Astounding Stories of Super-Science September 1930

by Various

  _"When I am finished, Dale, I shall probably kill you."_]

  The Murder Machine

  _By Hugh B. Cave_

  [Sidenote: Four lives lay helpless before the murder machine, theuncanny device by which hypnotic thought-waves are filtered throughmen's minds to mold them into murdering tools!]

  It was dusk, on the evening of December 7, 1906, when I firstencountered Sir John Harmon. At the moment of his entrance I wasstanding over the table in my study, a lighted match in my cupped handsand a pipe between my teeth. The pipe was never lit.

  I heard the lower door slam shut with a violent clatter. The stairsresounded to a series of unsteady footbeats, and the door of my studywas flung back. In the opening, staring at me with quiet dignity, stooda young, careless fellow, about five feet ten in height and decidedlydark of complexion. The swagger of his entrance branded him as anadventurer. The ghastly pallor of his face, which was almost colorless,branded him as a man who has found something more than mere adventure.

  "Doctor Dale?" he demanded.

  "I am Doctor Dale."

  He closed the door of the room deliberately, advancing toward me withslow steps.

  "My name is John Harmon--Sir John Harmon. It is unusual, I suppose," hesaid quietly, with a slight shrug, "coming at this late hour. I won'tkeep you long."

  He faced me silently. A single glance at those strained featuresconvinced me of the reason for his coming. Only one thing can bring sucha furtive, restless stare to a man's eyes. Only one thing--fear.

  "I've come to you. Dale, because--" Sir John's fingers closed heavilyover the edge of the table--"because I am on the verge of going mad."

  "From fear?"

  "From fear, yes. I suppose it is easy to discover. A single look atme...."

  "A single look at you," I said simply, "would convince any man that youare deadly afraid of something. Do you mind telling me just what it is?"

  * * * * *

  He shook his head slowly. The swagger of the poise was gone; he stoodupright now with a positive effort, as if the realization of hisposition had suddenly surged over him.

  "I do not know," he said quietly. "It is a childish fear--fear of thedark, you may call it. The cause does not matter; but if something doesnot take this unholy terror away, the effect will be madness."

  I watched him in silence for a moment, studying the shrunken outline ofhis face and the unsteady gleam of his narrowed eyes. I had seen thisman before. All London had seen him. His face was constantly appearingin the sporting pages, a swaggering member of the upper set--a man whohad been engaged to nearly every beautiful woman in the country--whosought adventure in sport and in night life, merely for the sake ofliving at top speed. And here he stood before me, whitened by fear, thevery thing he had so deliberately laughed at!

  "Dale," he said slowly, "for the past week I have been thinking thingsthat I do not want to think and doing things completely against my will.Some outside power--God knows what it is--is controlling my veryexistence."

  He stared at me, and leaned closer across the table.

  "Last night, some time before midnight," he told me, "I was sittingalone in my den. Alone, mind you--not a soul was in the house with me.I was reading a novel; and suddenly, as if a living presence had stoodin the room and commanded me, I was forced to put the book down. Ifought against it, fought to remain in that room and go on reading. AndI failed."

  "Failed?" My reply was a single word of wonder.

  * * * * *

  "I left my home: because I could not help myself. Have you ever beenunder hypnotism, Dale? Yes? Well, the thing that gripped me wassomething similar--except that no living person came near me in order towork his hypnotic spell. I went alone, the whole way. Through backstreets, alleys, filthy dooryards--never once striking a mainthoroughfare--until I had crossed the entire city and reached the westside of the square. And there, before a big gray town-house, I wasallowed to stop my mad wandering. The power, whatever it was, broke.I--well, I went home."

  Sir John got to his feet with an effort, and stood over me.

  "Dale," he whispered hoarsely, "what was it?"

  "You were conscious of every detail?" I asked. "Conscious of the time,of the locality you went to? You are sure it was not some fantasticdream?"

  "Dream! Is it a dream to have some damnable force move me about like amechanical robot?"

  "But.... You can think of no explanation?" I was a bit skeptical of hisstory.

  He turned on me savagely.

  "I have no explanation. Doctor," he said curtly. "I came to you for theexplanation. And while you are thinking over my case during the next fewhours, perhaps you can explain this: when I stood before that graymansion on After Street, alone in the dark, there was murder in myheart. I should have killed the man who lived in that house, had I notbeen suddenly released from the force that was driving me forward!"

  Sir John turned from me in bitterness. Without offering any word ofdeparture, he pulled open the door and stepped across the sill. The doorclosed, and I was alone.

