by Jerry
“Who, me?” I said innocently.
But when I left Aaron, I knew I did have something up my sleeve. I had an invisible man, who had killed three people and a cat, and who just might be after a fifth victim—in a slightly different manner.
Aaron went to work quickly to make the arrangements. There was only one snag. Since his “trouble” had started, Douglas Wharton had stopped dining out at lunch time, and confined his noontime meal to a sandwich in the office. However, he didn’t mind my joining him.
I kept the appointment promptly at twelve, walking through the impressive oak-rimmed doorway of the presidential office. Wharton was at his desk, looking older and more tired than I remembered him, but his smile was wide and cordial when he greeted me.
“Sit down, Jeff,” he invited. “My secretary will bring the lunch in a few minutes. Ordered you a steak sandwich. Okay?”
“Suits me fine,” I said.
“How’s everything going? You must be working on novel number four now, eh?”
“That’s right. It’s called The Noose Hangs High.”
“Well, if it’s as successful as the others, we both won’t have any cause for complaint. That’s quite a character you’ve got there, that Rufe Armlock.”
“Yes, sir. Sometimes I wish he really existed.”
He looked up at me sharply. “Why?”
“Oh, I dunno. He just never seems to have any trouble. If there’s a case to be solved, he just moves right in and solves it. You always know things come out all right in the end.”
“Yes,” Wharton sighed. “I see what you mean.”
The lunch arrived, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. I kept watching Wharton’s face, anxious to see if I could detect any signs of the looniness I’d been hearing about. He looked okay to me.
Then it happened.
We were sipping our coffee, and I was giving the president a rough outline of the plot of The Noose Hangs High when he seemed to stiffen and look past me towards the closed door. My blood went icy when I saw the change in him.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Wharton?”
He continued to stare past me, and his lips were moving soundlessly. “The knife . . he said hoarsely.
I whirled around, but there was nothing there. When I looked back at the publisher, his hands were covering his eyes.
“Mr. Wharton . . .”
“I’ll be okay, Jeff. I’m sort of—tired.”
“Mr. Wharton, you said something about a knife.”
“It was nothing.”
“Did you see a knife?”
“No, no . . .”
Then suddenly, shockingly, he was laughing, laughing wildly, uncontrollably, dancing and gyrating in the swivel chair.
“Mr. Wharton!” I shouted, standing up.
“Stop it, stop it!” He was shrieking in anguish, even as he laughed, and there were tears running down his cheeks.
“Mr. Wharton, are you all right?”
He stopped as quickly as he had started, and slumped exhausted over the desk blotter. I went to him, and he pointed feebly towards the pitcher of water. I poured him a glass and he drank it quickly, coughing.
“What is it?” I said. “What happened to you?”
He couldn’t answer for a moment. Then the door of the office slammed shut violently, and he said:
“I was being tickled. So help me God, I was being tickled. It was horrible . . .”
It sounded funny. Tickling is a funny word. But I didn’t feel funny. Only horrified.
“Has this happened before?”
“Yes, often. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Maybe I’m afraid to find out. But first I see things . . . like a knife, floating in midair. Or something else. And then I know it’s going to happen, then I know the tickling will start, that awful tickling . . .”
He broke down and sobbed. Like I said, he was a man in his sixties, but he sounded like a heartbroken child, sobbing on the impressive desk in front of me.
“This is terrible,” I said. “Don’t you think you should get help, Mr. Wharton? A doctor?”
He looked up at me, trying to compose himself.
“I’ll tell you the truth. I’ve seen a doctor, my own doctor. He knows of nothing organically wrong. I have a slight heart condition, but nothing major. His only suggestion was that my trouble was mental.” His face hardened. “And I know that’s not true. I know it. No matter what insane symptoms I have, I know that my mind is sound. I’m sure most people wouldn’t believe that . . .”
“I believe it, Mr. Wharton.”
“What?”
“I believe it. Because I think I know what’s happening to you.”
