The Collected Stories

by Earl

  “Item four on our platform—I am going to see to it that each and every destitute family in our district is taken care of properly. Since this matter is close to my heart, I’ve gone to the extent of compiling a list of such needy cases—”

  “Could you produce this mythical list, Mr. Jones?” asked the unseen voice back of his head.

  Though the evening was cool, Jones took out a handkerchief and mopped his perspiring brow. His speech, as he went on desperately, began to blossom out with “ers” and “ahs” and coughs and hesitations. No one knew how much he was suffering.

  “And now the—er—last and perhaps most important part of our platform—reduction of racketeering. I’m going to stamp it out. I—”

  “Is that so?” spoke the voice that was so much like his conscience. “Last night you and your colleagues, in a secret meeting, promised the racketeering interests that they would not be unduly prosecuted—for a cut! What about that, Mr. Jones?”

  Woodrow Jones swayed a little, speechless. To the audience, he seemed to be listening, but there was nothing to listen to! Yet he was listening, to something they couldn’t hear.

  “You know you’re a bald-faced hypocrite!” said the plaguing voice at his elbow. “Tissues, lies, rotten deception is what you’ve just passed out. How can you stand there like a noble leader when you’re nothing but a cheap, chiseling grafter? Have you heard of Inferno, Jones? When you get there, you’ll make lying campaign speeches endlessly, with this voice in your ear!”

  Woodrow Jones’ face turned putty-colored. His friends leaped forward as he tottered a little. But before they came up, the voice had said: “You won’t run for the election, Jones. Because if you do, this voice of your conscience will haunt you to the insane asylum!”

  Jones went temporarily mad. In a screaming voice he renounced his candidacy. Fighting off his cohorts who tried to drag him away, he shrieked out the confession that all he had said was a pack of lies.

  CHAPTER II

  A Midnight Visitor

  LEDA NORRIS awoke in the dead of the night with a queer, stifled feeling that some one had come into her bedroom. She had heard nothing, and could see nothing as she snapped on her bedside lamp, but the sensation did not leave her.

  Some thing—some presence—was in her room!

  She tried to convince herself that she was being silly, but terror rose in a swift tide as she seemed to hear footfalls going toward the open window. But not a thing was to be seen that might cause such a sound! She opened her mouth to scream—

  “Leda! Leda, please don’t be frightened!” said a voice.

  The curtains at the window moved. Something seemed to be going out to the fire escape.

  The girl’s terror drained out with a rush. “Lyle!” she called eagerly. “Lyle Trent! Is it you? I can’t see you, but it was your voice—”

  The curtains remained rigidly spread for a moment, then rustled back into place. Soft footfalls came toward the bed.

  “Yes, Leda, it’s I,” returned the man’s voice, from a spot over her upturned face. “I’m invisible, by a scientific trick. But I’m here, in the flesh. I hadn’t meant you to awake, or talk to you. I just came to see your face, in the moonlight—” The voice faltered.

  Leda Norris sat up wonderingly. “Oh, Lyle, it’s so good to hear your voice again! But why are you invisible?” She shuddered a bit. “It’s almost like talking to a ghost!”

  “Turn off the light,” suggested the invisible man. “That way you won’t notice so much. I’ll have to remain—invisible.”

  The girl obeyed, puzzled. The side of her bed creaked as the unseen man sat down on it.

  As Trent remained silent, she spoke again. “Lyle, why haven’t I heard from you for two years? Two long, eternal years! I meant what I said before you left to study in Europe—that I’d wait. I’d wait forever for you, Lyle. I still—”

  “No, Leda,” interrupted Trent. “We—we mustn’t talk of those things. I’d hoped you had forgotten.”

  “I see.” Leda’s voice broke. “You don’t care for me any more. There’s another woman, Lyle? Don’t be afraid to tell me. After all, two years is a long time—”

  “No,” said Trent. “There’s no other woman.” He paused. “I still love you, Leda—and always will.”

