring.
“No,” said Larsen, inspecting his cigar ash. “No. They’re still there—in parts.” An indescribable gleam flashed in his eye as he said this.
“Yes, of course,” I put in carelessly. “It was quite a famous case at the time—they were murdered by the Lolos or by bandits. If you’ve learned the truth of it, Larsen, I suppose you’ll take it up with the government? Washington should do something about it.”
Larsen looked at me, and his dark eyes held a devil.
“What do you really suppose, now,” he drawled, “that Washington would do about it? Saint Paul mentioned two kinds of faith, I believe. You’ve just been up in Assam? Well, if some native had stuck a spear into you, what would have been done about it? No, no; I believe in faith through works, not in faith through notes. I shan’t trouble poor Washington.”
Mainwaring leaned forward. “Tell us about it, will you?” he asked quickly. His blue eyes were alight with eagerness, “What happened to them?”
“They died,” said Larsen. “I got their papers, some of them, from the lamas, and then got the whole story. Well, I don’t mind, if you fellows want to listen to a yarn; it has an intimate connection with those skull-bowls, as I mentioned.”
We assured him that we did want to listen.
II
Bonner was an elderly man, fussy and crotchety—said Larsen—but a fine old chap in his way. Young Stickley, his nephew, was headed for the top notch in botanical fame; both of them were keen on exploring the Lolo country. Creighton, who joined their party, was after big game. He was a handsome brute, with plenty of money, and I understand he partly backed the expedition. Most people liked Creighton at sight.
At all events, they reached the Clouds of Heaven lamasery, an isolated place up in the hills. They reached there alone, for the mafus had abandoned them for fear of the Lolo men, who were raiding the hill people about that time. The lamas were hospitable, put them up in a small outlying temple, and the three of them went to work at their own lines of endeavor.
Third parties and accidents cause most of the trouble in this world. The third party in this instance was a Lolo woman, the daughter of a chief. She stepped out of the brush just as Creighton, who had seen her tiger-skin garment, thought he was being attacked by Stripes and let go with both barrels of his shotgun. You can imagine what the two loads did to the girl.
I imagine this smashed Crieghton’s nerve completely. It would, you know, to bowl over a girl that way. Old Bonner took the matter in hand at once and paid over good indemnity to the Lolos; but indemnity would not satisfy the fellow who had been about to marry the girl. He swore death to the white men, and took to the brush with his arrows. The Lolo, like the Chung Miao, use a virulent poison on their barbs, you know.
After that, Creighton probably fancied that he discerned this warrior lurking behind every bush and tree. He ceased his hunting trips, and only went out in company with Bonner and Stickley. The picture of the dead girl must have haunted him frightfully.
Well, the end came very suddenly. The three of them went out to visit some traps Bonner had set for small animals. A mile or so from the lamasery, they were going up a narrow, steep hill-trail with one pack-mule. Creighton was ahead and beyond sight of the other two, trying to get a sambur they had seen when, abruptly, out of the brush stepped the warrior who had sworn to get them, the fiancé of the dead girl.
Creighton might have warned his friends. He might have shot the man. He did neither. Instead, he gave one gasping, incoherent cry, threw down his rifle and fled. Broke for it—ran straight ahead like a madman.
The Lolo calmly waited there until Bonner and Stickley came along, all unsuspecting.
Then he gave them two arrows. They died there. The Lolo went on and caught Creighton by himself. From the story the priests told, he must have thrown Creighton over the cliffs, and at the last moment Creighton used his pistol. At all events, the lamas did not find Creighton’s body, while they did bring in the dead Lolo, Bonner, and Stickley.
And that’s the whole story—the tragedy of Creighton’s broken nerve.
III
When Larsen had finished, he lighted a fresh cigar and leaned back in his chair.
Mainwaring sat fingering the skull-bowl in his lap, pursing up his bearded lips and shaking his head as he listened. Presently he looked up, and his gentle blue eyes were wide, as though the tale of that tragedy had filled him with horror.
