In plain truth: the readers of the world did not know whether to be offended, or whether to admire the ingenuity of a young man who by nerve a little magic, and a knowledge of Tibet and science—and above all a masterly conception of mass psychology—had hoodwinked an entire world into believing him. He was a showman, par excellence.
That was why, when he came out of jail a year later to use his fifty thousand he wrote the bestselling book ever and called it ‘There’s One Born Every Minute.’ At the Fantasy Club he was a being enshrined because he was the one man who had written a story and then proved it—word for word!
ISLAND IN THE MARSH
Hart Crozier uses earthman’s science to solve a Venusian mystery!
Hart Crozier was soaking himself in the undying beauty of La Boheme at the Metrocast when he was annoyed to see the red glow of the special warning light installed on the arm of his chair. He ignored its insistence as long as he could. Then, with a sigh, he arose and made his way out of the darkened house.
In the foyer he found his assistant awaiting him—Mary Douglas, trim, blonde, and razor keen of wit. She already had his greatcoat from the check-room.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “A queer murder-case in North New York.”
“You know, Mary,” he answered musingly as he jerked his arms out to struggle into the coat she held for him, “those top soprano notes of Madame Colbi are exquisite. Murder at a time like this is most inconsiderate. Who was the victim?”
“Sutton Willis, the interplanetary explorer!” informed Miss Douglas.
“Howling space devils! He retired a year or two ago to live out his life peacefully here on Earth, as I remember. Any data?”
“On Wills, none. I took the message on the televisor and promised to locate you at once. Superintendent Burns is awaiting you at the Wills home.”
As Crozier’s private car raced through the canyons of Greater New York on the elevated skyway for special emergency traffic, the scientific investigator settled back in the cushions.
The inevitable law of progress had brought Hart Crozier into being. Back in 1940 he would have been regarded as an eccentric and dabbling visionary; in the year 2070, with its mastery of space travel and advancement of science, he emerged quite naturally as the answer to the more complex criminal problems of the day.
For crime, as usual, had kept pace with progress. The old racketeer of Earth with his submachine-guns and illicit preying on individuals was as outmoded as gasoline-powered engines. In his place had come the subtle and scientific criminal who made his playground the depths of space and who preyed on nations, who used science as his weapon, and who matched his brains against the geniuses of criminology.
Such a genius was Hart Crozier, a mild and bland appearing man in his late thirties, athletic but inclined to stoutness, and firmly addicted to the comfortable slacks of the turn of the century instead of the present vogue of military style. Ostensibly an inventor of minor gadgets—a row of which interesting little things lined the breast pocket of his sports coat like a battery of fountain pens—he had no official post on the vast staff of the American Institute of Criminology, which institute was the logical outgrowth of all the cumbersome law-enforcement agencies of the past. But he was the first man to be called in when something new showed up on the crime calendar.
Crozier’s passion was music, especially the opera. His avocations were eating and solving the problems that the officers of the Institute couldn’t crack. When a world-acclaimed singer was giving a performance, Hart could always be found just off the left aisle, seventh row, central section, of the broadcasting theater. He never listened to great artists over televisor sets. He said that such instruments did not do the singers justice.
Now, soft hat tilted over his big nose, hands folded in his lap, he was apparently asleep as the young woman beside him crisply rattled off the meager details she had acquired about the explorer’s death.
“Wills was found dead in his steel-lined library, a room which has a steel door and a steel-shuttered window. Obviously he was in mortal fear of something. He was found slumped at his desk, his left arm missing to the elbow—incinerated into ashes—disintegrated. The desk was not marred in the least; that’s the queerest part of it all.”
“Remind me to look up the libretto on La Boheme when we get home,” Crozier murmured dreamily. “Who found Wills?”
“His butler—Rawlins, who immediately called the police. Rawlins’ record is clean. He is well off, in Class N-twenty, has been with Wills ever since the explorer came home from his last trip to Venus and built that fortress of a house on the Sound.”
“Any suspects?”
