The Human Zero and Other Science-Fiction Masterpieces

by Sam Moskowitz

  This is the final and last warning.

  X.

  Captain Harder’s eyes were wide.

  “Good Lord, has that man got a dictograph running into this office?”

  Sands made a helpless gesture with the palms of his hands. He was white, his teeth were chattering, and his knees seemed utterly devoid of strength.

  “I don’t know. He’s a devil. He’s always seemed to know just what was going on. And he surely must have known Dangerfield’s habits from A to Z. I’m frightened.”

  Captain Harder walked to the door.

  “Send in a couple of men to search this place for a dictograph,” he said. Then he turned on his heel, gave a swing of his arm. “Come on in another room, you folks. We’ll go into this thing.”

  The little group trooped into one of the other offices.

  “All right, Rodney. You were mentioning a scientist. What of him?”

  “I went to his office,” said Rodney, “and tried to engage him in conversation. He wouldn’t talk. I asked him what he knew about Dangerfield, and he all but frothed at the mouth. He said Dangerfield was a crook, a pirate, a robber. Then he slammed the door.

  “But, here’s the point. I got a peep at the inside of his office. There was a Royal portable in there, and these letters that were received demanding ransom were written on a Royal portable.

  “It’s not much of a lead, and it’s one that the police will have to run down—now. If it’s a matter of life and death, and working against time, then it’s too big for our agency to handle. But my opinion is that Albert Crome was violently insane, at least upon the subject of Dangerfield.”

  The police captain whirled to Sands.

  “What sort of a car were these men using?”

  “You mean the men who tossed the letter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t tell you. I know it’s stupid of me, but I just got too rattled to notice. It was a big car, and it looked as though it might have been a Cadillac, or a Buick, or a Packard. It might even have been some other make. I was rattled.”

  The captain snorted.

  “What do you know about Crome?”

  Sands blinked.

  “I know Mr. Dangerfield was negotiating for the purchase of some patent rights, or the financing of some formula or something, but that’s about all. The deal fell through.” “Ever meet Crome?”

  The secretary hesitated, knitted his brows.

  “You’ll have to let me think ... Yes, yes, of course I did. I met him several times. Some of the negotiations were carried on through me;”

  “Impress you as being a little off?” asked Sid Rodney, drawling the question, his inevitable cigarette dangling loosely from the corner of his mouth as he talked.

  “No. He impressed me as being a pretty wide awake sort of a chap, very much of a gentleman, with a high sense of honor.”

  *

  Captain Harder pressed a button.

  “Take these letters. Have ’em photographed,” he told the man who answered the buzzer. “Check the typewriting with the others. Then get me everything you can get on Albert Crome. I want to know what he’s been doing with his time the last few days, who he associates with, who’s seen him lately, where he lives, what he’s doing with his work, everything about him.

  “And if you can get a man into his offices and laboratory, I want a specimen of the typewriting that comes from the portable machine he’s got—a Royal.”

  The man nodded, withdrew.

  Captain Harder grinned at the little group.

  “Well, we might go down to T-Bone Frank’s and have a cup of coffee and some eats. Maybe we’ll have something new when we get back.”

  Sands fidgeted.

  “I don’t want anything to eat.”

  “Well, you’d better wait a little while, Sands. You know that threat may mean nothing. Then again, it may mean a lot.”

  Sands nodded.

  “Are you going to tell Soloman?”

  “Yes. I’ll give him a ring, I guess. Maybe I’d better do it before he gets home and to bed. Let’s see, I’ve got his number here. I’ll give him a buzz and break the glad tidings and then put a couple of the boys on guard in front of the place. It’ll make him think a little. Didn’t like his attitude, myself . . . Oh, well!”

  He gave the exchange operator the number, replaced the receiver, fished a cigar from his pocket, and scraped a noisy match along the sole of his shoe.

  Ruby Orman scribbled on her pad of paper: “In tense silence, these men waited grimly for the dawn.”

  Charles Ealy put a matter-of-fact question.

  “Can we get these letters for the noon editions, Harry?”

  “What’s the deadline?” asked the captain.

  “We’d have to have them by eight o’clock in order to get the plates ready.”

  “I guess so. It ain’t eight o’clock yet.”

  Ealy perked up his ears.

  “You speak as though you had something up your sleeve,” he said.

  The officer nodded grimly.

  “I have,” he said.

  The telephone rang. Captain Harder cupped his ear to the receiver.

  “Funny,” he said, “Soloman’s residence says he’s not home yet.” Then: “Keep calling. Tell him I want to speak to him. It’s important.”

  They went to the all-night restaurant, lingered over coffee and sandwiches. They were all nervous, with the exception of Sid Rodney. That individual seemed to be utterly relaxed, but it was the inactivity of a cat who is sprawled in the sun, keeping a lazy eye upon a fluttering bird, trying to locate the nest.

  Charles Ealy watched Sid Rodney narrowly. Once he nodded slowly.

  They finished their meal, returned to headquarters.

  “Heard from Soloman?” asked Captain Harder.

  Sergeant Green, at the desk, shook his head.

