The Black Lizard Big Book of Locked-Room Mysteries

by Otto Penzler

  But the girl was hysterical now, and beyond questioning. The desk clerk hurried in with a doctor and they led Rose Ziegler to a bedroom.

  Church said, “Yeah, I know. You’re ready with some phony alibi, but it won’t go down. I’ve got too much now. An eyewitness. You can’t get around that.”

  Don looked at him for a moment and then said slowly, “You think that I’m the Invisible Man?”

  “I know you are,” Church shot back. “And the chair up at Sing Sing is one little gadget that you won’t be able to squirm out of. Brophy—”

  Don moved slightly away from the desk.

  “Stay where you are!” Brophy ordered, coming toward him.

  Don shook his head. “But I’m not the Invisi—”

  The voice that cut him off affected both Church and Brophy like a powerful electric charge. They jerked, stood stock still, and stared at the automatic that floated slowly up in midair from behind the desk.

  The cold familiar voice rang in their ears. “No, he’s not the Invisible Man, Inspector. And he did not kill—”

  Church’s and Brophy’s guns spit fire together. The gun that pointed at them from midair dropped suddenly.

  The Inspector and the Sergeant rounded the desk from opposite sides and pounced—on nothing. The gun lay there on the rug, but they could not feel the prone body they had hoped to find beneath their hands.

  Church reached out and picked up the gun. As his fingers touched it, his jaw dropped, hung there a moment, and then instantly, he was on his feet whirling to face Don Diavolo.

  But Don Diavolo had become as invisible as the phantom that had held the gun! Where Diavolo had been, Inspector Church saw exactly nothing at all!

  Chapter XII

  The Little Man Who Wasn’t There

  When the Inspector and Sergeant Brophy had fired and jumped toward the gun behind the desk, Don Diavolo had made a swift and silent pounce for the door. He heard them pounding down the corridor after him as the elevator started its descent and he saw the frantic signals of the red light on the control board. The colored boy who ran the car took one look at Don’s face and decided to make a non-stop trip.

  Outside, Don signaled a taxi and, as he swung aboard, ordered, “The nearest phone, and step on it.”

  Three blocks over in a drugstore booth, Diavolo dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed the Music Hall. “Chan,” he said, talking rapidly, “I’m in dutch with the police force again. I’m going down to Fox Street, but they’ll have the place surrounded before I can get there. Did you reach Karl? … He’s there. Good.… Have him bring the VanLio costume and cut cross town in a cab. I’ll meet him at 50th and 11th Avenue.… Kaselmeyer? … Tell him that if I come in for the next show, it would be the first step toward Sing Sing and he’d have to refund admissions from now on. Get Karl started.”

  A half hour later two clerics descended from a cab before a red brick house at 79 Fox Street. One was a tall young man with a handsome bronzed face and black eyes that twinkled as he saw the detectives stationed on the stoop next door. His companion was an elderly little man with a great shock of white hair and thick-lensed spectacles. They were both dressed in sober black and their collars were on backward.

  The short man carried a briefcase that might have contained sermons or missionary reports. Actually it held the famous scarlet evening clothes which the police, at No. 77, were watching for.

  Above the doorbell at No. 79 was a small dignified inscription that read “Parish House, Rev. O. O. VanLio, D.D.”4 As the two ministers went up the steps the taller one said, “That actor next door must be in trouble again. Detectives everywhere. It’s scandalous! Tsk! Tsk! I fear our parish house is not located in the best of neighborhoods, my dear Bishop.”

  The Bishop scowled. His words came from the corner of his mouth. “They’re going to rumble this gaff one of these days. The Inspector isn’t as dumb as he acts sometimes.”

  “When he does,” the Reverend answered, “we’ll think up something else.”

  Inside, the Reverend VanLio went at once to a tall glass panel that was set into the wall. He looked through into the living room of the house next door.5 What he saw made him grin. The Horseshoe Kid was there, faced by a Lieutenant and two detectives of the Homicide Squad who were radiating questions. The Horseshoe Kid had answers for them—he always did. But he looked just a wee bit uncomfortable just the same.