“Two—an ornithologist and his daughter, neighbors of Sutton Wills. They are being held for your questioning. Seems that the girl was on the veranda outside the library about the time Wills died.”
“Ornithologist, eh? We haven’t encountered a bird naturalist since we solved that stuffed pterodactyl case two years ago.” Crozier emerged suddenly from the depths and snapped on the driver-microphone. “Jackson, get moving, can’t you? Register here shows only ninety. Make it a hundred and twenty, I haven’t all night to waste.”
The chauffeur obediently increased the speed of the atomic motor.
“Odd to kill a man and then reduce his forearm to ashes,” said Mary Douglas.
“Damned peculiar!” snorted Crozier. “And I have to miss that last aria. How does it go? Tra-la-la-la…”
The girl folded her arms in resignation and closed her eyes. There were times when she wondered if the high salary Crozier paid her really compensated for what she had to undergo.
Ten minutes later the rocket car swept into the drive of the Wills place. The solidly built house had none of the graceful lines of modern architecture, being square and squat and grim. But there was a wide porch running around the sides of the severe stone walls. There was another residence immediately to the left, a more pleasing structure with an aviary at the rear.
Crozier helped his companion out of the car at the entrance porch where a couple of official cars were parked. A police officer admitted them to the Wills house, saluting respectfully. A second officer escorted them to the library.
Hart Crozier halted on the threshold, hands deep in his pockets, his mildly sleepy eyes taking in details from beneath his floppy hat brim. Superintendent Burns was in the room, his broad back to the huge fireplace. The square-jawed controller of the Institute’s outside jobs was interviewing a girl and two men in civilian dress. The medical and fingerprint experts were busily working over the corpse and the room with their infra-red and micro-electric equipment.
The girl was dark-eyed and tanned of face. The older man, obviously her father stood beside her, tall and bald of head, and wearing glasses. The third man was of middle age, with an inscrutable sunken face and eyes like black currants.
From them Crozier let his gaze stray to the figure of the dead man sprawled before the desk. Wills had been a large, thick-necked chap with forceful, rugged features, keen gray eyes, and blond hair. He lay now half across the desk, one cheek resting thereon, both arms out-thrust before him, a terrible expression of pain and shock and horror on his face. His left arm was missing from the elbow down. There was nothing extending therefrom save a little pile of ashes—not even a drop of blood.
“Come in, come in,” called Burns. “How are you, Crozier—and Miss Douglas? This is Professor Benson and his daughter. Seems an open and shut case, but the circumstances are peculiar. Anyway, the professor insisted that I call you before I arrested his daughter for murder.”
Crozier turned round. Plunging his fists in his untidy jacket pockets he strolled forward and eyed the girl in the chair. She looked up at him earnestly, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.
“I—I wanted you, Mr. Crozier, because the Super here is sure that Dad and I are mixed up in Mr. Wills’ murder.” She jerked her head to the man with the glasses. “Honestly, it isn’t true. It’s just the way
things look, that’s all.”
“You’re the ornithologist?” Crozier asked, glancing up.
The man with glasses nodded composedly. “I’m Alroyd Benson, collector of rare birds. My daughter and I live in the house next door. Because we quarreled with Wills over the exact amount of land we were each entitled to at the back is no reason for assuming that—”
“Who rang the police?” Crozier twirled round and finally fixed his eye on the man with sunken cheeks at the opposite side of the room.
“Yes, I rang the police,” the man nodded slowly. “I’m Rawlins, Mr. Wills’ manservant.”
“He rang us, yes,” Burns corroborated. “Seems he couldn’t get any answer from this library. No way in through the steel-lined door so only police could do the job. And this is what we found. But at the time we were on the way other queer things were happening. Constable Archer, who’s now on duty at the front door, was patrolling the shore road running along the bottom of the back gardens of these two houses when he saw Miss Benson here up a ladder. The ladder was against the veranda which runs over the top of this steel-shuttered window here. When he questioned her she said she was looking for a bird. He brought her in here for questioning. I sent for her father as soon as I arrived.”