  * * * * *

  That was my introduction to Sir John Harmon. I offer it in detailbecause it was the first of a startling series of events that led to themost terrible case of my career. In my records I have labeled the entirecase "The Affair of the Death Machine."

  Twelve hours after Sir John's departure--which will bring the time, tothe morning of December 8--the headlines of the Daily Mail stared up atme from the table. They were black and heavy: those headlines, andhorribly significant. They were:

  FRANKLIN WHITE Jr. FOUND MURDERED

  Midnight Marauder Strangles Young Society Man in West-End Mansion

  I turned the paper hurriedly, and read:

  Between the hours of one and two o'clock this morning, an unknown murderer entered the home of Franklin White, Jr., well known West-End sportsman, and escaped, leaving behind his strangled victim.

  Young White, who is a favorite in London upper circles, was discovered in his bed this morning, where he had evidently lain dead for many hours. Police are seeking a motive for the crime, which may have its origin in the fact that White only recently announced his engagement to Margot Vernee, young and exceedingly pretty French debutante.

  Police say that the murderer was evidently an amateur, and that he made no attempt to cover his crime. Inspector Thomas Drake of Scotland Yard has the case.

  There was more, much more. Young White had evidently been a decidedfavorite, and the murder had been so unexpected, so deliberate, that theMail reporter had made the most of his opportunity for a story. Butaside from what I have reprinted, there was only a single shortparagraph which claimed my attention. It was this:

  The White home is not a difficult one to enter. It is a huge gray town-house, situated just off the square, in After Street. The murderer entered by a low French window, leaving it open.

  I have copied the words exactly as they were printed. The item does notcall for any comment.

  * * * * *

  But I had hardly dropped the paper before she stood before me. I say"she"--it was Margot Vernee, of course--because for some peculiar reasonI had expected her. She stood quietly before me, her cameo face, set inthe black of mourning, staring straight into mine.

  "You know why I have come?" she said quickly.

  I glanced at the paper on the table before me, and nodded. Her eyesfollowed my glance.

  "That is only part of it, Doctor," she said. "I was in love withFranklin--very much--but I have come to you for something more. Becauseyou are a famous psychologist, and can help me."

  She sat down quietly, leaning forward so that her arms rested on thetable. Her face was white, almost as white as the face of that youngadventurer who had come to me on the previous evening. And when shespoke, her voice was hardly more than a whisper.


  "Doctor, for many days now I have been under some strange power.Something frightful, that compels me to think and act against my will."

  She glanced at me suddenly, as if to note the effect of her words. Then:

  "I was engaged to Franklin for more than a month, Doctor: yet for aweek now I have been commanded--commanded--by some awful force, toreturn to--to a man who knew me more than two years ago. I can't explainit. I did not love this man; I hated him bitterly. Now comes this maddesire, this hungering, to go to him. And last night--"

  * * * * *

  Margot Vernee hesitated suddenly. She stared at me searchingly. Then,with renewed courage, she continued.

  "Last night, Doctor, I was alone. I had retired for the night, and itwas late, nearly three o'clock. And then I was strangely commanded, bythis awful power that has suddenly taken possession, of my soul, to goout. I tried to restrain myself, and in the end I found myself walkingthrough the square. I went straight to Franklin White's home. When Ireached there, it was half past three--I could hear Big Ben. I wentin--through the wide French window at the side of the house. I wentstraight to Franklin's room--_because I could not prevent myself fromgoing_."

  A sob came from Margot's lips. She had half risen from her chair, andwas holding herself together with a brave effort. I went to her side andstood over her. And she, with a half crazed laugh, stared up at me.

  "He was dead when I saw him!" she cried. "Dead! Murdered! That infernalforce, what ever it was, had made me go straight to my lover's side, tosee him lying there, with those cruel finger marks on his throat--dead,I tell you, I--oh, it is horrible!"

  She turned suddenly.

  "When I saw him," she said bitterly, "the sight of him--and the sight ofthose marks--broke the spell that held me. I crept from the house as ifI had killed him. They--they will probably find out that I was there,and they will accuse me of the murder. It does not matter. But thispower--this awful thing that has been controlling me--is there no wayto fight it?"

  I nodded heavily. The memory, of that unfortunate fellow who had come tome with the same complaint was still holding me. I was prepared to washmy hands of the whole horrible affair. It was clearly not a medicalcase, clearly out of my realm.

