The Mystery Megapack

hands or feet. A short distance from him there stood on a small stand one of the oil lamps that provided the room with its dim light. Roy saw a chance—a desperately remote one—and seized it.
    On a writhing movement he advanced on the lamp. His movements were unnoticed by the worshipping Hindus. He reached the lamp and got to his
    knees beside it. His back to the lamp, Roy held his wrists above the naked flame. A fearful scream echoed through the long room. The girl had recovered consciousness.
    Two of the Hindus jumped forward and held the screaming girl across the block of sacrifice. Ishan Das Babaji ceased his chanting and raised the great knife high above his head.
    The cords that bound Roy’s wrists snapped. Unmindful of seared flesh, Roy reached to his pocket, secured his knife, and cut the cords that bound his ankles.
    He seized the lamp and hurled it at the Bengali. The lamp struck Ishan Das Babaji on the side of the head. The Bengali dropped. The scanty clothing of the mad fiend burst into flame. The Hindu servants rushed about their master endeavoring to extinguish the flames. Roy ran to other lamps and threw them on the drapes and cushions. Oil-soaked, they blazed in a dozen fires.
    Before the excited Hindus, intent in their extravagant devotion on extinguishing the flames that enveloped their master, realized what had happened, Roy was in their midst at the block.
    The girl stood in a daze. Roy gripped her arm and pointed to the door. She stumbled. Roy gathered her into his arms.
    He was halfway across the large room when he heard a shout in Hindustani. He looked back and saw Ishan Das Babaji waving an arm toward him. Two Hindu servants ran across the room. Roy spurted and reached the door. He dropped the girl into the outer room. The foremost Hindu was on Roy. Roy reached forward and gripped the man by the neck. His thumbs bit deep into the fellow ’ s throat. Roy loosened his hold and swung on the man. The man dropped. Roy jumped forward, caught the second Hindu by the shoulders, spun him around and tossed him back into the room. Roy jumped backward into the next room and slammed down the steel panel door.
    The girl stood sobbing beside him. Roy gripped the girl’s hand. They ran to the reception hall. Roy heard loud hammering on the steel door. Apparently the Hindus were experiencing difficulty in opening it.
    There was a delay of a moment at the windowless doors while Roy found the double locks, and they stood outside the house.
    “I’ve got to go back for someone else,” Roy said. “Wait here, outside this door. I won’t be a minute. If anyone comes, run and yell.”
    She nodded tearfully. Roy ran to Margaret’s room. He wasted no time trying to arouse her. Terrific pounding on the steel door echoed through the house. Roy flung a robe around Margaret and carried her downstairs.
    He reached the door and found the girl waiting. They ran to an alley where Roy had left his car. He placed Margaret in the seat, then he and the girl climbed in beside her.
    Roy could not take them to a hotel as they were. He decided to invite the hospitality of a married sister.
    Margaret still lay in a heavy sleep. Roy turned to the girl.
    “My name’s Roy Martin. This is my fiancée, Margaret Miller.”
    “I’m Irma Rollins. And I can’t thank.…”
    “Then why try,” Roy laughed.
    “I’m driving first to my sister’s, then we can go to the police.”
    Roy put the two girls in his sister’s care. He told her as much as he could in two minutes while his sister bound his burnt wrists with ointment-soaked bandages. Roy moved his hands, decided he could drive in a kind of a way, and ran down to his car.
    His route to police headquarters took him close to the brownstone house. A strange fascination tempted him to drive past it.
    When a block away he saw flames leaping high in the sky above the house of Ishan Das Babaji. Fire apparatus stood in the street.
    Roy drove his car as near to the house as was possible. A small crowd stood in a rough circle near the house. Roy left his car and approached the group. He edged his way to the front rank and saw that the object of their attention was six badly charred bodies.
    He turned away from the gruesome spectacle and spoke to an officer on duty there. “Were they caught asleep?”
    “No,” the officer answered. “Some nut of a Hindu art collector lives there. He’s got steel walls to a bunch of the rooms. Scared of burglars. The whole crowd of them was