Burns looked pleased with himself.
“I was looking for a bird!” the girl cried hotly. Then, looking appealingly at Crozier, “I went to bed early tonight, but I couldn’t get to sleep because of a constant scratching and whirring noise from somewhere outside. Opening my window, I saw a big bird perched on the veranda above this very window. Dad lost a huge stork from his aviary a couple of weeks back, and I naturally thought it might be it come home again to the wrong house. I got a ladder, came over the fence between the two back lawns, and then started to climb up and coax the bird. It flew away. Then that constable turned up and apprehended me. I didn’t know Mr. Wills was dead until the constable brought me in here.”
Crozier lighted a long cigarette and stared over the match-flame at the girl s father.
“Anything to add, Professor Benson?”
“Only that Joan is telling the truth. We’ve both been worried over losing that bird.”
“And you, Miss Benson, say that this bird looked like a stork?”
“Certainly it did. I’d have caught it but for that nosy flatfoot coming round.”
Crozier cocked his eye on Burns. The Institute man smiled bitterly.
“But,” he said sweetly, “she hasn’t told you everything. She had this in her hand when she was caught.”
From his pocket he pulled an object resembling an electric torch. Its bulbous end terminated in two electrodes and upon pressing the button a savage streak of fire instantly incinerated the paper Burns held experimentally in the air.
“Nessler atomic flame gun!” he proclaimed in triumph.
“So what?” the girl asked impatiently. “Dad and I each have one. When roaming around at night I always carry protection. I’m not making excuses for it.”
“No, but you could have fired this thing at Wills and incinerated his arm!” Burns snapped. He swung round to Crozier, “I’ve examined the roof for signs of bird claw-marks, and there aren’t any. But I did discover that there was a chink between those steel window shutters through which, from her position on the ladder, Joan Benson could easily have fixed this gun! Wills was dead, in line at the desk—what the hell are you grinning at?”
Crozier’s smile vanished. “Sorry,” he said politely. “I was just picturing you on the veranda looking for scratches. I presume Miss Benson killed Wills because of some trifling argument about the land at the back?”
“That,” said Burns grimly, “may only be the beginning of a deeper motive. Anyway, it’s a start. I tell you, Crozier, all these two need is a good grilling to make them open up.”
Crozier did not answer. He handed the gun back and then strolled round the room like a connoisseur inspecting an art gallery. When he reached the alcove near the main window he paused to stare at a curious plant in deep, black, loamy soil. The plant was not unlike a palm, save that it had onion-like knots on its stem. It stood directly in front of a specially constructed air inlet of misty glass.
“Ever seen a Venusian olipus plant?” Crozier asked briefly.
Burns looked puzzled. The scientist waved his arm to the plant.
“Study up on Venusian flora and you’ll find that the olipus comes from the Venusian Wetlands, semi-temperate belt. Hmmm—good specimen, too. What’s the idea pf the quartz glass?”
He looked across at Rawlins.
“I’m not entirely sure, sir, but I think Mr. Wills once said that the plant had to have certain vital radiations from the sun which don’t pass through ordinary glass.”
“Sounds logical.” Crozier started to hum to himself.
“What the heck’s a plant got to do with Wills being murdered?” Burns demanded.
“Maybe nothing,” said Crozier as he dragged out a footstool and looked at the plant at closer quarters. The topmost leaves were brownish, curled and lighted at the end. Crozier discounted, ignored Burns’ clearly growing exasperation and swung round to the manservant again.
“How did your master get hold of this plant, anyway?”
Rawlins hesitated. “He—he never told me sir. But I think he brought it back from Venus on his last trip I believe he picked it up in his travels. He once told me he had discovered that a war was going to break out on Venus. He didn’t say how or when. I’ve always understood the Venusians to be a very friendly race.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” snapped Burns.
“Meaning no disrespect, sir, but you never asked me.”
Crozier grinned broadly and winked across to Mary. He began stabbing his finger in the air.
