Dr Satan - [Pulp Classics 6]

by Edited By Robert Weinberg

  That was at eleven-thirty at night. At twelve, a big closed car drew up behind Yates’ roadster under the side portico. The closed car had come thirty miles in thirty minutes. From it descended a figure cloaked in black, with a black hat on its head, the brim of which hid all trace of its features.

  The figure worked an instant with the lock of the side door, opened it, and walked in darkness to the basement stairs. Beside the furnace a gloved hand - gloved in red instead of in more conventional hue - went out and touched the discolored patch.

  Leisurely the figure went into the hidden basement room. It lifted the box of gems first. The box was borne to the big closed car. Then, bar by bar, the gold followed, carried by the dark figure as though the two hundred and fifty pounds each weighed were scarcely more than a normal load.

  With plenty of time between trips, the big car was loaded till it sagged drunkenly low on its springs. Then it was backed out of the drive under the red-gloved hands of the dark form at the wheel.

  It slid soundlessly into the main road, turned, and took the wide pike toward New York City....

  * * * *

  It was at three in the morning when the Red Bank chief of police, a dark-faced, slow-moving man named Carlisle who was high in New York’s detective bureau, and a man with black hair and steel-gray eyes, entered the sunken safe in the hidden basement room.

  “See?” said the Red Bank chief. “Its all like I phoned, you Carlisle. Yates’ roadster is at the side door, lights out and motor cold. The cook next door reported seeing the old man drive in, and after he’d been in the place two hours, with no lights on, she had sense enough to think something funny was going on. So she phoned me. But I get here and find this safe open and empty, and no sign of Yates! Now where the hell is he? He ain’t in the house, and he ain’t on the grounds. He couldn’t have gone far without his roadster. And anyhow, his safe’s cleaned. It must have had something pretty valuable in it. He certainly didn’t clean it out himself and then Just walk away somewhere leaving it wide open!”

  The tall man with the coal-black hair and the gray eyes stopped suddenly. He picked up something from the floor, near a square in the dust that looked as though a box had rested there recently.

  “What’d you find, Keane?” Carlisle asked.

  Ascott Keane, probably the most competent detective alive, though few knew him as anything but a polo-playing rich man’s son, faced Lieutenant Detective Carlisle.

  “Nothing but a burnt match,” he said, holding out a paper match with a charred end. “I don’t think it will tell us much.”

  He gave the charred match to Carlisle.

  But into his coat pocket went another small object, hardly bigger than the match, which he had picked up from the floor at the same time and palmed.

  Carlisle grunted at the match, then looked expectantly at Ascott Keane.

  “Well,” he said, “you once told me to get in touch with you any time an especially mysterious crime was done. This is crime, sure enough. And, damned if it isn’t mysterious enough. Think your pal, Doctor Satan, did it?”

  Keane shrugged.

  “There undoubtedly was something of great value in this carefully concealed strong-room. There must have been a great deal of it. Probably hoarded gold. Certainly Yates wasn’t able to carry it away; he was an old man, rather feeble. Somebody got rid of him, somehow, when he was down here counting over his buried treasure! And, from the complete absence of all clues, I’d say the person clever enough to do that might have been - Doctor Satan.”

  Carlisle stared curiously at Keane. Keane’s face was as calm as a poker-player’s. But it was to be noted that fine beads of perspiration were on his face, and that his cheeks were not quite as calm as his expression. Hard marks ridged them.

  “That all you got to tell me?” he said.

  “That’s all for the moment. I think I’ll run along ---”

  “But you just came!“ Carlisle said, disappointed and a little suspicious. “You haven’t looked around at all.”

  “Looking around won’t get you anywhere - if this is the work of Doctor Satan. And I’m sure it is. A lot of quiet study in a secluded spot is more to the point. I’m off the indulge myself in that now.”

  He nodded to the two men, and left the basement.

  Behind Yates’ car was the police car the Chief and Carlisle had come in. Behind that was Keane1s long-low-hooded sedan with its streamlines and its hundred and thirty miles an hour of speed under its hood.

  Beside the driver’s seat was a girl, waiting for him. She was tall and lithe. Her dark blue eyes, in the light from the dash, softened as they turned on him. Her hair, escaping in a few tendrils from under a smart, small hat, was coppery brown. This was Beatrice Dale, Keane’s secretary. No, more than secretary! She was his able assistant, his right hand man. More than once in his pursuit of the monster of crime who called himself Doctor Satan, Keane had reached the point where he could hardly have carried on without her aid.

  “What did you find?” she said eagerly, as he took the seat beside her and started the motor. “Was it Doctor Satan’s work?”

  Wordlessly, in answer, Keane handed her the small thing he’d picked up from the floor in the rifled strong-room. Then he slid into reverse gear as she looked at it.

  “Ascott, what is it?” Beatrice said. “It looks like a tiny doll. Yet it gives me the creeps somehow. It seems to be made of rubber or some such stuff. A little doll, hardly more than, half an inch long. What is it?”