He stared at me, not sure what I meant.
“Mr. Wharton, will you let me tell you a story?” I said. “Not fiction, Mr. Wharton. What I believe is a true story.”
He didn’t reply, but I took his silence for an affirmative.
I told him the story of Zora Brewster, and the two Evanders. I told him about the missing cat, and the mysterious chemical called sulfaborgonium. I told him my theory about the invisible killer.
“I don’t understand,” he said, when I was through. “What does that have to do with me?”
“Just this, Mr. Wharton. I think this invisible madman’s decided upon you as his next victim. Only now he’s getting fancy. He must be bored with his old hit-and-run tactics. He wants something more-delicious. That’s why he’s doing what he’s doing. Making you see things. Making knives appear out of nowhere. Tickling you. Tickling you to death.”
“It’s madness,” Wharton said hoarsely. “The worst madness I ever heard of.”
“There’s a captain of Homicide that believes it, too. His name is Bill Spencer, and you can check with him about it if you like.”
“But what can we do against such a man? How can we fight him?”
“I don’t know yet. It’s a terrible power he’s got, a power that’s hard to stop. He can be anywhere, any time, and we’d never know it. The way he was here a few minutes ago. The way he may still be here.”
“The door—” Wharton stood up.
“Yes, the door slammed. But he could have stayed on this side, couldn’t he? And heard all we said.”
“Then he must realize you know about him. He must realize how dangerous you are to him—”
I swallowed, and tried to look placid.
“He must know a lot of things. He hasn’t hurt me yet.”
“What do you think I should do?”
“I’m not sure. Try and stop him. Carry a gun. The next time he tries his tricks—shoot. Don’t be afraid of appearing ridiculous, Mr. Wharton. Grapple with air if you have to, but try and hold on to your man. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Spencer about this and try to develop some more positive action.”
I left the office, without knowing whether Douglas Wharton had been convinced by my strange theory. But at least he was warned.
I was just about to leave the building when Greta, Mr. Wharton’s secretary, called to me.
“Oh, Mr. Oswald,” she said. “Did you want to pick up your mail, while you’re here?”
I nodded. Usually, I average about two dozen fan letters a week, addressed to the publishers. A lot of them are crank letters, mostly from women. Sometimes, I’d get proposals of marriage.
Greta was looking through her files, and her face was puzzled.
“That’s funny. I could swear there were nine letters, but I can only find eight. That smelly one is missing—”
“Smelly one?” I grinned. “You mean a perfumed letter?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it perfume,” she said. “It arrived last Friday, and we practically had to fumigate the office. It smelled like rotten eggs to me.”
“Must be somebody who doesn’t like Rufe Armlock,” I said. Then I thought it over and exclaimed: “Did you say rotten eggs?”
“Yes. I put it in the bottom drawer of my desk, and forgot all about it. I would have forwarded it to you, but
I thought it would be best to deliver it in person. I was afraid I’d get arrested if I sent that awful thing through the mails.” She chuckled.
Rotten eggs. Sulphur. The words were stirring a memory in my brain. That was the smell which had pervaded Dr. Borg Evander’s house!
“And you say it’s missing?”
“Yes. I’ll keep looking for it; maybe it went to the mail room by mistake. Do you think it might be something important?”
“Could be,” I said. “Could be very important. Keep searching for it, huh?”
“I will, Mr. Oswald.”
I returned to my apartment, my head aching with the thoughts that were crowding my brain. The letter must have been written by Dr. Evander, and it must have concerned our discussion. It might afford me the proof that I was looking for, the proof that was destroyed by Dr. Evander’s murder.
I sat on the sofa, feeling suddenly exhausted. I wanted to forget the whole business, forget about murder and madness and invisible killers and locked rooms. I wanted a little peace and quiet. I wanted to marry Eileen, and head off to some corny honeymoon spot like Niagara Falls, and settle down to the simple life, have a couple of kids, take a trip to Europe now and then. Let somebody else chase around catching insane murderers. I wasn’t Rufe Armlock; I was only Jeff Oswald, and I was tired of the whole affair.