“But you said,” his voice was husky, and he cleared his throat, “you said that there was some connection between the story and these skulls?”
Larsen nodded. A flash darted in his eyes and was gone again.
“Yes. Exactly. The bowl in your lap was made from Bonner’s skull. The other was made from Stickley’s.”
Lord! How to describe the loathly horror that I felt at these words! It is one thing to play with the cranium of some forgotten, unknown savage; quite another thing to play with the brain-pan of a scientist, honored and revered, a man almost a friend.
Mainwaring turned absolutely livid. His beard moved. You know how a cat’s fur erects? That way; his beard curled and writhed with the frightful feeling that was upon him. Sweat started on his brow. He reached out and laid the skull on the smoking stand, his fingers shaking. Then he came to his feet.
“I think,” he said, taking a deep breath and shaking his head, “I think—it’s too much for me to stomach. I—I don’t like these ghastly stories.”
He left us abruptly, striding out of the smoking room. Larsen looked after him, then turned his dark eyes upon me. I had set the other skull with the first.
“Gave him quite a turn, didn’t it?” said Larsen. His voice was cold, brittle.
“Confound you!” I answered, nettled. “It gave me a turn. It’d give anybody a turn!”
“Take a cigar,” said Larsen, extending one. “There’s a bit more to the story.”
I took the weed, but made a gesture of protest.
“Never mind the rest of the story,” I said. “You’re too cursed fantastic as a storyteller, Larsen. I don’t fancy this Grand Guignol stuff myself in the least!”
Larsen smiled. “I must confess, my dear fellow, that I told a beastly lie. If you’d examine those bowls, you’d see they are about a hundred years old—the patina shows it. I bought ’em at the lamasery. Bonner and Stickley were decently buried.”
At this, you may judge how I stared at him!
“Well,” I said, angered at the way he had played on my nerves, “all I have to say is that you told a lie in rotten bad taste! Those two men were friends of yours, weren’t they? Then—”
“That,” he interposed cryptically, “was why I told the lie.”
I did not understand in the least. There was a restrained tension in his manner that puzzled me. His fingers were nervous on his cigar.
At this instant we heard a sharp sound punctuating the steady throb of the ship’s engines—a sharp, bursting sound about which could be no mistake. It was a shot.
“Ah!” Larsen came to his feet and took the two brown skull-bowls in his hand. “Ah! There is the rest of the story, old man, as I promised.”
“What the devil d’you mean?” I exclaimed.
“That was our friend Mainwaring—shot himself. I thought he’d do it. That’s why I told the lie in question. You see, Mainwaring was not his real name. His real name was—Creighton.”
And Larsen departed, leaving me to enjoy my cigar as best I could.
THE SINGER IN THE MIST, by Robert E. Howard
At birth a witch laid on me monstrous spells,
And I have trod strange highroads all my days,
Turning my feet to gray, unholy ways.
I grope for stems of broken asphodels;
High on the rims of bare, fiend-haunted fells,
I follow cloven tracks that lie ablaze;
And ghosts have led me through the moonlight’s haze
To talk with demons in the granite hells.
Seas crash upon dragon-guarded shores,
Bursting in crimson moons of burning spray,
And iron castles open to me their doors,
And serpent-women lure with harp and lay.
The misty waves shake now to phantom oars—
Seek not for me; I sail to meet the day.
EXOTIQUE, by Clark Ashton Smith
Thy mouth is like a crimson orchid-flow’r,
Whence perfume and whence poison rise unseen
To moons aswim in iris or in green,
Or mix with morning in an Eastern bow’r.
Thou shouldst have known, in amaranthine isles,
The sunsets hued like fire of frankincense,
Or the long noons enfraught with redolence,
The mingled spicery of purple miles.
Thy breasts, where blood and molten marble flow,
Thy warm white limbs, thy loins of tropic snow—
These, these, by which desire is grown divine,
Were made for dreams in mystic palaces,
For love, and sleep, and slow voluptuousness,
And summer seas afoam like foaming wine.
UNDER THE FLAME TREES, by H. de Vere Stacpoole