  "There is a way to fight it," I said quietly. "I am a doctor, not amaster of hypnotism, or a man who can discover the reasons behind thathypnotism. But London has its Scotland Yard, and Scotland Yard has a manwho is one of my greatest comrades...."

  She nodded her surrender. As I stepped to the telephone, I heard hermurmur, in a weary, troubled voice:

  "Hypnotism? It is not that. God knows what it is. But it has alwayshappened when I have been alone. One cannot hypnotise throughdistance...."

  * * * * *

  And so, with Margot Vernee's consent, I sought the aid of InspectorThomas Drake, of Scotland Yard. In half an hour Drake stood beside me,in the quiet of my study. When he had heard Margot's story, he asked asingle significant question. It was this:

  "You say you have a desire to go back to a man who was once intimatewith you. Who is he?"

  Margot looked at him dully.

  "It is Michael Strange," she said slowly. "Michael Strange, of Paris. Astudent of science."

  Drake nodded. Without further questioning he dismissed my patient; andwhen she had gone, he turned to me.

  "She did not murder her sweetheart, Dale" he said. "That is evident.Have you any idea who did?"

  And so I told him of that other young man. Sir John Harmon, who had cometo me the night before. When I had finished. Drake stared at me--staredthrough me--and suddenly turned on his heel.

  "I shall be back, Dale," he said curtly. "Wait for me!"

  * * * * *

  Wait for him! Well, that was Drake's peculiar way of going about things.Impetuous, sudden--until he faced some crisis. Then, in the face ofdanger, he became a cold, indifferent officer of Scotland Yard.

  And so I waited. During the twenty-four hours that elapsed before Drakereturned to my study, I did my best to diagnose the case before me.First, Sir John Harmon--his visit to the home of Franklin White.Then--the deliberate murder. And, finally, young Margot Vernee, and herconfession. It was like the revolving whirl of a pinwheel, this seriesof events: continuous and mystifying, but without beginning or end.Surely, somewhere in the procession of horrors, there would be a looseend to cling to. Some loose end that would eventually unravel thepinwheel!

  It was plainly not a medical affair, or at least only remotely so. Thething was in proper hands, then, with Drake following it through. And Ihad only to wait for his return.

  He came at last, and closed the door of the room behind him. He stoodover me with something of a swagger.

  "Dale, I have been looking into the records of this Michael Strange," hesaid quietly. "They are interesting, those records. They go back someten years, when this fellow Strange was beginning his study of science.And now Michael Strange is one of the greatest authorities in Paris onthe subject of mental telegraphy. He has gone into the study of humanthought with the same thoroughness that other scientists go into thesubject of radio telegraphy. He has written several books on thesubject."

  Drake pulled a tiny black volume from the pocket of his coat and droppedit on the table before me. With one hand he opened it to a place whichhe had previously marked in pencil.

  "Read it," he said significantly.

  * * * * *

  I looked at him in wonder, and then did as he ordered. What I read wasthis:

  "Mental telegraphy is a science, not a myth. It is a very real fact, avery real power which can be developed only by careful research. To mostpeople it is merely a curiosity. They sit, for instance, in a crowdedroom at some uninteresting lecture, and stare continually at the back ofsome unsuspecting companion until that companion, by the power ofsuggestion, turns suddenly around. Or they think heavily of a certainperson nearby, perhaps commanding him mentally to hum a certain populartune, until the victim, by the power of their will, suddenly fulfillsthe order. To such persons, the science of mental telegraphy is merelyan amusement.

  "And so it will be, until science has brought it to such a perfectionthat these waves of thought can be broadcast--that they can betransmitted through the ether precisely as radio waves are transmitted.In other words, mental telegraphy is at present merely a mild form ofhypnotism. Until it has been developed so that those hypnotic powers canbe directed through space, and directed accurately to those individualsto whom they are intended, this science will have no significance. Itremains for scientists of to-day to bring about that development."

  I closed the book. When I looked up, Drake was watching me intently, asif expecting me to say something.

  "Drake," I said slowly, more to myself than to him, "the pinwheel isbeginning to unravel. We have found the beginning thread. Perhaps, if wefollow that thread...."

  Drake smiled.

  "If you'll pick up your hat and coat, Dale," he interrupted, "I think wehave an appointment. This Michael Strange, whose book you have justenjoyed so immensely, is now residing on a certain quiet little sidestreet about three miles from the square, in London!"