  “They keep saying he hasn’t returned. But we’ve unearthed some stuff about Crome from ou* department files. He wanted a permit to establish an experimenting station in a loft building downtown. Had the lease on the place and was all ready to go ahead when he found out he had to have a permit to operate the sort of a place he wanted.

  “He was turned down on the permit after it appeared that his experiments were likely to increase the fire hazard, and he was bitter about it.”

  Captain Harder grunted.

  “That doesn’t help much.”

  “Did he send in any typewritten letters?” asked Sid Rodney.

  “Maybe. I’ll look in the files. Most of those things would be in another file.”

  “Got the address of the loft building?”

  “Yes—632 Grant Street. That’s down near the wholesale district, a little side street.”

  Sid nodded.

  “Yeah. I know. What say we take a run down there, captain?”

  “Why? He was turned down on his permit. There’s nothing there for us.”

  Rodney lit a fresh cigarette and resumed.

  “The man’s a scientist. He hates Dangerfield. He impresses me as being very much unbalanced. He’s got a loft that isn’t being used. Now if he should happen to be mixed up in the kidnaping, where would be a better place to keep a prisoner than in an unused loft building, that had been taken over and fitted up as an experimental laboratory?”

  Captain Harder grinned.

  “You win,” he said. “Get me half a dozen of the boys out, sergeant. I’m going down there myself and give it a once over. Better take along a bunch of keys.”

  “Do we go along?” asked Ealy, his eyes twinkling.

  Captain Harder grinned.

  “Certainly not,” he said.

  Sands took him seriously.

  “I’m glad of that. I’m simply all in. I want to go and get some sleep, a bath, and a shave.”

  Captain Harder looked sympathetic.

  “I know, Sands. Ealy and I were kidding. But if you feel all in, go home and get some sleep. We’ve got your number. We’ll call yo
u if there’s anything there.”

  “How about an escort?” asked Rodney. “Those threats, you know . .

  Sands vehemently shook his head.

  “No. I don’t want to advertise to the neighborhood that I’m afraid. I’ll go on home and sleep. I’m safe for twelve hours yet, anyway. If you think there’s any danger at the end of that time, I’ll move into a hotel and you can give me a guard.” Captain Harder nodded in agreement.

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Into Thin Air

  The two police cars slid smoothly to the curb before the loft building.

  The first streaks of dawn were tingeing the buildings in the concrete canon of loft buildings, wholesale houses and nondescript apartments.

  Captain Harder jerked his thumb.

  “This is the place. No use standin’ on formality. Let’s go up. He had the whole building leased. Looks vacant now.”

  The men moved across the echoing sidewalk in a compact group. There was the jingle of keys against the brass lock plate, and then the click of a bolt. The door opened. A flight of stairs, an automatic elevator, a small lobby, showed in the reddish light of early morning. There was a musty smell about the place.

  “Take the elevator,” said Captain Harder. “Then we won’t have so much trouble . . . funny he leased the whole building in advance of a permit. This lease cost him money.”

  No one said anything. They opened the door of the elevator. Then they drew back with an exclamation.

  “Look there!” said one of the men.

  There was a stool in the elevator. Upon that stool was a tray, and upon the tray was some food, remnants of sandwiches, a cup of coffee, the sides stained where trickles of the liquid had slopped over the side of the cup.

  Captain Harder smelled the cup, jabbed a finger into the crust of the sandwiches.

  “Looks like it’s less than twenty-four hours old,” he said.

  The men examined the tray.

  Captain Harder snapped into swift activity. It was plainly apparent that the curiosity which had sent him down to the loft building for a “look around” merely because there were no other clues to run down, had given place to well-defined suspicion.

  “Here, Bill. You take one of the boys with you and watch the steps. Frank, get out your gun and watch the fire escape. Go around the back way, through the alley. We’ll keep quiet and give you three minutes to get stationed. Then we’re going up.

  “If you see any one, order him to stop. If he doesn’t obey, shoot to kill. George, you go with Frank. The rest of us are going up in the elevator.”

  He took out his watch.

  “Three minutes,” he said.

  The men snapped into action.

  Captain Harder held a thumb nail upon the dial of his big watch, marking the time.

  “Okay,” he said, at length. “Let’s go. You two birds on the stairs, make sure you don’t get above the first floor without covering every inch of ground you pass. We don’t want any one to duck out on us. If you hear any commotion, don’t come unless I blow my whistle. Watch those stairs!”

  He closed the door of the elevator, jabbed the button marked by the figure “1.”

  The elevator creaked and swayed upward at a snail’s pace, came to the first floor, and stopped. Captain Harder propped the door open, emerged into a hallway, found himself facing two doors.

  Both were unlocked. He opened first one, and then the other.

  There were disclosed two empty lofts, littered with papers and rubbish. They were bare of furniture, untenanted. Even the closet doors were open, and they could see into the interiors of them.

  “Nothing doing,” said the officer. “Guess it’s a false alarm, but we’ll go on up.”

  They returned to the elevator, pressed the next button.

  There were three floors, narrow, but deep.

  The second floor was like the first as far as the doors were concerned. But as soon as Captain Harder opened the first door, it was at once apparent they were on a warm trail.

