The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  J. D. Belmont turned and sailed out of the room, leaving the check and a haze of smoke. His chauffeur went before him and the dick, scowling heavily, followed after.

  Woody Haines snatched the note from Don’s hand, took one look at it and made for the phone. “Boy, oh boy!” he exclaimed, dialing. “When it rains it pours. Rewrite desk, darling, and shake a leg.”

  He looked back toward Diavolo, who was scowling at the door that had slammed behind J. D. Belmont. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you realize that even that check wouldn’t begin to pay for the publicity you’re going to—Hello, Mike. Here’s a new front page for you! … War? Which war? Oh, stick it on the Sports page. Listen. Invisible man duels magician! J. D. Belmont, financial wizard, pays Don Diavolo, Scarlet Wizard, ten thousand smackers to outwit unseen menace. The little man who isn’t there sent J. D. a note this morning. Quote: ‘I want the Antoinette necklace. You won’t miss it. Kindly have it ready for me when I call at eleven o’clock Wednesday night. You may inform the police. Best regards. The Invisible Man.’ Unquote.

  “Don Diavolo replies as follows. Quote: ‘Dear Invisible Man: Go take a running jump in the East River. Love and Kisses. Don Diavolo.’ Unquote. Start working on that. I’ll be over with more right aw—”

  “Hey!” Don shouted, suddenly coming out of his own brown study. “What goes on here? Blast you, Woody. You can’t—” He started toward the big reporter, but Woody was too near the door. Woody dropped the phone and before Don Diavolo could collar him he was gone.

  “See you later,” his voice floated back. “I’m a busy man. Hmmmph!”

  Don looked at the others who had come crowding into the room when Belmont left. “Pat,” he said, “that little pet elephant of yours gets me into the damnedest messes. I don’t have the slightest idea what makes the invisible man invisible and now—”

  Pat hadn’t as yet recovered from the shock that something about that note had given her. “Don,” she said, her voice wavering. “I want to see you for a minute—alone.” She started back into the inner dressing room.

  The Horseshoe Kid said, “Larry and I are leaving, Pat. We’re going down to Lindy’s and have a drink and I’m going to call his bluff on that no-holds-barred card game. Come on, half-pint. We’ll make it blackjack.”

  Larry got his hat and cracked back. “Okay, butterfingers. It’s your funeral.”

  When they had gone, Don turned to Pat and waved graceful fingers at the photostat that she was still tightly clutching. “What do you know about that note, sweetheart?” he asked. “Better tell me,” he said, more gently.

  Her blue eyes were worried. “Don—I—I know whose thumbprint this is,” she said slowly. “At least I’m—I’m afraid I do.”

  Don took the ’stat and glanced at it swiftly. “The scar?” he guessed, his dark eyes narrowing.

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s exactly like one on Glenn’s hand. And I’m afraid.…”

  “Your brother?” Don asked in surprise. “I thought he was in Hollywood.”

  She shook her blond head. “He came back a month ago, Don. The studio didn’t renew his contract. He fell in love with Myra Shaw and she threw him over for some producer. It hit him pretty hard and he started drinking. He reported on the set several times so tight he couldn’t act. That, coming on top of the flop his last picture made—it was a corny script—put him on the skids. But that’s not all.

  “He dropped every cent he had on roulette and horses. He wouldn’t ask anyone for money, but Woody found out about it somehow—he always does—and I’ve been helping Glenn out. He hates that and he’s just desperate enough to do something like this—only I don’t understand.…”

  “How he makes himself invisible?”

  Pat nodded. “Yes. It’s a trick of some sort, isn’t it, Don?”

  “I don’t know. If it is, it’s a honey.” Don scowled. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. We could use something like that in the act. Where’s Glenn staying, Pat?”

  “Actor’s hotel on East Fortieth. The Drury Lane.”

  “Good. Chan, you put on your hat and go get him. Tell him Pat wants to see him. Don’t tell him why, but say that it’s important. And bring him back if you have to knock him out.”

