The Murderer Invisible

by Philip Wylie

  “Your fortune?” his wife said. She had spoken to tease him, but he was in no mood for light words.

  “A great mind. Carpenter has that. Nevertheless we must not envisage him as a master-mind, a creature of pure reason. If he were—well—I think I would get out of New York, of America, and warn my friends to do the same. Not that. If he were such an inconceivable and hypothetical person he would possibly not have hired any help at all—or else you, Bombshell, and your charming fiancée and Mrs.—what was her name?——”

  “Treadle.”

  “—that’s it—Mrs. Treadle would have been blown to atoms in his house the day the experiment reached a conclusion. If he had the ideal mind he would have gone immediately afterward to the larger business of getting his power. I think I see what he means.”

  “What?” Daryl asked.

  “I won’t hypothecate now. But he would have gone to work at once instead of dallying with private revenges. Of course, he may have done certain things. He undoubtedly has arranged an abode for himself. He unquestionably has an agent who acts for him. And it is quite possible that he appears from time to time in the flesh.”

  “Good Lord!” Baxter said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Quite possible. He has to eat. He has to take care of his physical wants. He can’t hire any one to take care of the place where he lives. Too dangerous. Such a person would soon become suspicious of him. And then—winter’s coming——”

  “What has that to do with it?” Mrs. Quail asked.

  “Winter, Dorothy,” the Professor replied patiently, “will mean that he must put on clothes.”

  “For heaven’s sake! Hasn’t he got any clothes on?”

  “Presumably not. It’s warm.”

  “But it’s indecent!”

  Daryl joined in the laughter which followed. Her eyes exchanged with Baxter’s the unspoken comment that Mrs. Quail’s maternal naïveté was charming.

  The Professor continued. “As I was saying—Carpenter does not know you are here. As long as he cannot trace you, you will be to all intents and purposes invisible to him. I suggest that Miss Carpenter remain with us as our guest. And you, Bombshell, rent a room in the neighborhood. Don’t go to any of your regular clubs. Let the room at the Clariena stay vacant. Might even be a good idea to disguise yourself so that you can get about town. I’ll be your public agent and we’ll go at this business together.”

  Baxter’s features relaxed. His eyes softened. “That’s mighty fine of you, Howie.”

  “Fine? It’s the most fun I’ve had since my own undergraduate days.”

  “It’s not fun,” Baxter replied. “Wait until you’ve been in it awhile.”

  Amy came up stairs to tell them that lunch was served. From the midtown newspaper offices boys emerged screaming the news that the fingerprints in the Bradley murder were identical to those in the Page killing of the night before. Fiend at work, they shouted. At 95 George Street, Carpenter slept in his seemingly empty bed.

  CHAPTER 7

  HOAX?

  Three nights had passed since Carpenter took the final doses of the compound he had synthesized. His mental state during that time had been one of elation. He had liberated himself from the confines of his body which had been a weight upon his mind and a handicap to his soul from birth. He had performed the most drastic experiment ever attempted upon the process of human metabolism and had emerged triumphant. He had justified his initial predications and his tenacious self-confidence.

  Individuals were at his mercy and by virtue of that the organization of society was susceptible to his machinations. He had proven that to his own satisfaction. Page was dead by his hand. Bradley had expired the morning after the third night. He had paid his respects to Daryl after pursuing the simple course of waiting in the Ace Club for Baxter to appear and following him to the Clariena. He had indicated his omnipotence and immunity to Baxter by calling through the aperture of his door.

  New York City was in an uproar. The police were filling the newspapers with their theories, their protestations, their imaginary secrets. The newspapers themselves were bitter. Rich men everywhere were demanding guards against the assassin who walked in their midst.

  The heavily bearded old gentleman who peered through his blue goggles at the evening newspapers while he munched his cheap meal was thoroughly aware of the panic into which he had thrown so many people. Twice his gloved hand was lifted as if to press down the hair on his head and it returned to the table only when it encountered the hat. Once he cleared his throat with a deep, rumbling voice. The right side of his face smarted where cosmetics covered an ugly bruise.