  The place was fitted up with benches, with a few glass jars, test tubes, some rather complicated apparatus enclosed in a glass case. There were a few jars of chemical, and there were some more trays with food remnants upon them.

  “Somebody,” said Captain Harder grimly, making sure his service revolver was loose in its holster, “is living here. Wonder what’s in that room on the comer. Door looks solid enough.”

  He pushed his way forward through the litter on the floor, twisted the knob of the door.

  “Locked,” he said, “and feels solid as stone.”

  And, at that moment, sounding weak and faint, as though coming from a great distance, came a cry, seeping through the door from the room beyond, giving some inkling of the thickness of the door.

  “Help, help, help! This is Paul Dangerfield. Help me! Help me!”

  Captain Harder threw his weight against the door. As well have thrown his weight against the solid masonry of a wall.

  “Hello,” he called. “Are you safe, Dangerfield? This is the police!”

  The men could hear the sound of frantic blows on the opposite side of the door.

  “Thank God! Quick, get me out of here. Smash in the door. It’s a foot thick. Get something to batter it down with!”

  The words were faint, muffled. The blows which sounded upon the other side of the door gave evidence of the thickness and strength of the portal.

  Captain Harder turned to one of the men.

  “How about keys?”

  “I’ve got ’em, Captain, but where do we put ’em?”

  The officer stepped back to look at the door.

  There was not a sign of a lock or keyhole in it. There was a massive knob, but nothing else to show that the door differed from the side of the wall, save the hairline which marked its borders.

  “Smash it in! All together!”

  They flung themselves against the door.

  Their efforts were utterly unavailing.

  “Hurry, hurry!” yelled the voice on the other side of the door. “He’s going to . . . No, no! Don’t. Oh! Go away! Don’t touch that door. Oh . . . Oh . . . Not that!”

  The voice rose to a piercing wail of terror, and then was silent. The squad pounded on the door, received no answer.

  Captain Harder whirled to examine the loft.

  “There’s a bar over there. Let’s get this door down.”

  He raised the whistle to his lips, blew a shrill blast. The two men who had been guarding the stairs came up on the run.

  “Get this door down!” snapped the police captain. “And let’s make it snappy.”

  They held a block of wood so that it formed a fulcrum for the bar, inserted the curved end, started to pry. The door was as solid as though it had been an integral part of the wall. Slowly, however, the men managed to get the bar inserted to a point where the leverage started to spring the bolts.

  Yet it was a matter of minutes, during which time there was no sound whatever from that mysterious inner room.

  At length the door swayed, creaked, pried unevenly, sprung closed as the men shifted their grips on the bar to get a fresh purchase.

  “Now, then, boys!” said Captain Harder, perspiration streaming down from his forehead and into his eyes. “Let’s go!”

  They flung themselves into the work. The door tottered, creaked, slowly pried loose, and then banged open.

  The squad stared at a room built without windows. There was ventilation which came through a grating in the roof. This grating was barred with inch-thick iron bars. The air sucked out through one section, came blowing through another. The air seemed fresh enough, yet there was an odor in that room which was a stale stench of death. It was the peculiar, sickeningly sweet odor which hangs about a house which has been touched by death.

  There was a table, a reclining chair, a carpet, a tray of food, a bed. The room gave evidence of having been lived in.

  But it was vacant, so far as any living
thing was concerned.

  On the floor, near the door which had been forced, was a pile of clothing. The clothing was sprawled out as though it had covered the form of a man who had toppled backward to the door, stretched his full length upon the floor, and then been withdrawn from his garments.

  Captain Harder bent to an examination of the garments. There was a watch in the pocket which had stopped. The stopping of the watch was exactly five minutes before, at about the time the officers had begun pounding at the door.

  There was a suit of silk underwear inside of the outer garments. The tie was neatly knotted about the empty collar. The sleeves of the shirt were down inside the sleeves of the coat. There were socks which nested down inside the shoes, as though thrust there by some invisible foot.

  There was no word spoken.

  Those officers, reporters, detectives, hardened by years of experience to behold the gruesome, stared speechlessly at that vacant bundle of clothing.

  Charles Ealy was the one who broke the silence.

  “Good heavens! There’s been a man in these clothes and he’s been sucked out, like a bit of dirt being sucked up into a vacuum cleaner!”

  Captain Harder regained control of himself with an effort. His skin was still damp with perspiration, but that perspiration had cooled until it presented an oily slime which accentuated the glistening pallor of his skin.

  “It’s a trap, boys. It’s a damned clever trap, but it’s just a trap. There couldn’t have been . . .”

  He didn’t finish, for Ruby Orman, speaking in a hushed voice, pointed to one of the shoes.

  “Try,” she said, “just try fitting a sock into the toe of that shoe the way this one is fitted, and try doing it while the shoe’s laced, or do it and then lace the shoe afterward, and see where you get.”

  “Humph,” said Ealy, “as far as that’s concerned, try getting a necktie around the collar of a shirt and then fitting a coat and vest around the shirt.”

  Captain Harder cleared his throat and addressed them all.