  Chan grinned. “My jiu-jitsu is somewhat rusty. This may be an excellent opportunity for practice. Don’t worry, Miss Pat. I’ll bring him in A No. 1 condition.”

  Chan hurried out and Pat stood by the window looking down onto 50th Street. After a moment she said, “But there’s something wrong somewhere Don. Glenn wouldn’t have murdered that detective.”

  Don’s voice had a queer inflection in it as he answered, an incredulous note of amazement. Pat turned toward him quickly.

  “There are a lot of things wrong every-where, Pat. I’m beginning to think I don’t much like our invisible friend, whoever he is. Look at this.”

  Pat looked where Don’s finger pointed. Woody’s hat, which its owner had been in too great a hurry to take, lay on the divan. A small white card rested on its crown. “That,” Don added, “must have been put there since Woody came into the room.”

  Without touching it, Pat leaned forward to read the pencilled words.

  Keep away from Belmont unless you want trouble.

  —THE INVISIBLE MAN

  “Not as polite as usual,” Don said, scowling at the words.

  Pat looked around nervously. A small shiver crept along her back. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that had been growing within her, a curious feeling that was to affect a good many people in the next few days.

  It seemed to her that if her eyes could only stare just a bit harder, she might almost manage to see the figure she had begun to fear was there in the room with them, invisibly listening—and watching every move.

  Chapter IV

  The Queen’s Necklace

  Chan Chandar Manchu had once hunted tiger in the Indian jungles. But finding Glenn Collins in Manhattan turned out to be more of a job. There wasn’t any trail to follow. At the Drury Lane Hotel, Chan was informed that Mr. Collins had checked out three days ago and had not left a forwarding address. Chan called Don Diavolo and asked for further orders.

  “Booking agents, Chan,” Don suggested. “Producers’ offices, theatrical boarding houses, and hotels. Try them. Pat says he was looking for a job. You might find someone who has his new address. I’m going on for the last show in a few minutes, then home. Report back there.”

  Chan got two dollars’ worth of nickels, tore the pages that contained the numbers of the theatrical agents and hotels from the Classified book, and disappeared into a phone booth.

  The hour being as late as it was, his percentage of completed calls was small. Three of the agents he reached gave him Glenn’s address, but they each said: “The Drury Lane.” None of the hotels had anyone registered by that name.

  Chan called Don again at the Fox Street house in the Village. Karl Hartz, Diavolo’s private mechanical wizard, answered the phone. He listened to Chan’s discouraged report, relayed it to Diavolo and then said, “Don says to try Sardi’s and Lindy’s. If you don’t strike pay dirt there, come on in.”

  The headwaiters at both restaurants knew Glenn Collins by sight; neither had seen him for the last three days. Glenn seemed to have vanished from all his usual haunts quite completely.

  Chan took the subway to Christopher Street and walked the two blocks over to 77 Fox Street, the house which was Don Diavolo’s headquarters when he was playing New York City and which the newspapers always referred to as The House of Magic. It had more gadgets, all devised and installed by Hartz, than the Fun house at Coney Island. Dan Diavolo could, to all intents and purposes, walk through its walls with the greatest of ease. It was as impregnable as a fortress, but to Don and his friends it was, even when surrounded by policemen—as it had been at least once—no more effective a prison than a bag of wet tissue paper.

  Don Diavolo, Patricia Collins, and Karl Hartz were in the library when Ch
an came in. Karl was talking on the phone. “No, Inspector Church. Don Diavolo is not here at the moment.… No, I don’t know when he’ll be in.… Yes I’ll tell him.”

  Karl hung up and said, “Somehow I get the impression that the Inspector wants to look at your fingerprints, Don.”

  Don nodded, “I was expecting that. Just because my magic annoys him, every time anything happens that looks both criminal and impossible he wants my blood.” Don tossed a book onto the pile stacked on the floor by his chair. He looked at the gloomy expression on Chan’s face and asked, “No luck, Hawkshaw?”

  Chan said, “No. Mr. Collins has vanished like boy in Indian basket trick.”

  Diavolo frowned. Patricia Collins, who sat in a chair across the room, smoking nervously, said, “If we could only find him before eleven tomorrow, we might be able to stop …” Her voice trailed off, hopelessly.