  People came into and left the Coffee Pot, avoiding his table. It was eight o’clock and then eight thirty. At that hour the old man rose and walked to Washington Square. Twice he rounded the open Park. His cane tapped with every leisurely step. The benches were crowded with people out for an airing—immigrant families of every nationality from the Bleecker Street section—a scattering of students from New York University—a few of the residents of the Square promenading aloofly.

  Some time later he went back to 95 George Street, climbed up to his room, and removed his clothes. Rapidly he washed away his face. After that he carefully bathed his entire person. The dust which collected upon him gave a faint tracery to his form. The night was pleasant. It blew a gentle breeze over him as he stepped out in the street. The thought, whimsical to him, of what might happen if he became suddenly visible—a towering naked man—caused him to smile.

  He went down to the subway station, descended to the platform—carefully avoiding any one who approached him—and waited for an express. When a train came in he stepped on the jutting rear platform of the last car and took hold of the hand rail. From that station he could look back and watch the tunnel slide away into a small point of light. At 181st Street he alighted, leaped over the turnstile, and walked up the steps. On one of them he put his foot in a small puddle of water and left tracks of toe, heel, and instep for a short distance on the sidewalk. No one noticed them. In a few minutes they had dried up.

  His destination was an apartment house. He walked into the ornate lobby and up the stairway, passing within a few feet of the doorman who was reading a thriller that would have paled to insignificance had his eyes been able to see better than other men’s eyes. At the fourth floor Carpenter went to apartment “B” and rang the bell. A maid came to the door, opened it and, seeing no one, stepped into the hall. The man behind her went through the door.

  The third man upon whom Carpenter had determined to take his revenge was a Malcom Gates. He sat now in the living room of his apartment playing double dummy bridge with his wife. Carpenter had not originally intended to kill his three enemies but, acting on the spur of the moment, he had dispatched Page. He had inadvertently told his name to the wheat operator—that had been the excuse he tossed to his rapidly weakening conscience.

  The effect of the two deaths had been excellent. A third, done in the same way, would cap the climax. He walked stealthily into the living room. Gates and his wife continued to play their game. Carpenter traversed a hall, found the kitchen, and in the drawer of the kitchen table he discovered what he sought. He went back to the room where the game was in progress. The maid had just called Mrs. Gates to the telephone. Her husband was waiting for her. When she came back from making her call, he was dead—sprawled across the table in a red pool.

  Carpenter had a fulcrum on which to rest the beginning of his next campaign. He had intended to spend some time in the house, waiting for the police and listening to what they said. It would give him an inkling of their theories and their consequent lines of investigation. After the deed was done, however, he felt a strong revulsion for his surfeit of blood-thirstiness.

  He went out quietly, the opening and closing of the front door drowned by Mrs. Gates’ hysteria. In the street, with the sound out of his ears, he regained some of his composure. Again he took the subway down town. He regretted his
third murder and the regret irritated him. He considered each of the exploits in the light of practice. His revenge lust had ebbed. An emotion akin to fear at the tone of the next day’s papers shook him while he made the slow ascent through the dark to his room. He, of all men, had no reason to be afraid of the dark. And yet—did not darkness reduce him to the level of other men? It was a chilling concept.

  Yet, he reasoned, he must go on. The world must be turned upside down. It must know and know beyond the shadow of doubt that there was a powerful agent at work in its midst. It must fear and quail. It must suffer. Only in such a state would its leaders become malleable to his scheme. A few deaths were as nothing to the work that lay ahead of him. He did not know, he never knew how far into the realm of madness he had progressed.

  At six o’clock the door bell of Professor Quail’s house rang and he answered himself in bed room slippers and a bath robe. Baxter stood at the door, his lips tight, his eyes savage. In his hand was a newspaper.

  “Come in. Come in.”

  “Thanks. Asleep? Of course you were. You’ll quit sleeping when you’ve been in this business for a few days. I was up at five. He got another man.”

  “Come on into the kitchen. Might as well let the rest of the family sleep. Who?”

  “Who? Oh—man named Gates. Also a broker.”

  “I’ve heard of him I think. Malcom Gates.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Stabbed to death while his wife was talking on the telephone. Same finger prints—they looked them up at once. This time it’s ugly. Both women—there was a maid—swear that there was no one in the house. And it was done with a carving knife. They’ve arrested the women.”