  * * * * *

  I followed Drake in silence, until we had left Cheney Lane in the gloombehind us. At the entrance to the square my companion called a cab; andfrom there on we rode slowly, through a heavy darkness which wasblanketed by a wet, penetrating fog. The cabby, evidently one who knewmy companion by sight (and what London cabby does not know his ScotlandYard men!) chose a route that twisted through gloomy, uninhabited sidestreets, seldom winding into the main route of traffic.

  As for Drake, he sank back in the uncomfortable seat and made no attemptat conversation. For the entire first part of our journey he saidnothing. Not until we had reached a black, unlighted section of the citydid he turn to me.

  "Dale," he said at length, "have you ever hunted
tiger?"

  I looked at him and laughed.

  "Why?" I replied. "Do you expect this hunt of ours will be something ofa blind chase?"

  "It will be a blind chase, no doubt of it," he said. "And when we havefollowed the trail to its end, I imagine we shall find something verylike a tiger to deal with. I have looked rather deeply into MichaelStrange's life, and unearthed a bit of the man's character. He has twicebeen accused of murder--murder by hypnotism--and has twice clearedhimself by throwing scientific explanations at the police. That is thenature of his entire history for the past ten years."

  * * * * *

  I nodded, without replying. As Drake turned away from me again, our cabpoked its laboring nose into a narrowing, gloomy street. I had a glimpseof a single unsteady street lamp on the corner, and a dim sign, "MateLane." And then we were dragging along the curb. The cab stopped with agroan.

  I had stepped down and was standing by the cab door when suddenly, fromthe darkness in front of me, a strange figure advanced to my side. Heglanced at me intently; then, seeing that I was evidently not the man hesought, he turned to Drake. I heard a whispered greeting and anundertone of conversation. Then, quietly, Drake stepped toward me.

  "Dale," he said. "I thought it best that I should not show myself hereto-night. No, there is no time for explanation now; you will understandlater. Perhaps"--significantly--"sooner than you anticipate. InspectorHartnett will go through the rest of this pantomime with you."

  I shook hands with Drake's man, still rather bewildered at the suddensubstitution. Then, before I was aware of it, Drake had vanished and thecab was gone. We were alone, Hartnett and I, in Mate Lane.

  The home of Michael Strange--number seven--was hardly inviting. No lightwas in evidence. The big house stood like a huge, unadorned vault setback from the street, some distance from its adjoining buildings. Theheavy steps echoed to our footbeats as we mounted them in the darkness;and the sound of the bell, as Hartnett pressed it came sharply to usfrom the silence of the interior.

  * * * * *

  We stood there, waiting. In the short interval before the door opened,Hartnett glanced at his watch (it was nearly ten o'clock), and said tome:

  "I imagine, Doctor, we shall meet a blank wall. Let me do the talking,please."

  That was all. In another moment the big door was pulled slowly open fromthe inside, and in the entrance, glaring out at us, stood the man we hadcome to see. It is not hard to remember that first impression of MichaelStrange. He was a huge man, gaunt and haggard, moulded with the hunchedshoulders and heavy arms of a gorilla. His face seemed to beunconsciously twisted into a snarl. His greeting, which came only afterhe had stared at us intently, for nearly a minute, was curt andrasping.

  "Well, gentlemen? What is it?"

  "I should like a word with Dr. Michael Strange," said my companionquietly.

  "I am Michael Strange."

  "And I," replied Hartnett, with a suggestion of a smile, "am RaoulHartnett, from Scotland Yard."

  I did not see any sign of emotion on Strange's face. He stepped back insilence to allow us to enter. Then closing the big door after us, he ledthe way along a carpeted hall to a small, ill-lighted room just beyond.Here he motioned us to be seated, he himself standing upright beside thetable, facing us.

  "From Scotland Yard," he said, and the tone was heavy with dull sarcasm."I am at your service, Mr. Hartnett."

  * * * * *

  And now, for the first time, I wondered just why Drake had insisted onmy coming here to this gloomy house in Mate Lane. Why he had sodeliberately arranged a substitute so that Michael Strange should notcome face to face with him directly. Evidently Hartnett had beencarefully instructed as to his course of action--but why this seeminglyunnecessary caution on Drake's part? And now, after we had gainedadmission, what excuse would Hartnett offer for the intrusion? Surely hewould not follow the bull-headed role of a common policeman!

  There was no anger, no attempt at dramatics, in Hartnett's voice. Helooked quietly up at our host.

  "Dr. Strange," he said at length, "I have come to you for yourassistance. Last night, some time after midnight, Franklin White wasstrangled to death. He was murdered, according to substantial evidence,by the girl he was going to marry--Margot Vernee. I come to you becauseyou know this girl rather well, and can perhaps help Scotland Yard infinding her motive for killing White."