  Karl Hartz brought another book he had just taken from the shelves that encircled the room and gave it to Don. “Here. This is the one I was looking for. The Fateful Diamonds by Jocelyn Rhys. It says that Madame Lamotte pried the stones from their settings. Her husband took some to London and Vilette some to Amsterdam, and sold them.”

  Don took the book and looked at it. “None of the other authorities take the trouble to mention the fate of the necklace. And this writer doesn’t give her sources. It sounds logical enough though.”

  “May I ask,” Chan inquired, “what this Antoinette necklace is?”

  “You may,” Don answered. “It’s the necklace that had all Europe dithering back in 1758. Count Alessandro Cagliostro, the last of the great sorcerers, was accused of having stolen it from Mme. Lamotte when she was arrested on a charge of having gotten it from Boehmer, the jeweler, by fraud. Boehmer had put all his capital into the necklace, a fantastically improbable affair of diamonds worth sixty-four thousand pounds in those days and a lot more now. That’s around $320,000.

  “Boehmer made the necklace, hoping to sell it to Marie Antoinette, and then discovered that she didn’t want the thing. He hawked it around all the courts of Europe for nearly ten years and couldn’t find any monarch rich enough or extravagant enough to buy it.

  “Then the Comtesse Lamotte-Valois, a beautiful, wily, and unscrupulous adventuress had herself an idea. She had been handing His Eminence, the Cardinal de Rohan, Grand Almoner of France, quite a line. He was trying to gain the favor of Marie Antoinette, and Lamotte pretended to help him by posing as an intimate of the Queen’s. She even arranged a date for him with the Queen and rang in an impersonator, the ‘Baroness d’Olivia,’ and got away with it.

  “Hearing about the necklace, she told Rohan that the Queen wanted to buy it and would pay Boehmer 1,600,000 livres in four installments. If the Cardinal would help arrange this little matter, the Queen would be most happy. Rohan, like a dope, jumped at the chance, particularly after Lamotte fed him some notes in the Queen’s handwriting which she had had forged.

  “The Cardinal gave the jeweler a note from Antoinette promising to pay, and Boehmer handed over the necklace. De Rohan gave it to Lamotte. And that’s the last anyone ever saw of it. Six months later, when the first installment didn’t show up, Monsieur Boehmer spilled the beans to the Queen. Marie promptly threw the Cardinal, Madame Lamotte, the phony Baroness, Vilette the forger, and some others into the Bastille.

  “Madame Lamotte accused Cagliostro of having stolen the necklace, and he and his wife were jugged too. At the trial, his alibis looked good and he was released. Lamotte was imprisoned in the Saltpêtrière from which she later escaped and made her way to London.

  “If Belmont has that necklace, then our invisible man is certainly out after big game. There are over five hundred diamonds in it—many big ones.”

  Karl scowled. “I smell mice,” he said. “I’d like to know how long Belmont had had the necklace and why I’ve never seen any mention of its sale in the papers. The sale of a thing like that would make news.”

  “Collectors,” Don replied, “are odd fish. Sometimes they spend thousands of dollars on an item and want it kept a secret. Some of them are fanatic enough to pay fancy prices for pictures that have been stolen from great museums—pictures that they know they’ll have to keep out of sight, under lock and key. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Whether it’s the real necklace or not,” Pat said, “Belmont must have something valuable if he’s willing to pay you $10,000 to keep it from being stolen.”

  “Yes.” Don looked thoughtfully at his lighted cigarette, placed it in one hand, and squeezed it slowly into nothing. “Of course he may only think he’s got the real thing.” Don stood up. “But there’s nothing we can do until the Invisible Man keeps his first appointment at eleven tomorrow. I’m going to bed and sleep on it. You see that this place is well locked up tonight, Karl. The Invisible Man, since he left that note in my dressing room tonight, must know we’ve got a finger in the pie.”