  “Then why—”

  “Let me explain. You remember the accident I had while at Leyden—an explosion in the physics laboratory?”

  “Yes, that was the last I heard from you.” Leda caught her breath. “I was so worried for you, Lyle! You didn’t write me much about it. Did you get hurt?”

  “Oh, slightly. But that explosion was really the key to my researches. It was caused by the transfer of light-energy through a shield of solid metal. I won’t go into detail, Leda, but when a light photon hits an atom, an electron in the atom jumps to a new orbit. When the electron jumps back, the photon is released. The photon, if given enough stimulus, will jump from atom to atom, and will eventually work its way through solid matter. And almost at its original speed of light.”

  “I have a modification of that first crude shield completely surrounding my body. It’s really a flexible, ventilated metal mesh, not very heavy, with interstices so fine that the human eye cannot see them. I can breathe comfortably, perspire normally and move freely. But you can’t see either me or my suit of mesh. The mesh carries a certain fine electric current, from special batteries at my waist, which kicks the light photons along as they arrive. For instance, a light photon striking my back is kicked right through my body to my front, and there radiated—as though I hadn’t been in its way in the first place.

  “And that’s the reason I’m invisible, because light goes through me, even more perfectly than light penetrates glass.[*] There was just one other detail. I had to devise a way to see, for the light photons are kicked past the retinas of my eyes too. I wear a pair of intricately designed goggles whose lenses intercept and change ultra-violet rays to visible radiations for my eyes. Things look a bit queer to me, but I see almost as well by that means as normally. But that’s enough explanation of the scientific end of it.”

  LEDA had listened attentively. “Lyle, you’re a wonderful scientist,” she breathed. “I always knew you would be. I’m proud of your ability—” Trent interrupted almost harshly.

  “But after I’d perfected this means of invisibility, Leda, it occurred to me what it would mean, if I let it out. I thought of invisible spies! Invisible armies! Invisible deeds of crime!”

  He let out his breath sharply.

  “I decided my discovery must remain a secret with myself. I didn’t publish my results. I almost came to the point of destroying all my notes and apparatus. Then I thought of another thing. In the right hands, the power of invisibility could be a beneficent thing. And because I couldn’t trust anyone else, with any certainty, I decided to apply its benefits myself.” Something gripped Leda’s hand suddenly, an invisible hand covered with what felt like smooth, flexible steel.

  “Leda, I’m devoting my life to this venture. I’m going out in the world and do what I can for its betterment. I’m going to track down dangerous criminals, break up crime-rings. With my invisibility I’m going to ferret out all that’s rotten and wrong and bring it to light. The dark things can’t stand light.” He gave a short, earnest laugh. “I’m going to start a one-man reform. I may not get as far as I hope, but I’m going to try my best!”

  The girl squeezed the metal hand impulsively, unmindful of the sharp tingle of electricity from the contact.

  “Is it any wonder that I loved you from the start, Lyle? I could see into your soul—”

  “Leda—” Trent’s voice became solemn and heavy. “Leda, you see now, don’t you? That I must devote all my time and energy, all my life, to this thing. I want you, but it would be unfair to marry you—under these circumstances. My activities will take me all over the country, perhaps over the world. I might not see you for months at a time. It wouldn’t work—it can’t be. You
must forget me—”

  The girl was sobbing. “I understand,” she choked. “But, Lyle, can’t I see you—just once—it’s been two years—”

  “No!” Trent said firmly. “If you did, it would make it harder—for both of us. It’s bad enough that I can see you, look at your eyes, and think of—what might have been.”

  A floorboard creaked as he arose.

  “I came back today because this is the anniversary of our first meeting. Remember?—the prom—moonlight ride—. I’ll come back once a year, on this day, to talk to you for a while. Goodbye, Leda—darling!” Footfalls went toward the window, the curtains bent aside, and the unseen man was gone as though he had been no more than the breeze that blew in from the river.

  CHAPTER III

  Trent Begins His Mission

  “COME in, Steve.”