  Keane tooled the car onto the highway and started along the New York pike. He glanced somberly at her.

  “What is it? Well, it isn’t a doll. Here, give it back to me before I tell you.”

  He took it from her fingers and put it back into his pocket.

  “That,” he said, “is a man. Not a doll. A dead man!”

  “What ---” Beatrice faltered.

  “It’s the remains of Linton R. Yates. Now, you’re not going to faint I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you were apt to do anything silly.”

  Beatrice Dale straightened her swaying body into the seat. She drew a deep breath, and her voice was measurably calm as she said:

  “You flatter my nerves, I’m afraid. My God! A dead man! And I held it!”

  It was notable that she didn’t question for an instant the statement that a thing like a tiny doll, which could be held in the palm of her hand, was, impossibly, a dead body. She had worked with Keane long enough to know that his statements were apt to be infallible. And the feel of the little thing that “had given her the creeps” bore out his fantastic declaration.

  “Yes,” he said as the car leaped toward eighty miles an hour, “that little thing is Linton Yates, retired oil magnate. Can you imagine his loving family gathered around that, during a burial ceremony. Like burying a watch-charm with all dur pomp and surroundings!”

  “Then it was Doctor Satan!” Nobody else on earth could have done so hideous and bizarre a thing! But how ---”

  She stared at him, still pale, eyes wide.

  Keane frowned at the night, into which they were boring at express train speed.

  “I think I know how. I’ll make sure when we’ve got to my library at home.”

  * * * *

  That was at a little after three. At four, they stood in Keane’s book-lined library beside the great ebony desk at which he had sat studying so many problems arising from the ghastly genius of Doctor Satan.

  Keane was reading a two-year-old scientific paper entitled “The Possibilities of a Death, or Disintegrating, Ray,” by someone named Barnard Hallowell:

  “The death ray, so-called from popular speculations of a disintegrating device by the public press, is not at all an impossible dream. I am working on some such device now. I have come close to its solution several times. As none of the features of my invention has yet been perfected to the point where they can be patented, I will naturally not reveal particulars to you. But I can describe the result of the machine whe
n - and if - it is completed.

  “My apparatus could be pointed and aimed as accurately as any gun, so that the ray it emits can kill one person, and one person, alone, at a distance up to forty miles. Or the ray could be so diffused that all things within a forty-degree arc of its muzzle (at a lesser distance, however) would die. The ray strikes instantly dead the thing it is loosed upon. Then it further disintegrates the flesh of the carcass by causing the molecules to split apart and stream away, through solid objects around it, and eventually, into empty space. How can I know this, when I never yet quite completed a machine? My only answer unfortunately, not provable since I cannot let anyone see the fruits of my experiments to date, is that I have come near enough to the solution to what the problem is in effect, similar to what I describe, to begin on bodies of animals in my laboratory....”

  Keane closed the paper, and looked at Beatrice.

  Her blue eyes were level with concentration. She stared at the paper in his hand, then at his face.

  “Doctor Satan got to the man who wrote that paper, Bernard Hallowell,” she said. “Since he wrote it, he has completed the death-ray machine. Doctor Satan forced the secret of it from him. That is what the little figure you picked up in Yate’s safe means.”

  Keane slowly shook his head. On his forehead again appeared fine drops of sweat. And again, hard muscle ridged out on his lean cheeks.

  “No, Beatrice,” “It means more than that - much more. You see, Bernard Hallowell is dead. He died two years ago, just after reading this paper before a meeting of the American Scientific Institute.”

  Beatrice stared at him, color slowly draining from her face as she vaguely sensed something of what was in his mind.

  “Bernard Hallowell, the one man on earth capable of doing to a human body what was done to Yates, is dead. Yet Doctor Satan got from him the secret of the death ray - which was not quite completed when he died. That can mean only thing:

  “Doctor Satan has found out how really to do that which charlatans and self-deluded investigators have often claimed baselessly they could do - communicate with the dead.”

  * * * *

  3

  The disappearance on shipboard of the great inventor, Jules Marxman, stirred police circles as a stick stirs muddy water. The vanishing of Linton Yates was distinctly secondary: Yates, though far richer, was not as internationally known.

  At the hotel suite booked by Marxman for himself and his assistant, swarms of detectives and newspaper reporters filed in and out interviewing, or trying to interview, Slycher, the assistant.

  But there was one man who had no trouble closeting himself with Slycher, known to police and news hawks if not the public, he was treated with amazing deference. That was Ascott Keane. He sat in the tower suite now with Slycher.

  “You say you thought Assistant Secretary of War Harley talked to Marxman just before Marxman disappeared?” Keane repeated.

  Slycher nodded, white-faced, more than a little frightened. He was himself a murder suspect, of course.

  “But Harley denies seeing Marxman?” Keane went on.