Then all Hell broke loose.
First it was Eileen, and her hysterical voice on my telephone sent shivers from one end of my spine to the other. It was some time before I got her to give me a coherent story.
“It’s awful, awful,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand it another minute, Jeff, not another minute . . .”
“But what’s happening, Eileen?”
“It must be him. He’s been following me, doing awful things. Tearing my clothes, touching me . . .” She went off into a wave of tearful gasps. “I just can’t stand it, Jeff! You’ve got to help me!”
“I’ll be right over!”
I got to Greenwich Village in less than twenty minutes, and found Eileen lying on her bed. She was more than just disheveled. Her dress had been ripped and tom in a dozen places, and her hair was wildly disordered. She was still crying uncontrollably, and I had to hold her in my arms like a child before she could talk sensibly.
“He—he must have followed me home,” she said, her voice muffled against my chest. “I suddenly felt this—touch on my leg. I jumped, and then something tore my dress. I started to scream and he stopped. I thought of calling the police, and then I realized what they would think. For a while, nothing happened, and then it started all over again. Out of nowhere, I’d feel this hand on me. And then he’d tear at my clothes again—”
“Easy, baby,” I said, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would crack inside me.
“Then it stopped again. For almost an hour. I heard the door open and shut, and I thought he was gone. I tried telephoning you at home, but you weren’t there. Then I called Aaron Snow, and he told me you were at Wharton. I called there, too. Then it started again—” She began to sob again quietly.
“He’s a madman,” I said tensely. “No question of that. He’s pulling the same kind of stuff on Douglas Wharton. And he must realize that you know about him, too.” I grasped her arms. “Listen, Eileen, you’ve got to get away from here . . .”
“But where could I go? How can you stop someone like that from finding you?”
“We’ll figure something out. But you’ve got to get out of town before he—God knows what he’ll do!”
“I—I’ve got an aunt who lives out in Sauter Beach. I could go there for a few weeks.”
“Good idea. Meanwhile, I want to call Bill Spencer and tell him what’s been happening. I think we’ve got to stop playing it so safe. I think we’ve got to get some official help—even if the whole damn world thinks we’re crazy!”
I called Police Headquarters on Eileen’s phone, but Captain Spencer was off duty. I talked the desk sergeant into giving me his home telephone number, and dialed it.
From the moment I heard Spencer’s voice, I knew that he wasn’t alone.
“What is it, Captain?” I said. “Is anything wrong?”
“No,” he said tensely. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s just fine. Just remember this, Jeff. If I don’t report in tomorrow at the station, and they find the doors locked and bolted—he’ll still be in the room. That’s how they can trap him. Remember that!”
“What are you saying?”
“I think he’s with me, right now. He hasn’t done anything yet, but I feel his presence. But I’m ready for him. One noise, one movement, and m have him . . .”
Even though Spencer’s voice was calm, I couldn’t help detecting the undercurrent of hysteria. The captain wasn’t a guy that scared easily, but there was something unearthly and horrible about an opponent you couldn’t see . . .
“Look,” I said, “suppose we get some help? Suppose I call the police—”
“No! I’ll take care of this myself. If he wants a fight. I’m—”
He stopped talking.
“Captain!” I said. “Bill!”
There was no answer.
“What is it?” Eileen said.
“Bill, are you okay?”
Eileen must have realized what was happening on the other end of the phone, because she began to sob again, fearfully.
I slammed the receiver down and said:
“I’ve got to get over there!”
“Jeff, don’t leave me—”
“I’ve got to! That thing is in Bill’s apartment. I’ve got to help him!” I burst out of the house and into the street, and almost went frantic at my failure to hail a taxi. When I finally got one, I sat in the back seat and knew that my attempt would come too late.