  Michael Strange said nothing. He stood there, scowling down at mycompanion in silence. And I, too, I must admit, turned upon Hartnettwith a stare of bewilderment. His accusation of Margot had brought asense of horror to me. I had expected almost anything from him, even toa mad accusation of Strange himself. But I had hardly foreseen this coldblooded declaration.

  "You understand, Doctor," Hartnett went on, in that same ironical drawl,"that we do not believe Margot Vernee did this thing herself. She had acompanion, undoubtedly, one who accompanied her to the house on AfterStreet, and assisted her in the crime. Who that companion was, we arenot sure; but there is decidedly a case of suspicion against a certainyoung London sportsman. This fellow is known to have prowled about theWhite mansion both on the night of the murder and the night before."

  * * * * *

  Hartnett glanced up casually. Strange's face was a total mask. When henodded, the nod was the most even and mechanical thing I have ever seen.Certainly this man could control his emotions!

  "Naturally, Doctor," Hartnett said, "we have gone rather deeply into thepast life of the lady in question. Your name appears, of course, in arather unimportant interval when Margot Vernee resided in Paris. And sowe come to you in the hope that you can perhaps give us some slight bitof information--something that seems insignificant, perhaps, to you, butwhich may put us on the right track."

  It was a careful speech. Even as Hartnett spoke it, I could have swornthat the words were Drake's, and had been memorized. But Michael Strangemerely stepped back to the table and faced us without a word. He wasprobably, during that brief interlude, attempting to realize hisposition, and to discover just how much Raoul Hartnett actually knew.

  And then, after his interim of silence, he came forward sullenly andstood over my comrade.

  "I will tell you this much, Mr. Hartnett of Scotland Yard," he saidbitterly: "My relations with Margot Vernee are not an open book to bepassed through the clumsy fingers of ignorant police officers. As tothis murder, I know nothing. At the time of it, I was seated in thisroom in company with a distinguished group of scientific friends. I willtell you, on authority, that Margot _did not murder her lover_. Why?Because she loved him!"

  * * * * *

  The last words were heavy with bitterness. Before they had died intosilence, Michael Strange had opened the door of his study.

  "If you please, gentlemen," he said quietly.

  Hartnett got to his feet. For an instant he stood facing thegorilla-like form of our host; then he stepped over the sill, without aword. We passed down the unlighted corridor in silence, while Strangestood in the door of his study, watching us. I could not help but feel,as we left that gloomy house, that Strange had suddenly focused hisentire attention upon me, and had ignored my companion. I could feelthose eyes upon me, and feel the force of the will behind them. Adecided feeling of uneasiness crept over me, and I shuddered.

  A moment later the big outer door had closed shut after us, and we werealone in Mate Lane. Alone, that is, until a third figure joined us inthe shadows, and Drake's hand closed over my arm.

  "Capital, Dale," he said triumphantly. "For half an hour you entertainedhim, you and Hartnett. And for half an hour I've had the unlimitedfreedom of his inner rooms, with the aid of an unlocked window on thelower floor. Those inner rooms, gentlemen, are significant--very!"

  As we walked the length of Mate Lane, the gaunt, sinister home ofMichael Strange became an indistinct outline in the pitch behind us.Drake said not
hing more on the return trip, until we had nearly reachedmy rooms. Then he turned to me with a smile.

  "We are one up on our friend, Dale," he said. "He does not know, justnow, which is the bigger fool--you or Hartnett here. However, I imagineHartnett will be the victim of some very unusual events before manyhours have passed!"

  That was all. At least, all of significance. I left the two ScotlandYard men at the opening of Cheney Lane, and continued alone to my rooms.I opened the door and let myself in quietly. And there some few hourslater, began the last and most horrible phase of the case of the murdermachine.

  * * * * *

  It begin--or to be more accurate, I began to react to it--at threeo'clock in the morning. I was alone, and the rooms were dark. For hoursI had sat quietly by the table, considering the significant events ofthe past few days. Sleep was impossible with so many unansweredquestions staring into me, and so I sat there wondering.

  Did Drake actually believe that Margot Vernee's simple story had been aruse--that she had in truth killed her lover on that midnight intrusionof his home? Did he believe that Michael Strange knew of thatintrusion--that he had possibly planned it himself, and aided her, inorder that Margot might be free to return to him? Did Strange know ofthat other intrusion, and of the uncanny power which had driven Sir JohnHarmon, and supposedly driven Margot to that house on After Street?

