1
Names in the Black Book
Robert E. Howard
"Three unsolved murders in a week are not so unusual--for River Street," grunted Steve Harrison, shifting his muscular bulk restlessly in his chair.
His companion lighted a cigarette and Harrison observed that her slim hand was none too steady. She was exotically beautiful, a dark, supple figure, with the rich colors of purple Eastern nights and crimson dawns in her dusky hair and red lips. But in her dark eyes Harrison glimpsed the shadow of fear. Only once before had he seen fear in those marvelous eyes, and the memory made him vaguely uneasy.
"It's your business to solve murders," she said.
"Give me a little time. You can't rush things, when you're dealing with the people of the Oriental quarter."
"You have less time than you think," she answered cryptically. "If you do not listen to me, you'll never solve these killings."
"I'm listening."
"But you won't believe. You'll say I'm hysterical--seeing ghosts and shying at shadows."
"Look here, Joan," he exclaimed impatiently. "Come to the point. You called me to your apartment and I came because you said you were in deadly danger. But now you're talking riddles about three men who were killed last week. Spill it plain, won't you?"
"Do you remember Erlik Khan?" she asked abruptly.
Involuntarily his hand sought his face, where a thin scar ran from temple to jaw-rim.
"I'm not likely to forget him," he said. "A Mongol who called himself Lord of the Dead. His idea was to combine all the Oriental criminal societies in America in one big organization, with himself at the head.