  The Reverend’s finger touched an instrument shaped like a telegrapher’s key and tapped at it sharply. One of a pair of skull bookends within the Diavolo living room moved its jaw, its white teeth clicking. The detectives, startled, turned toward it, and Horseshoe, recognizing the signal, edged backward toward the paneled wall.

  When the detectives looked around again the Horseshoe Kid was gone. The wall behind him had opened silently and he had come through into the house next door.

  “Thanks, Don,” he said. “It was getting a bit warm in there. I came to report good news and then those gorillas—”

  “Good news?” the Reverend said, his voice changing from that of the stiff-backed minister to the lighter tones of Don Diavolo. “I haven’t heard anything that answers to that description all morning. Let’s have it.”

  “I got a lead,” Horseshoe said. “Met an old pal this morning, Joe the Whiz. His cannon mob works the soup-and-fish customers at the Met. He tells me there’s a Help Wanted call out on the grapevine. He got it straight from St. Louis Louie who says there’s a few jobs open for the right sort of guys. Considering its source I thought you might be interested.”

  “I am,” Don replied. “How do we apply for those jobs?”

  “Joe gave me the address,” Horseshoe said. “On East 26th Street. There’s a meeting there this afternoon. I thought you might want to look in so Joe said he’d call Louie and duke us in.”

  Don Diavolo was already removing the clerical collar. “Who am I?”

  “Scarface Mike, from Cicero,” Horseshoe said. Don pulled a wardrobe rack from the wall. “Hmm. Disguise No. 18, I guess. The George Raft one.”

  Diavolo stopped once during his change of costume and put through a phone call to the house next door. He watched the Lieutenant through the glass as the latter answered it.

  “Inspector Church speaking,” Don said, his voice gruff and filled with authority. “We just collared that magician. You can remove your men from the house. Report back to Centre Street.” Don replaced the receiver and said, “That will clear the coast.”

  A short time later Scarface Mike and the Horseshoe Kid ascended the steps of a house on East 26th Street. Karl Hartz watched them from his post in a doorway across the street. Don’s friend, the butler, met them at the door. He didn’t recognize the magician under his turned-down hat, his Latin coating of tan, and his scarred face. Besides, he hardly expected to see Don Diavolo alive again. He had gotten a glowing report from Joe the Whiz of Scarface’s criminal activities and he greeted Mike with respect.

  He barred the door behind them and led the way to an inner room.

  “Slapsie Monahan,” Horseshoe whispered. “He’s just back from a ten-year jolt at the Ossining college.”

  Slapsie ushered them into a room where half a dozen men waited. Don, looking them over, crossed his fingers, hoping that his disguise would hold up under the strain. He and Horseshoe were surrounded by a choice collection of characters all of whom had reputations as shady as the interior of a mine.

  St. Louis Louie was there and the Horseshoe Kid recognized one or two others, men whose activities had given more than one desk-sergeant copy for his official blotter.

  Don Diavolo looked for Julian Dumont but did not find him. Then his attention was caught and held by the curious machine in the center of the room.

  A cylindrical lens-mount projected from a spherical chromium housing whose instrument panel was covered with unlikely looking switches and rheostat dials.

  The apparatus was aimed at a small recessed alcove in the end of the room, some seven feet high
by five feet square. Two shining glass insulators projected from the ceiling and terminated at about the height of a man’s head in large copper electrodes.

  Don Diavolo recognized the contrivance from the pictures that had been reproduced in the newspapers at the time of the opening of the Auto Show.

  “Dr. Palgar’s Invisibility Ray projector,” he whispered to Horseshoe. “Keep your eyes peeled. It’ll be a good show.”

  “And keep your rod handy,” the Horseshoe Kid replied. “I don’t like the looks of this crowd. Tough eggs, all of ’em and something’s wrong. They’re all nervous as hell.”

  “I don’t know that I blame them,” Don said. “Somebody’s been using some pretty good psychology on them. It’s—”

  A voice behind them cut across the room, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  The hush that fell upon the room was complete except for the movement of feet as they all turned to face the doorway. The door stood half open. The voice came again. “Be seated, please.” And the door slowly closed, apparently of its own volition.

