“They leaving them there?”
“For the time being. I’m going to have the car fingerprinted from hood to gas tank. And I’m having the boys form a line and close off the street. We’re going to go all over the things with a fine-toothed comb, looking for clues.
“If you want to run out there you’ll find Selby in charge. Tell him I said you were to have any of the news, and if you find out anything more, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Sure, cap. Sure!”
“Okay. So long.”
And Captain Harder heaved a tremulous sigh.
Sid Rodney walked rapidly down the corridor of the hospital, entered his car, drove at once to Seventy-first near where it intersected Boyle.
There was a curious crowd, being kept back by uniformed officers.
Sid showed his credentials, went through the lines, found Detective Sergeant Selby, and received all of the latest news.
“We kept trying to locate Soloman at his home. He came in, all right, and his wife told him we were trying to get him. He went to the telephone, presumably to call police headquarters, and the telephone rang just as he was reaching for the receiver.
“He said ‘hello,’ and then said a doubtful ‘yes.’ His wife heard that much of the conversation. Then she went into another room. After that she heard Soloman hang up the receiver, and walk into the hall where he reached for his hat and coat.
“He didn’t tell her a word about where he was going. Just walked out, got in his car, and drove away. She supposed he was coming to police headquarters.”
Sid lit a cigarette.
“Find out who he called?”
“Can’t seem to get a lead on it.”
“Was he excited?”
“His wife thought he was mad at something. He slammed the door as he went out.”
“These the clothes he was wearing?”
“Yes.”
Sid Rodney nodded.
“Looks just like another of those things. Thanks, Selby. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Keep sober,” said the police detective.
Sid Rodney drove to Arthur Soloman’s residence.
Newspaper reporters, photographers, and detectives were there before him. Mrs. Soloman was staring in dazed confusion, answering questions mechanically, posing for photographers.
She was a dried-out wisp of a woman, tired-eyed, docile with that docility which comes to one whose spirit has been completely crushed by the constant inhibitions imposed by a domineering mate.
Sid Rodney asked routine questions and received routine answers. He went through the formula of investigation, but there was a gnawing uneasiness in his mind. Some message seemed to be hammering at the borderline of his consciousness, as elusive as a dream, as important as a forgotten appointment.
Sid Rodney walked slightly to one side, tried to get away from the rattle of voices, the sputter of flash lights as various photographs were made.
So far there were only a few who appreciated the full significance of those vacant clothes, propped up behind the steering wheel of the empty automobile.
The telephone rang, rang with the insistent repetition of mechanical disinterest. Some one finally answered. There was a swirl of motion, a beckoning finger.
“Rodney, it’s for you.”
Vaguely wondering, Rodney placed the receiver to his ear. There was something he wanted to think about, something he wanted to do, and do at once. Yet it was evading his mind. The telephone call was just another interruption which would prevent sufficient concentration to get the answer he sought.
“Hello!” he rasped, and his voice did not conceal his irritation.
It was Ruby Orman on the line, and at the first sound of her voice Sid snapped to attention.
He knew, suddenly, what was bothering him.
Ruby should have been present at the Soloman house, getting sob-sister stuff on the fatherless children, the dazed widow who was trying to carry on, hoping against hope.
“What is it, Ruby?”
Her words rattled swiftly over the wire, sounded as a barrage of machine gun fire.
“Listen, Sid; get this straight, because I think it’s important. I’m not over there at Soloman’s because I’m running down something that I think is a hot lead. I want you to tell me something, and it may be frightfully important. What would a powder, rubbed in the hair, have to do with the disappearance, if it was the sort of disappearance you meant?”
Sid Rodney grunted and registered irritation.
“What are you doing, Ruby—kidding me?”
“No, no. Tell me. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“I don’t know, Ruby. Why?”
“Because I happen to know that Soloman had a little powder dusted on his hair. It was just a flick of the wrist that put it there. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It looked like a cigarette ash, but I noticed that it seemed to irritate him, and he kept scratching at his head. Did you notice?”
“No,” snapped Sid, interested. “What makes you think it had anything to do with what happened afterward?”
“Because I got to investigating about that powder, and wondering, and I casually mentioned the theory you had, and I felt a prickling in my scalp, and then I knew that some of that same powder had been put in my hair. I wonder if . . .
Sid Rodney was at instant attention.
“Where are you now?”
“Over in my apartment. I’ve got an appointment. It’s important. You can’t come over. If it’s what I think it is, the mystery is going to be solved. You’re right. It’s absolute zero, and— My God, Sid, it’s getting cold ...”
And there was nothing further, nothing save the faint sounds of something thump-thump-thumping—the receiver, dangling from the cord, thumping against the wall.
Rodney didn’t stop for his hat. He left the room on the run. A newspaper reporter saw him, called to him, ran to follow. Sid didn’t stop. He vaulted into his car, and his foot was pressing the starter before he had grabbed the wheel.
He floor-boarded the throttle, and skidded at the corner with the car lurching far over against the springs, the tires shrieking a protest.