  Pat, Chan, and Diavolo went upstairs to bed. Karl Hartz made his rounds and saw that all his burglar alarms were in good operating order. “Though I don’t know what good these’ll do,” he grumbled somewhat uneasily to himself, “if the Invisible Man’s already come in.”

  Something touched lightly against Karl’s ankle and he jumped a good three feet. Two yellowish, slitted green eyes stared up at him from the darkness. Karl’s first startled thought was that it was the invisible man and that he was an almond-eyed Chinese midget.

  Then Karl said, “Blast!” and reached down to pick up the Diavolo household’s poltergeist, Satan, a large black cat. Karl put him outside the back door and then sought his own bed.

  Chapter V

  Siva the Destroyer

  At nine next morning the traffic cops at 55th Street and Fifth Avenue began having their troubles. Traffic started to tangle and the sidewalk in front of the Museum of Indian Art on 55th just off the Avenue began to collect a crowd.

  At ten o’clock several riot cars arrived. The north side of the street was roped off and cleared of everyone except Inspector Church, a couple of dozen detectives and a platoon of uniformed cops. Even the newspaper photographers and reporters were unceremoniously told to “get on the other side of the street and stay there, dammit!” They growled, but obeyed, joining their colleagues, the newsreel cameramen, whose sound trucks were lined up along the opposite curb.

  Inspector Church stationed a solid line of cops across the entrance to the museum and sent others to the roof. He stood in the Museum doorway and scowled across at the newsreel men who were busily aiming their cameras at the crowd, the Museum, and the Inspector. One of them shouted, “Action, please. Give us a smile, Inspector.”

  Church gave him instead a dirty look. “If that blank-blank notewriter really is invisible, what the blazing fury do those guys think they are going to get a picture of?”

  “An inspector of police having a fit, maybe,” a laughing voice said, close by Church’s side. “Better watch your language, Inspector. You’ll have the Hays office on your neck.”

  “You!” Church whirled. “What are you doing here? How did you get past my men?”

  Don Diavolo grinned. “I didn’t, Inspector,” he answered. “I’ve been here for some time. Chan introduced me to the curator, an old friend of his, and I’ve been inside looking over the layout.”

  Church turned to a detective nearby. “Brophy,” he commanded. “Go and see if that statue is still there. If this guy’s been nosing around it …”

  Brophy departed hastily, looking worried. Church said, “I’m watching you.”

  “You can search me, Inspector,” Don returned. “And you won’t find any seven foot, four-armed bronze statues on my person. Say, you don’t suppose that is why the Invisible Man gave you notice that he was going to snitch a statue of Siva the Destroyer, do you?”

  “I don’t suppose that is why …? I don’t suppose what is why?” The Inspector was upset.

  “Well Siva is four-armed; and forewarned is also fore-armed!”

  Do
n Diavolo’s tact this fine morning was negligible. Inspector Church was in no mood for puns and he said as much in elaborate and colorful terms. His words glowed as if they had been lettered across the sky in neon tubing. Then he ordered, “Schultz and Gianelli. You two keep your eyes on this monkey. He doesn’t leave here until I say so, and he doesn’t go into the room where that accursed statue is on any account. Got that?”

  They said, “Yessir!” simultaneously.

  Inspector Church turned on his heel and went into the building. The curator, a lean, dark-skinned little man, Mr. I. J. Kamasutra, smiled politely at him, but it did no good. Church growled irritably and went on into the Court of the Gods.

  The walls of this room were covered with ancient and priceless hangings whose intricate patterns told, in esoteric symbols, the story of the prophet Buddha, and pictured the many strangely shaped forms of the angels and demons of the Brahman hierarchy.

  The Inspector, who hated magic and all things unexplainable, was here surrounded by just that on every side. Demon masks, their faces twisted with an inhuman ferocity, leered down at him, while several lesser statues of five-headed devils and hybrid elephant gods watched him suspiciously from the dark corners of the room.

  “Get some light in this place,” he commanded.

  Two of the half dozen detectives who stood around the great bronze statue in the center of the room hurried out and returned with an extension cord and a portable light. They set it up and turned its 200-watt glare full on the posturing figure of Siva the Destroyer.