“Olipus plant—interplanetary traveler—possible war. Make a note of those, Mary. Now, Burns, have a ladder put up where Miss Benson was found.”
“The ladder she used is still there,” Burns growled.
Crozier strode over to the window, flung back the steel shutters and scrambled outside. Those inside the room leaned through the window to watch him. Still humming to himself he pulled out a fountain pen torch and flashed it along the sloping veranda with its old-fashioned slated roof.
Evidently unsatisfied, he tugged out another instrument and sprinkled from it a fine yellow powder like mustard. He waited a moment or two while the powder changed color to pale blue, leaving black imprints in its midst; then he came back into the library and closed the window.
“Nothing, eh?” Burns eyed him in malicious satisfaction.
“On the contrary, the imprints of a bird’s feet,” Crozier said calmly. “This photonic dust of mine reacts like litmus paper used to react to poison gas. There are distinct prints of a bird’s feet.”
“Then that exonerates us!” Benson exclaimed. “There was a bird!”
“True, but did you ever see a stork with webbed feet?” Crozier looked round blandly. “For that matter, did you ever hear of a bird with webbed feet the size of a stork, flying as high as that veranda roof?”
Burns’ face began to darken a little. He caught the scientist’s arm.
“Listen, Crozier, you’re not seriously trying to suggest that a bird, web-footed or otherwise, had anything to do with Wills’ death, are you? I admit I missed the bird imprints, but I don’t see you’ve proved anything. What we’ve got to do is to find the real motive for these two killing Wills!”
“In spite of the fact that Miss Benson’s story now holds water? Be yourself, Burns!”
Crozier looked again at the plant in the corner, then at the desk with Wills slumped across it. Finally he studied the cindery stump of the shattered arm, brooded over the ash on the desk, looked beyond it in a direct line to where there was a distinct burn in the heavy carpet.
“As I figure it,” Burns said, “Wills had his arm raised in the air when that disintegrating force struck it. I’ve used a piece of string from that hole in the
carpet to the top of the chink in the window shutters, and if he had been standing, his left arm outthrust, he could have got it right on the forearm. I’ve checked up on that already. It would explain why the desk wasn’t burned.”
Crozier nodded. “While you were playing games you no doubt accounted for the fact that the window was not shattered by the vibration from the gun outside it?”
“I admit that puzzles me. Maybe it was the sort of vibration that doesn’t affect glass.”
“Give me that gun of Miss Benson’s,” Crozier ordered.
Doubtfully Burns handed over the weapon. Calmly, Crozier took a wine glass from the sideboard in the corner, directed the gun on it and pressed the button. The splintered shards flew all over the carpet.
“Doesn’t affect glass?” he asked casually as he handed the gun back. “Better get Miss Benson out your mind, Burns. This goes deeper than you think. Now you, Rawlins. Did you ever see anything peculiar about your master’s left arm? Any tattoo marks or anything?”
“No, sir. Both his forearms were free of anything like that.”
“Did he always wear a white shirt like the one he has on now?”
The butler looked surprised. “Yes. Come to think of it, he did.”
“Is there one around that’s not yet been laundered?” Crozier asked quickly, and at the servant’s nod: “Tear out the left sleeve and bring it here.”
“I can’t begin to thank you enough for clearing Madge and me, Mr. Crozier,” Benson said warmly. “It was so absurd to—”
“The whole thing’s absurd!” snapped Burns, still fingering the girl’s gun. “It means you had some other method, and I’ll find it yet if I go gray doing it.”
“I know an excellent hair dye,” Crozier murmured. Then stroking his square chin, he wandered past the numerous bookshelves, finally pulled down a volume on Venusian life and flipped through the pages.
“Charming people!” he commented finally. “Bald as eggs, the whole lot of ’em. Hot Landers, Cold Landers—all living together in peace and quiet. And yet…that hint of a war.” His eyes narrowed for a moment. “I guess Wills was well up in Venusian lore.”
The John Russell Fearn Science Fiction Megapack Page 13