  Those were the questions that still remained without answers: and it wasover those questions that I pondered, while my surroundings becamedarker and more silent as the hour became more advanced. I heard theclock strike three, and heard the answering drone of Big Ben from thesquare.

  * * * * *

  And then it began. At first it was little more than a sense ofnervousness. Before I had been content to sit in my chair and doze. Now,in spite of myself, I found myself pacing the floor, back and forth likea caged animal. I could have sworn, at the time, that some sinisterpresence had found entrance to my room. Yet the room was empty. And Icould have sworn, too, that some silent power of will was commanding me,with undeniable force, to go out--out into the darkness of Cheney Lane.

  I fought it bitterly. I laughed at it, yet even through my laugh camethe memory of Sir John Harmon and Margot, and what they had told me. Andthen, unable to resist that unspoken demand, I seized my hat and coatand went out.

  Cheney Lane was deserted, utterly still. At the end of it, the streetlamp glowed dully, throwing a patch of ghastly light over the side ofthe adjoining building. I hurried through the shadows, and as I walked,a single idea had possession of me. I must hurry, I thought, with allpossible speed, to that grim house in Mate Lane--number seven.

  Where that deliberate desire came from I did not know. I did not stop toreason. Something had commanded me to go at once to Michael Strange'shome. And though I stopped more than once, deliberately turning in mytracks, inevitably I was forced to retrace my steps and continue.

  * * * * *

  I remember passing through the square, and prowling through theunlightened side streets that lay beyond. Three miles separated CheneyLane from Mate Lane, and I had been over the route only once before, ina cab. Yet I followed that route without a single false turn, followedit instinctively. At every intersecting street I was dragged in acertain direction and not once was I allowed to hesitate. It was asthough some unseen demon perched on my shoulders, as the demon of thesea rode Sinbad, and pointed out the way.

  Only one disturbing thing occurred on that night journey through London.I had turned into a narrow street hardly more than a quarter mile frommy destination; and before me, in the shadows, I made out the form of ashuffling old man. And here, as I watched him, I was conscious of a new,mad desire. I crept upon him stealthily, without a sound. My hands wereoutstretched, clutching, for his throat. At that moment I should havekilled him!

  I cannot explain it. During that brief interval I was a murderer atheart. I wanted to kill. And now that I remember it, the desire had beenpregnant in me ever since the lights of Cheney Lane had died behind me.All the time that I prowled through those black streets, murder lurkedin my heart. I should have killed the first man who crossed my path.

  But I did not kill him. Thank God, as my fingers twisted toward the backof his throat, that mad desire suddenly left me. I stood still, whilethe old fellow, still unsuspecting, shuffled, away into the darkness.Then, dropping my hands with a sob of helplessness, I went forwardagain.

  * * * * *

  And so I reached Mate Lane, and the huge gray house that awaited me.This time, as I mounted the stone steps, the old house seemed even morerepulsive and horrible. I dreaded to see that door open, but I could notretreat.

  I dropped the knocker heavily. A moment passed: and then, precisely asbefore, the huge door swung inward. Michael Strange stood before me.

  He did not speak. Perhaps, if he had spoken, that fiendish spell wouldhave been broken, and I should have returned, even then, to my ownpeaceful little rooms in Cheney Lane. No--he merely held the door forme to enter, and as I passed him he stood there, watching me with asignificant smile.

  Straight to that familiar room at the end of the hall I went, withStrange behind me. When we had entered, he closed the door cautiously.For a moment he faced me without speaking.

  "You came very close to committing a murder on your way here, did younot, Dale?"

  I stared at him. How, in God's name, could this man read my thoughts socompletely?

  "You would have completed the murder," he said softly, "had I wished it.I did not wish it!"

  I did not answer. There was no reply to such a mad declaration. As formy companion, he watched me for an instant and then laughed. He was notmad. I am doctor enough to know that.

  But the laugh was not long in duration. He stepped forward suddenly andtook my arm in a steel grip, dragging me toward the half hidden door atthe farther end of the room.

  "I shall not keep you long, Dale," he said harshly. "I could have killedyou--could have made you kill yourself, and in fact, I intended to doso--but after all, you are merely a poor stumbling fool who has meddledin things too deep for you."

  * * * * *

  He pulled open the door and pushed me forward. The room was dark, andnot until he had closed the door again and switched on a dim light,could I see its contents.