  The voice was that of the Invisible Man.

  The chairs in the room faced a desk on the left of the alcove. One of the chairs moved across the floor to a position behind the desk, made a half turn and was still. An invisible hand moved several papers on the desk. A cigarette that someone had left on the edge of an ashtray on the desk, rose like the gun Don had seen float in midair earlier. Near it, suddenly, a stream of smoke issued from empty space as from the mouth of an invisible smoker. A lone chill chased down Don Diavolo’s back.

  The Invisible Man was a real showman; he had imagination. The lean, hard faces of the others watched this phenomenon with scowling intentness.

  The cigarette returned to the tray and the voice spoke again. “Please keep your seats.”

  A moment later, Don saw a switch pull itself over on the Invisibility machine’s instrument panel. A green circle of light glowed beside it, and then, as a rheostat turned, a long pulsating violet ray issued from the lens and its round circle bathed the small alcove in a bright hot light.

  “Monahan,” the phantom voice commanded. “I’ll take my place now. You will throw the operating switch as usual.” There was an interval of a few seconds and the voice, from within the alcove now, said, “Ready!”

  The butler who had taken his position by the machine pulled a three point switch. Long purple flashes of spitting light jumped from the contact points to meet it. A deep whirring hum within the machine sent tingling vibrations radiating out across the floor. The vibrant smell of ozone crackled in the air.

  Then, just below the two round shining electrodes within the cabinet a shape began to form. It was vague and transparent at first, a disconnected ghostly glimmer of highlights on a face and on two hands that grasped the electrodes.

  Gradually the space beneath began to fill with a darker mass that steadily lost its wraithlike transparency and became solid. The Invisible Man stood there now, a young man wearing a gray business suit and a black mask.

  Sparks streamed from his fingers as he took his hands from the electrodes. Monahan reversed his switch; the electric crackle of the machine died out and the violet beam faded.

  The masked man stepped from his place and seated himself behind the desk.

  Slowly his eyes, behind the mask, surveyed the group before him. Then his voice, a shade deeper now as if the change to visibility had altered it slightly, said, “Bring him in, Monahan.”

  The butler stepped to the door and opened it. Under his breath, Don said, “Damn!”

  Karl Hartz came through the door followed by a low-browed individual with a gun. They came forward and stopped before the desk.

  The masked man got to his feet. “So,” he said. “You. I see.”

  “He was casing the joint outside,” Slapsie reported. “I thought we’d better pick him up. He don’t look like a dick though.”

  “He isn’t. I know him. Take him out. I’ll attend to him later.”

  As they left, the masked man’s eyes sought Don’s. “The two new members will step forward.”

  Don, rising, knew that there was trouble ahead. He went forward with Horseshoe to stand before the desk. Palmed in his right hand was his small flesh-colored automatic. The safety catch was off.

  Don tried not to think about the half dozen other guns that he knew must be in the group at his back.

  Then the masked man did a curious thing. He leaned forward across the desk, peering into Diavolo’s face. His lips moved softly and Don barely caught his quick whisper. “If you fire, you won’t have a chance. Follow my lead. When I shoot, play dead. I’ll try to get you out.” Out loud he said, “Your disguise is excellent, Diavolo. If we had not noticed your assistant outside, I might not have penetrated it. Monahan, search them!”

  Don and Horseshoe stood quietly as the man’s hands slapped at their pockets. He found Horseshoe’s gun, but missed Diavolo’s. Don decided to hang on to that just in case.

  He knew who the masked man was. But could he trust that whispered offer of assistance? Would he and Horseshoe actually get a chance to play dead? Would the shots, when they came, be blanks as the masked man wanted to make him believe? Was it just another doublecross?

  The masked man took an automatic from his pocket and raised it slowly until it pointed at Don Diavolo’s chest.

  Don was still trying to decide whether to fire first or take a chance. He knew that the man who stood before him was Pat’s and Mickey’s brother, Glenn Collins. If Don pressed his trigger first, he and Horseshoe would undoubtedly get a barrage from behind. If he let Glenn fire, he might get a blank—and he might not.…

  But the gun whose report filled the room was neither Diavolo’s nor Glenn’s. It came from a smoking forty-five in the hands of Inspector Church as the corridor door slammed open and spilled detectives into the room.