  “Yes,” said Slycher. “Most of the police think I’m making up the story. But I swear I saw Mr. Harley go into Mr. Marxman’s cabin. Also, I saw him come out again, and shortly afterward, Mr. Marxman went on deck - and was never seen again.”

  Keane looked at the man. He was obviously telling the truth, as he saw it.

  “Harley is above suspicion,” Keane mused. “If he denies he was with Marxman, it quite likely he wasn’t there, in spite of appearances. That means someone must have impersonated Harley. Marxman was bringing home a nearly completed war formula, wasn’t he?”

  Slycher nodded and told him about the poison gas, which was perfected, and the antidote which was not.

  “The gas was useless as a weapon till the antidote could be worked out better,” he concluded. So, anyone stealing the gas formula couldn’t use it anyhow: if he tried, he’d be knocked out himself.”

  Keane’s eyes were intent, and were glinting a little as they always did when he was uncovering a warm scent.

  “This formula of the antidote,” he said slowly. “As it stood, it figuratively killed anyone who took it ---”

  “Not figuratively – actually!” the inventor’s assistant interrupted. “Anyone taking it dies, as far as medical examination can show, for twelve hours.”

  “And Doctor Satan can Communicate with the dead!” Keane breathed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, I think I’m beginning to see light, that’s all. And now for a very important question. And you’ll have to judge for yourself, from recommendations given you concerning me, whether you dare answer truly. Did Marxman, by any chance, have a sample of the antidote among his effects?”

  Slycher hesitated a long time before he answered that. Then slowly he nodded.

  “He did. He dared to do it because the formula was so complicated that he doubted if any laboratory could fully analyze the sample and duplicate it.”

  “Let me have it, will you?” said Keane.

  Again the assistant studied his face for a long time. But Keane’s sincerity and authority were unquestionable. Slycher got up and went to the next room of the suite. He came back with a heavily sealed envelope in his hand. The envelope was padded out as though it contained a handkerchief or some other small but bulky thing.

  “Here it is, do you want all of it?”

  “No,” said Keane softly. “Just enough for one dose.”

  Slycher opened the envelope. Onto a sheet of writing-paper he shook a minute quantity of purplish powder. It was coarse powder. It was small crystals, really and looked like powdered amethyst.

  “This is one dose of the antidote,” he said. “May I ask what you intend to do with it?”

  Keane looked at, and through, the man. His voice, when he answered, was a little hushed.

  “I’m going to take it - and die. I’m going to find out where a man goes when he’s dead. And I hope to meet another person in that place - and perhaps leave him there!”

  Beatrice Dale, to whom he announced the same intention, when he returned home, was horrified.

  “My God, Ascott! Meet Doctor Satan in death? You can’t! The risk---”

  “The risk is a little thing compared to what may happen if I don’t,” Keane said quietly. “Have you thought at all what this means? Doctor Satan, with the aid of Marxman’s uncompleted formula, can visit the dead. From them he can obtain the secrets they died without revealing to any other mortal. Why, the world is his if he can’t be stopped! Think of being able to discover the last, and perhaps greatest of the inventions Edison was working on when he died! Or the chance of learning from Captain Kidd’s own lips where his treasure is hidden! Or of finding out the true political machinations of European diplomacy from any of the great statesmen who have recently passed on! Satan can be emperor of earth with that knowledge!”

  He looked at the pinch of purplish crystals.

  “The gateway to death. Bring me a glass of water, will you? Even if nothing is accomplished beyond that gateway, even if I never come back from beyond it, it will be interesting to pass through it.”

  * * * *

  Midway between New York and Red Bank, in New Jersey, on a flat-topped knoll near the sea, there stands a rather hideous replica of a Rhenish castle built by an eccentric rich man long dead. The people living near there call it Furlowe’s folly, and know that it has been untenanted and in bad repair for many years. What they did not know was that it had been purchased recently by a man who never made a personal appearance during the transaction. What they also did not know was that in a steel-lined room in the basement of the house, the purchaser, and his ugly assistant, often engaged at night in occupations that could have blanched their faces would they have looked on.

  The two were there tonight.

  One, the secret purchaser of Furlowe’s Folly, was Doctor Satan, dressed in the masquerade it amused him to wear; red cloak covering
his lean, powerful body from heels to throat; red mask over his face; red gloves on his hand; and on his head, the skullcap of red with the little projections, like horns, that completed his costume of Lucifer.

  The other was Bostiff, who was a figure out of an illustration of Dante’s Inferno. He had no legs. He hitched his gigantic, formidably muscled torso about by using his arms as legs and resting his weight on the calloused backs of his hands. His eyes, dull, dog-like stupidly brutal, followed the red-clad figure of his master constantly.

  Doctor Satan was bending over a long, plain table which was littered with laboratory instruments. He was manipulating a small glass beaker in which a purplish, heavy liquid was rapidly drying into fine purplish crystals. From time to time, he consulted a wrinkled small bit of onion skin paper that had formerly been rolled up in a capsule.