  Politician Steve, chewing an unlighted cigar, waited till the secretary had gone out. Then he turned to the fat, thick-lipped man behind the desk.

  “Okay. Spill it, Pete,” he said. He glanced once more around the room to make sure they were alone. No one else was in the room besides the two men. He could see that.

  Lawyer Pete licked his fat lips and began. “The tenement district in Ward Six has been condemned by the mayor. My client—you know who—doesn’t want those buildings torn down. They have standing value. Suppose we remodeled them instead?”

  He smirked knowingly.

  “You know, they can be fixed up pretty nice for about a hundred grand. My client can then raise the rent and clear fifty grand in a year. If you can square it with the City Hall, your—er—share would be 10%. What do you say, Steve?”

  Jake’s mangled cigar traveled from one corner of his grin to another. “You taking me for a sucker, Pete? Make it 20% and I’ll play ball. I’m risking a lot; finagling the court records and all.”

  “All right,” growled the fat lawyer. “It’s a deal. We’ll start remodeling in a month. And of course, we’ll use the very best of materials!” He smirked again.

  Steve laughed. “Yeah, sure. I can imagine that gouger, Paulson, giving out any more than—”

  “Ssh, damn you!” warned the lawyer. “I’ve told you my client’s name must never be mentioned.”

  “So what? There’s nobody in this room except us.”

  “No there’s nobody else here,” admitted the lawyer. “But don’t talk in your sleep. If this ever got out, you and me and my client would be sitting on top of a volcano and—”

  Steve’s cigar stopped gyrating suddenly and his head came up sharply. His eyes began to pop out as he looked at the secretary’s empty desk across the office.

  “Look!” he gasped. “What’s that pencil doing jumping around? It looks like it’s writing—Pete—for God’s sake—”

  HORRIFIED, the two men watched the animated pencil. Suddenly it laid itself down. The paper on which it had been writing rose off the desk top. Catlike footfalls approached the two men across the thick rug. The paper floated along about five feet off the floor. It approached till it dangled before the two men’s eyes. They saw neat shorthand script on it.

  A voice came out of blank air.

  “Gentlemen, how does it feel to be sitting on a volcano? Or how would you like to live in slums, as thousands of poor souls have to, because men like you and your boss Paulson won’t tear them down?”

  Lawyer Pete was gasping like a fish. Politician Steve was crossing himself superstitiously. Both of them were speechless.

  “No, I’m not a ghost,” continued the voice without a visible source. “I’m an invisible man. I’m out to get men like you. I have a complete shorthand record of every word you two connivers spoke.”

  The paper flaunted before their blood-drained faces. Then it began to fold neatly across the middle.

  Unseen fingers tucked it into empty air where a man’s pocket might be.

  “The mayor will be interested to see this. Pleasant dreams, gentlemen!”

  The depressions of footprints in the rug moved toward the door. The door opened and then closed.

  IN a rollicking good humor, Ted Marne ambled out of the beer parlor and headed uptown. He might find a few cronies up at the Tipsy Tavern. Cross here.

  No—red light. What the hell, what’s a red light? He could dodge the cars. Here we go!

  Ted Marne got half way across the busy thoroughfare and then had a sickly feeling that he was trapped. One car passing another was bearing down on him. Damn, if he could only see a little clearer . . . squealing brakes, but too late. The car was going to hit him squarely, probably kill him at that speed—

  A firm hand grasped his arm and yanked him back, just in time. Then the same firm grip propelled him forward at a run. Ted Marne stumbled up the curb. But he stumbled now from nervousness. He was cold sober from fright and the narrow escape.

  “Thanks, pal,” he said, turning to his rescuer.

  But there was no one there. Yet he still felt an iron grip on his arm, steadying him. Marne blinked and experimentally wiggled his arm. The grip remained.

  “Are you all right?” whispered a voice in his ear.

  Ted Marne was not the scary type. Nor was his mind slow.

  “Okay, Houdini,” he said. He spoke out of the corner, of his mouth softly, so that passing people wouldn’t think he was talking to himself. “You do it with mirrors. Now who or what in hell are you?”