He drove like a crazy man, getting to the apartment where Ruby Orman spent the time when she was not sob-sistering for her newspaper. He knew he could beat the elevator up the three flights of stairs, and took them two at a time.
The door of the apartment was closed. Sid banged his fist upon it in a peremptory knock and then rattled the knob.
“Oh, Ruby!” he called softly.
A canary was singing in the apartment. Aside from that, there wa£ no faintest suggestion of sound.
Sid turned the knob, pushed his shoulder against the door. It was unlocked. He walked into the apartment. The canary perked its head upon one side, chirped a welcome, then fluttered nervously to the other side of the cage.
Sid strode through the little sitting room to the dining room and kitchenette. The telephone was fastened to the wall here.
But the receiver was not dangling. It had been neatly replaced on its hook. But there was a pile of garments just below the telephone which made Sid stagger against the wall for a brief second before he dared to examine them.
He knew that skirt, that businesslike jacket, knew the sash, the shoes ... He stepped forward.
They were Ruby’s clothes, all right, lying there in a crumpled heap on the floor.
And at the sight Sid Rodney went berserk.
He flung himself from room to room, ripping open closet doors. For a wild moment he fought back his desire to smash things, tear clothes, rip doors from hinges.
Then he got a grip on himself, sank into a chair at the table, lit a cigarette with trembling hand. He must think.
Soloman had had something put in his hair, a powder which irritated . . . Ruby had seen that powder, flicked there—a casual gesture, probably, like a cigarette ash. The powder had irritated . . . Ruby had told some one person something of Rodney’s theory. Po
wder had been applied to her hair . . . She had known of it . . . She had telephoned . . . She had an appointment . . . And it had become cold . . . Then the clothes at the foot of the telephone . . .
And the chair in which Sid Rodney had been sitting was flung back upon its shivering legs as he leaped from the table —flung back by the violence of the motion with which he had gone into action.
He gained the door in three strides, took the stairs on the run, climbed into his automobile, and drove like some mythical dust jinni scurrying forward on the crest of a March wind.
He whizzed through street intersections, disregarded alike traffic laws and arterial stops, swung down a wide street given over to exclusive residences, and came to a stop before a large house constructed along the conventional lines of English architecture.
He jumped from the machine, ran rapidly up the steps, held his finger against the doorbell.
A man in livery came to the door, regarded him with grave yet passive disapproval.
“This is the residence of P. H. Dangerfield?”
“Yes.”
“His secretary, Mr. Sands, is here?”
“Yes.”
“I want to see him,” said Sid, and started to walk into the door.
The servant’s impassive face changed expression by not so much as a flicker, but he moved his broad bulk in such a manner as to stand between the detective and the stairs.
“If you’ll pardon me, sir, the library to the left is the reception room. If you will give me your name and wait there I’ll tell Mr. Sands that you are here. Then, if he wishes to see you, you will be notified.”
There was a very perceptible emphasis upon the word “if.”
Sid Rodney glanced over the man’s shoulder at the stairs.
“He’s upstairs, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, in the office, sir.”
Sid Rodney started up.
The servant moved with swiftness, once more blocking the way.
“I beg your pardon, sir!”
His eyes were hard, his voice firm.
Sid Rodney shook his head impatiently, as a fighter shakes the perspiration out of his eyes, as a charging bull shakes aside some minor obstruction.
“To hell with that stuff! I haven’t got time!”
And Sid Rodney pushed the servant to one side.
The man made a futile grab at Sid’s coat.
“Not so fast . . .”
Sid didn’t even look back. “Faster, then!” he said, with a cold grin.
The arm flashed around and down. The liveried servant spun, clutched at the cloth, missed, and went backward down the few steps to the landing.
Rodney was halfway up the stairs by the time the servant had scrambled over to hands and knees.
“Oh, Sands!” called Rodney.
There was no answer.
Rodney grunted, tried a door—a bedroom; another door— a bath; another door—the office.
It seemed vacant. A desk, a swivel chair, a leather-covered couch, several sectional bookcases, some luxuriously comfortable chairs, a filing case or two . . . and Sid Rodney jumped back with a startled exclamation.
A suit of clothes was spread out on the couch.
He ran toward it.
It was the checkered suit Sands had been wearing at the time of the interview at police headquarters. It was quite empty, was arranged after the manner of a suit spread out upon the couch in the same position a man would have assumed had he been resting.
Rodney bent over it.
There was no necktie around the collar of the shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were in the coat. The vest was buttoned over the shirt. The shoes were on the floor by the side of the couch, arranged as though they had been taken off by some man about to lie down.
CHAPTER 7
A Fiend Is Unmasked
Sid Rodney went through the pockets with swift fingers. He found a typewritten note upon a bit of folded paper. It bore his name and he opened and read it with staring eyes.
Sid Rodney, Ruby Orman, and Bob Sands, each one to be visited by the mysterious agency which has removed the others. This is no demand for money. This is a sentence of death.
Sid Rodney put the paper in his own pocket, took the watch from the suit, checked the time with the time of his own watch. They were identical as far as the position of the hands was concerned.