  Even then I saw nothing. At least, nothing of importance to anunscientific mind. There was a low table against the wall, with aprofusion of tiny wires emanating from it. I was aware that a cup shapedmicrophone--or something very similar--hung over the table, about on alevel with my eyes, had I been sitting in the chair. Beyond that I sawnothing, until Strange had moved forward and drawn aside a curtain thathung beside the table.

  "I made you come here to-night, Dale," he murmured, "because I was a bitafraid of you. Your comrade, Hartnett, was an ignorant police officer.He has not the intellect to connect the series of events of the past dayor two, and so I did not trouble myself with him. But you are aneducated man. You have made no demonstrations of your ability in thefield of science, but--"

  He stopped speaking abruptly. From the room behind us came the sound ofa warning bell. Strange turned quickly and went to the door.

  "You will wait here, Doctor," he said. "I have another caller to-night.Another one who came the same way as you!"

  He vanished. For a short interlude I was alone, with that peculiarradio-like apparatus before me. It was, for all the world, like aminiature control room in some small broadcasting station. Except forthe odd shape of the microphone, if it was such I could detect noradical difference in equipment.

  * * * * *

  However, I had little time for conjecture. A patter of footstepsinterrupted me from the next room, and a frightened, feminine voicebroke the stillness of the outer study. Even before the owner of thatvoice stepped in to my presence, I knew her.

 
And when she came, with white, fearful face and trembling body, I couldnot withhold a shudder of apprehension. It was the young woman who hadcome to my office--Margot Vernee. Evidently, at last, she had yielded tothe horrible impulse that had drawn her back to Michael Strange, animpulse which, I now understood, had originated from the man himself.

  He pressed her forward. There was nothing tender in his touch: it wascruel and triumphant.

  "So you have succeeded--at last," I said bitterly.

  He turned to me with a sneer.

  "I have brought her here, yes," he replied. "And now that she has come,she shall hear what I have to tell you. It will perhaps give her arespect for me, and this time she will not have the power to turn meaway."

  He pointed to the table, to the apparatus that lay there.

  "I'm telling you this, Dale," he said, "because it gives me pleasure todo so. You are enough of a scientist to appreciate and understand it.And if, when I have finished, I have told you too much, there is a veryeasy way to keep your tongue silent. You have heard of hypnotism, Dale?You have heard also of radio? Have you ever thought of combining thetwo?"

  * * * * *

  He faced me directly. I made no effort to reply.

  "Radio," he said quietly, "is broadcast by means of sound waves. Thatmuch you know. But hypnotism too, can be transmitted through distance,if an instrument delicate enough to transmit _thought waves_ can beinvented. For twenty years I have worked on that instrument, and fortwenty years I have studied hypnotism. You understand, of course, thatthis instrument is worthless unless it is operated by a master mind.Thought waves are useless; they will not control the actions of even acat. But hypnotic waves or concentrated thought waves--will control theworld."

  There was no denying him. He faced me with the savage triumph of a wildbeast. He was glorying in his power, and in my amazement.

  "I wanted Franklin White to die!" he cried. "It was I who murdered him.Why? Because he was about to take the girl I desired. Is that not reasonenough for murder? And so I killed him. It was not Margot Vernee whostrangled her lover: it was a complete stranger, a London sportsman, whohad no reason for committing the murder, _except that I wished him to_!

  "He died on the night of December seventh, murdered by Sir John Harmon,the sportsman. Why? Because, of all London, Sir John would be the lastman to be suspected. I have a keen appreciation for the irony of fate!White would have died the night before, Dale, except that I lacked thecourage to kill him. His murderer was standing, under my power, outsidehis very house--and then I suddenly thought it best that I should havean alibi. Your Scotland Yard is clever, and it was best that I haveprotection. And so, on the following night, I sent Sir John to the houseonce again. This time, while I sat here and controlled the actions of mypuppet, a group of men sat here with me. They believed that I wasexperimenting with a new type of radio receiver!"

  * * * * *

  Michael Strange laughed, laughed harshly, in utter triumph, as a catlaughs at the antics of his mouse victims.

  "When that murder was done," he said, "I sent Margot to the scene, sothat she might see her lover strangled, dead. I repeat, Dale, that Ienjoy the irony of fate, especially when I can control it. And as foryou--I brought you here to-night merely so that you would realize theintensity of the powers that control you. When you leave here, you willbe unharmed--but after the exhibition I shall give you, I am sure thatyou will make no further attempt to interfere with things out of yourrealm of understanding."