  The masked man fell. Slapsie Monahan fired once with the gun he had taken from Horseshoe. He got three shots in reply. The others, seeing him fall, stood pat.

  Don saw Woody Haines barge through the door, grinning. Inspector Church approached the masked man who was sitting on the floor, holding a bloody shoulder. “Vanish on me will you, Don Dia—”

  Church, jerking aside the mask, stopped, staring at Glenn Collins. Then he turned to Horseshoe. “What—where is that—”

  Scarface Mike, realizing that he was still in the Inspector’s black books and that capture, under the present circumstances, was going to be no help at all had moved like lightning.

  Church whirled and saw him standing within the alcove, his hands reaching for the copper electrodes. Caught off guard, the Inspector stared with round eyes as the orange sparks leaped toward Don’s fingers and then as the magician’s body began to fade, Church shot from the hip.

  His bullet had a strange effect. The scene within the alcove seemed to splinter into a thousand pieces. There was a glassy crash and Diavolo’s body, half transparent, instead of falling, vanished instantly!

  Chapter XIII

  Death of an Invisible Man

  On the other side of the alcove’s wall there was another room. J. D. Belmont was opening a stairway door when a panel in the wall behind him slid aside and Don Diavolo stepped out, his gun raised.

  “Not so fast, please,” he said. “Get your hands up!”

  Belmont only moved faster. Diavolo put a shot into the door three inches to the right of the man’s head. Belmont changed his mind, his face gray. His hands came up, dropping the suitcase that he carried.

  “That’s more like it,” Don said, his eyes surveying the room with a quick searching glance. “Get away from that door!”

  Diavolo called back through the open panel behind him. “Inspector! This way! I’ve go something for you.”

  Church came through after a moment with Woody Haines and Brophy at his heels. Don said, “One of you keep a gun on Belmont. This is going to be interesting.”

  “I’ll keep one on you too,” Church said. “What t
he blazes are you trying to pull off now?”

  “A solution to the case, Inspector. We’ve got most of the pieces now and if we put them together properly …”

  “I’ve got all the pieces,” Church said. “And I know how they fit.”

  “Yes?” Don asked. “Do you know where Belmont fits?”

  “I’ve got a good idea. He’s the other nigger in the woodpile.”

  “Yes.” Don nodded. “That’s right enough. But who else are you voting for? Me?”

  “Why not?” Church asked, scowling. “I’ve got a witness that saw you shoot Ziegler. And you were the guy who levitated that gun at Ziegler’s apartment this morning. It was a phony made of papier mâché and hung on a black thread strung across the room. When you stepped away from the desk, you had an end of the thread in your hand. When you took up the slack the gun floated. And you used ventriloquism for the voice we heard.”

  “Not bad, Inspector,” Diavolo said. “That’s the one time I was the Invisible Man. But if you had been there half an hour before you’d have heard a voice coming out of thin air ordering Monahan to throw me into that safe. That certainly wasn’t me throwing my voice. I’m not committing suicide just yet and, when I do, it won’t be that way.

  “What’s more, Rose Ziegler did not see me shoot her father. She saw two men, one in a red dress suit and red mask, go into the study with her father. She heard some shots. I suggest that you check St. Louis Louie’s gun with the bullets in Ziegler’s body.”

  Inspector Church said quickly, “Somebody impersonated you. That your story?”

  “You know very well it is, Inspector. Because at the time the phony Scarlet Wizard appeared at the Ziegler apartment, you and I were worrying about a diamond necklace out on Long Island at Belmont’s place. Ask Glenn Collins who impersonated me.”

  “Okay,” Church nodded. “I’ll take that. You were at Belmont’s all right. I just wanted to know who was helping you at this end. The Belmont hocus pocus was more of your damned misdirection, wasn’t it? Just a gag to get me out there while your assistants got after Ziegler. And I know who swiped the necklace now.”