  “I’m an invisible man.”

  “I don’t drink that kind of stuff,” returned Marne. “I’m the best damned reporter in this town and I’ve seen some funny things, but Hannah help me—an invisible man!”

  “A reporter? You work for a newspaper? Will you come with me to my rooms, where we can talk privately?”

  A HALF hour later Ted Marne sat down and watched the cushion of a stuffed chair across from him sink under an unseen weight. He lit a cigarette and listened while the disembodied voice introduced its owner and briefly explained the method of invisibility.

  “So I’m as human as you are, if you had any doubts,” concluded the voice, “but invisible through those scientific means. Do you see?”

  “No, I don’t. I can’t see you at all!” Marne grinned impishly. Then he became serious. “Say, that’s quite a thing, Trent. But why are you going to all the trouble of explaining about yourself to me?”

  “You’re a reporter. I’m a story to you—”

  “Oh no, you aren’t!” contradicted Marne. “I could write a peach of a piece about you, but the editor wouldn’t print it. If he did, the readers wouldn’t believe it. You’re just too damned unbelievable. But thanks anyway.”

  The cushion expanded. Footfalls began to sound softly around the room, as though Trent were pacing thoughtfully.

  “Marne,” he said finally, “I want you to write me up, as a favor, and get it printed.”

  “Okay,” sighed Marne. “You saved my life, I can’t say no. But what’s your game?”

  “I’ve been thinking of this step for some time. I need publicity to carry on my campaign effectively.”

  Marne sat up. “Publicity—campaign? Let’s have it. What campaign?”

  “My campaign of getting human rats! At first I just prowled the night streets and stopped petty holdups. Later I gave police the information that broke up a dope ring. And more recently I was behind the indictment of Paulson!”

  Marne’s mouth was open. “I begin to see now!” he murmured. Trent went on.

  “But that’s just pecking at it. I want to go after bigger and bigger game. And I want all those who indulge in shady and criminal dealings to know that an invisible man can expose their every scheme. To know that I may be at their elbow at any moment—listening, watching! I want to put the fear of me into every guilty heart in the city and country! Can you write me up that way, Marne?”

  “Can I?” The reporter let out a whoop. “Boy, let me tell you I can, and will! And I have just the name for you. Hereafter Trent, you’ll be known as the Invisible Robinhood!”

  C
HAPTER IV

  “Beware the Invisible Robinhood!”

  BIG Fellow Marlin looked out over the midwestern city spread beyond the window of his high quarters in the building he owned. He frowned as a king might frown. He had the right to. He was virtual ruler of the city. He was the power behind the puppet mayor’s throne.

  “This invisible man stuff!” he grunted.

  He went back to his breakfast table and picked up the paper. The headline stared him in the face, though he tried to ignore it.

  “Invisible Robinhood Cleans Up Westavia!”

  After the gory recital of smashed organization, the writer, one Ted Marne, went off in his usual vein.

  “Do you know that the Invisible Robinhood may at this moment be at your side? He comes and goes like the wind, unseen, unheard. He roams the country, searching out crime and racketeering. He may strike anywhere, wherever his hand is needed to help the forces of law, order, decency and honesty. If you have any guilty secret he may know it. If you contemplate any shady undertaking, beware that the Invisible Robinhood does not know of it, to the last rotten detail. He carries on. And remember—he may be at your side at this moment!”

  Big Fellow Marlin threw down the paper disgustedly. But he could not prevent his eyes from whisking around the room. Nor could he control the slight chill that ran up his spine at the thought that an invisible man might be watching his every move.

  The telephone rang. Marlin picked up the receiver.

  “Hello . . . Hello, 21! What’s up? . . . What! . . .You mean you won’t do it? Why not? . . . The Invisible Ro—nuts! You better do it! . . . Which do you fear most, 21, that publicity myth or me? . . . I’ll ruin you! By God, I’ll ruin you!”