Sid Rodney replaced the watch, started through the rest of the pockets, found a cigarette case, an automatic lighter, a knife, fountain pen and pencil, a ring of keys, a wallet.
He opened the wallet.
It was crammed with bills, bills of large denomination. There were some papers as well, a letter in feminine handwriting, evidently written by an old friend, a railroad folder, a prospectus of an Oriental tour.
There was another object, an oblong of yellow paper, printed upon, with blanks left for data and signature. It was backed with carbon compound so as to enable a duplicate impression to be made, and written upon with pencil.
Sid studied it.
It was an express receipt for the shipment of a crate of machinery from George Huntley to Samuel Grove at 6372 Milpas Street. The address of the sender was given as 753 Washington Boulevard.
Sid puckered his forehead.
No. 753 Washington Boulevard was the address of Albert Crome.
Sid opened the cigarette case. Rather a peculiar odor struck his nostrils. There was a tobacco odor, also another odor, a peculiar, nostril-puckering odor.
He broke open one of the cigarettes.
So far as he could determine, the tobacco was of the ordinary variety, although there was a peculiar smell to it.
The lighter functioned perfectly. The fountain pen gave no hint of having been out of condition. Yet the clothes were as empty as an empty meal sack.
Sid Rodney walked to the door.
He found himself staring into the black muzzle of a huge revolver.
“Stand back, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but there have been strange goings on here, sir, and you’ll get your hands up, or, by the Lord, sir, I shall let you have it, right where you’re thickest, sir.”
It was the grim-faced servant, his eyes like steel, his mouth stretched across his face in a taut line of razor-thin determination.
Sid laughed.
“Forget it. I’m in a hurry, and . . .”
“When I count three, sir, I shall shoot . .
There was a leather cushion upon one of the chairs. Sid sat down upon that leather cushion, abruptly.
“Oh, come, let’s be reasonable.”
“Get your hands up.”
“Shucks, what harm can I do. I haven’t got a gun, and I only came here to see if I couldn’t . .
“One . . . two . .
Rodney raised his weight, flung himself to one side, reached around, grasped the leather cushion, and flung it. He did it all in one sweeping, scrambling motion.
The gun roared for the first time as he flung himself to one side. It roared the second time as the spinning cushion hurtled through the air.
Sid was conscious of the mushrooming of the cushion, the scattering of hair, the blowing of bits of leather. The cushion smacked squarely upon the end of the gun, blocking the third shot. Before there could have been a fourth, Sid had gone forward, tackling low. The servant crashed to the floor.
It was no time for etiquette, the hunting of neutral comers, or any niceties of sportsmanship. The stomach of the servant showed for a moment, below the rim of the leather cushion, and Sid’s fist was planted with nice precision and a degree of force which was sufficiently adequate, right in the middle of that stomach.
The man doubled, gasped, struggled for air.
Sid Rodney took the gun from the nerveless fingers, scaled it down the hall where it could do no harm, and made for the front door. He went out on the run.
Once in his car, he started for the address which had been given on the receipt of the express company as the destination of the parcel of machinery, Samuel Grove at 63
72 Milpas Street. It was a slender clue, yet it was the only one that Sid possessed.
He made the journey at the same breakneck speed that had characterized his other trips. The car skidded to the curb in front of a rather sedate-looking house which was in a section of the city where exclusive residences had slowly given way to cleaning establishments, tailor shops, small industries, cheap boarding houses.
Sid ran up the steps, tried the bell.
There was no response. He turned the knob of the door. It was locked. He started to turn away when his ears caught the light flutter of running steps upon an upper floor.
The steps were as swiftly agile as those of a fleeing rabbit. There followed, after a brief interval, the sound of pounding feet, a smothered scream, then silence.
Sid rang the bell again.
Again there was no answer.
There was a window to one side of the door. Sid tried to raise it, and found that it was unlocked. The sash slid up, and Sid clambered over the sill, dropped to the floor of a cheaply furnished living room.
He could hear the drone of voices from the upper floor, and he walked to the door, jerked it open, started up the stairs. Some instinct made him proceed cautiously, yet the stairs creaked under the weight of his feet.
He was halfway up the stairs when the talking ceased.
Once more he heard the sounds of a brief struggle, a struggle that was terminated almost as soon as it had begun. Such a struggle might come from a cat that has caught a mouse, lets it almost get away, then swoops down upon it with arched back and needle-pointed claws.
Then there was a man’s voice, and he could hear the words:
“Just a little of the powder on your hair, my sweet, and it will be almost painless ... You know too much, you and your friend. But it’ll all be over now. I knew he would be suspecting me, so I left my clothes where they’d fool him. And I came and got you.
“You washed that first powder out of your hair, didn’t you, sweet? But this time you won’t do it. Yes, my sweet, I knew Crome was mad. But I played on his madness to make him do the things I wanted done. And then, when he had become quite mad, I stole one of his machines.
The Human Zero and Other Science-Fiction Masterpieces Page 5