  I heard a sob from Margot. She had retreated to the door, and clungthere. For myself, I did not move. Strange's recital had revealed to methe horrible lust that gripped him, and now I watched him infascination. He would not harm the girl; that much I was sure of. In hisdistorted fashion he loved her. In his crazed, murderous way he wouldattempt to win her love, even though she had once scorned him.

  * * * * *

  I saw him step toward the table. Saw him drop heavily into the chair,and stare directly into that microphonic thing that hung before hiseyes. As he stared, he spoke to me.

  "Science, in its intricate forms, is probably above the mind of a commonmedical man, Dale," he said. "It would be useless to explain to you howmy thoughts--and my will--can be transmitted through space. Perhaps youhave sat in a theater and stared at a certain person until that personturned to face you. You have? Then you will perhaps understand how I cancontrol the minds of any human creature within the radius of my power.You see, Dale, this intricate little machine gives me the power totransform London into a city of stark murder. I could bring about such ahorrible wave of crime that Scotland Yard would be scorned from one endof the world to the other. I could make every man murder his neighbor,until the streets of the city were running with blood!"

  Strange turned quietly to look at me. He spoke deliberately.

  "And now for the little exhibition of which I spoke, Dale," he murmured."Your detective friend, Hartnett, has been under my power for the pastthree hours. You see, it was safer to control his movements, and be sureof him. And now, to be doubly sure of him, perhaps you would like to seehim kill himself!"

  I stepped forward with a sudden cry. Strange said nothing: his eyesmerely burned into mine. Once again I felt that strange, all-powerfulcontrol forcing me back. I retreated, step by step, until the wallstopped me. Yet even as I retreated, a childish hope filled me. Howcould Strange, working his terrible murder machine, concentrate hispower on any individual, when the whole of London lay before him?

  * * * * *

  He answered my question. He must have read it as it came over me.

  "Have you ever been in a crowd, Dale, and watched a certain individualintently, until that particular individual turned to look at you? Therest of the crowd pays no attention, of course, but that one man. Andnow we shall make that one man murder himself!"

  Strange turned slowly. I saw his fingers creep along the rim of thetable, touching certain wires that came together there. I heard a dull,droning hum fill the room, and, over it, Strange's penetrating voice.

  "When I am finished, Dale, I shall probably kill you. I brought you heremerely to frighten you, but I believe I have told you too much."

  With that new horror upon me, I saw my captor's lips move slowly....

  And then, from the shadows at the other end of the small room, came alow, unemotional voice.

  "Before you begin, Strange--"

  Michael Strange whipped about in his chair like a tiger. His handdropped to his pocket, so swiftly that my eyes did not follow it. And asit dropped, a single staccato shot split the darkness of the room. Thescientist slumped forward in his chair.

  The dull, whirring sound of that hellish machine had stopped abruptly,cut short by the sudden weight of Strange's lunging body as he fell uponit. I saw the livid, fiery snake of white light twist suddenly upwardthrough that coil of wires: and in another moment the entire apparatusshattered by a blinding crash of flame.

  * * * * *

  After that I turned away. Whether the bullet killed Strange or not, I donot know: but the sight of his charred face, hanging over that table ofdestruction, told its own story.

  It was Inspector Drake who came across the room toward me, and took myarm. The smoking revolver still lay in his hand, and as he led me intothe adjoining room, I saw that Margot had already found refuge there.

  "You see now, Dale," Drake said quietly, "why I let Hartnett go with youbefore? If Strange had suspected me, I should have been merely anothervictim. As for Hartnett, he has been under constant guard down atheadquarters. He's safe. They've kept him there, at my instructions, inspite of all his terrific efforts to leave them."

  I was listening to my companion in admiration. Even then I did not quiteunderstand.

  "I was wrong in just one thing, Dale. I left you alone, withoutprotection. I believed Strange would ignore you, because, after all, y
ouare not a Scotland Yard man. Thank God I had the sense to followMargot--to trail her here--and get here soon enough."

  * * * * *

  And so ended the horrible series of events that began with Sir JohnHarmon's chance visit to my study. As for Harmon, he was later clearedof all guilt, upon the charred evidence in Michael Strange's house inMate Lane. The girl, I believe, has left London, where she can be as faras possible from memories that are all too terrible.

  As for me, I am back once again in my quiet rooms in Cheney Lane, wherethe routine of common medical practice has wiped out many of those vividhorrors. In time, I believe, I shall forget, unless Inspector Drake, ofScotland Yard, insists upon bringing the affair up again!