I was right, of course. The door of his apartment wasn’t locked or bolted; it was flung open. But Bill Spencer was dead, a dagger wound between his wide shoulders.
The next afternoon, I saw Eileen off at LaGuardia Airport. I hated to see her go, but I was glad, too. The plane would take her three hundred miles from New York, and three hundred miles from the invisible lunatic that was tormenting her.
As far as I knew, now there were only two people left in the city that the killer was interested in. Douglas Wharton, and me.
Back in the city, I called Wharton’s office and suggested a council of war. He agreed, and I went to his penthouse apartment that evening to talk things over.
“What I can’t understand is this,” I told the publisher, as we sat in his plushly decorated living room. “This fiend has killed or tormented everybody but me. He hasn’t laid a finger on me, or made any attempts against my life. Yet if anybody can do him harm, it’s me.”
“There was that guillotine stuff you told me about,” Wharton said. “How about that?”
“That’s true. It must have been the killer that was hovering over my bed. But if he wanted to kill me with that meat chopper, he could have done it Yet he didn’t.”
“Obviously, he wants you alive. He must have his reasons.”
“But why? The only people I know who really care if I’m alive or dead are (1) Me, (2) Eileen, and (3) Aaron Snow. Why should this nut care?”
Wharton chewed his lip thoughtfully.
“Aaron Snow,” he repeated. “Wasn’t Snow Kirk Evander’s agent, at one time?”
“Yes, come to think of it. It was back a few years. They had a violent disagreement over money, and Evander asked for them to cancel the arrangement.”
“That was quite a loss for Snow, wasn’t it? At that time, Evander was a hot-selling author. Ten percent of his income was a lot of dough.”
“Well, Aaron’s doing okay now. Thanks mostly to Rufe Armlock, to tell the truth.”
“That’s right,” Wharton said musingly. “And that in itself would be a good reason to want you alive—”
I stared at him.
“Now, look. You’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
He got up and mixed us a drink. I watched him, trying to digest the new thought he had planted in my mind. Then I saw him snap his fingers, as if in recollection.
“Just thought of something. Greta gave me a letter for you. Said something about it smelling bad—”
“What?” I shot out of the chair.
Wharton looked surprised at my reaction. “What’s wrong? Something important?”
“Maybe very important! Let me see it!”
He put down his drink and went out of the room. When he returned, he was holding a long, rumpled envelope. He put it to his nose and sniffed distastefully.
“I see what she meant,” he said. “Damn thing smells like rotten eggs.”
I grabbed it from his hands and ripped it open.
There were two scrawled sheets inside. The handwriting was almost indecipherable, but I finally made it out.
Dear Mr. Oswald:
I have been thinking over what you told me this morning, and have decided to reveal the entire truth. I must admit that the evil potentialities of my chemical had never occurred to me before this. But now that I realize them, I think it is better for you to know the facts.
As I told you, I have not seen my brother Kirk for many years, despite the fact that we resided in the same city. A few months ago, he suddenly decided to renew his family ties, and called upon me. I was delighted, of course, since I have always admired my talented younger brother.
However, I begin to suspect that his interest in me was only the result of his interest in my work. On several occasions, I have provided Kirk with scientific information which he has utilized in his novels, and some years ago, I informed him of my experiments with sulfaborgonium. It was this particular chemical which held his interest now.
Two weeks ago, Kirk came to me and told me a very sad story. It seemed that there was a great deal of public apathy towards the kind of detective fiction which he wrote, and that apathy was costing him his livelihood. He seemed truly brokenhearted about it, and even though I know nothing of literary matters, I was deeply moved by his plight.
Then he told me that he had an unusual plan, a plan which he believed would restore the lost interest in the classic detective novel. It was actually a hoax, he informed me, an amusing prank which he would play on the public in order to increase interest in his work. As a scientist, of course, I have little interest in practical jokery, but Kirk seemed genuinely convinced that this “joke?’ would have very practical effect upon his career.