  “In spite of the finger-prints?”

  “Exactly. What else could they do? Gates was also in on Carpenter’s unfortunate experiences while he was in finance, I suppose. I wonder if there were any other men? I wish to heaven I knew.”

  Quail filled the percolator with coffee and water and connected it. “There ought to be some way of finding out.”

  “There must be. Any broker active at the time ought to remember. Suppose I call up Jenkins?”

  “Jenkins?”

  “Friend of mine.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Baxter went to the telephone. The percolator was chugging vigorously when he returned. “Had a long talk with Jenkins—although he kicked like a steer when I woke him. Said that three men had done the job—Page, Bradley and Gates. Said that two of them were murdered yesterday. When I told him Gates was gone, too—he got excited. I suppose that will put me in wrong with the police——”

  “Why?”

  “Because Jenkins is a congenital hot-head and the first thing he will do is to call up headquarters and point out that the three dead men were enemies of Carpenter and then he’ll add that I know something about it—as I tipped him off.”

  “But you’ve dropped out of sight.”

  Baxter shrugged. “In a way. I’m going to try hard. But it’ll be a race between Carpenter and the cops to get me first.”

  “Well—” Quail considered. “This is the time to go to the police with the straight story.”

  Baxter did not answer until the coffee was poured and he had taken a swallow. “Guess you’re right. Take care of Daryl—will you? You’re being mighty good to us.”

  “Show him in,” the Commissioner said.

  Baxter entered the plain, oak-furnished office. Before he could speak, the telephone rang and the Commissioner held a brief conversation with some one. The Commissioner had dark hair and a dark moustache. He was short, thick-chested, pompous. Ever since his arrival in office the public, whose favor he was anxious to curry, had greeted every move of his with jeering. A man of very little ability and no insight, this condition had stimulated him to a rebellious and corrosive policy which imbedded him more and more deeply in public dislike. Baxter’s eyes had rested on the Commissioner with dissatisfaction and had traversed the room.

  “Well, sir? My time is limited.”

  “It’s about these three murders. I know who did them and how they were done.”

  “Well?” The tone was querulous, unfriendly.

  “They were done by a man, a scientist, who has made himself invisible to the human eye.”

  The Commissioner pressed a button on his desk. An officer appeared at once. “Show this man out.”

  “What!” Baxter said. “You can’t do that! I tell you, I know. I have a reputation. I’m a scientist myself. This is a time, Commissioner, when all the brains in your department aren’t worth a nickel. You’ve got to consider this idea——”

  “Out, officer.”

  Baxter could not contain himself. “You fool! You abject idiot! The newspapers don’t do you justice. Not for myself—but for the reputation included in my introduction your respect should be——”

  The Commissioner turned brick red. “I’m tired of cranks. Take him down stairs.”

  “Am I to understand that I’m under arrest?”

  The Commissioner grinned. “Something like that.”

  Baxter was wild with fury when he was forced into a bull pen where several other men sat listlessly. An attendant asked him if he wished to have any one called on the phone. Instantly he gave Howard Quail’s name and address. The uniformed man went away.

  In three quarters of an hour Quail arrived and after some discussion Baxter was released. No charges were pressed against him. One of the sergeants at a desk down stairs took it upon himself to explain that the “chief wanted you to cool off.” He added that “the chief shouldn’t be bothered at times like this and no particular offense was meant by detaining you.”

  The two men rode up town in a cab. “It seems,” Quail said, “that my original idea was bad.”

  “What idea?”

  “To tell the story to the police.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be sore, Bombshell.”

  “I’m not sore—I’m crazy-mad.” Baxter swallowed. “Well—I suppose I don’t envy him—even at that.”

  Carpenter waited until the opportunity came and then he stole a nickel from the cash register of the shop. After that he waited again and when his chance came, he slipped into the telephone booth. The man who ran the place was outside talking to friends. The door of the phone booth closed, the receiver lifted itself, a number was called.

  “Hello! Wesson and Robinson!”

  “Mr. Wesson please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Charles Williams.”

  “Just a minute.” There was silence in the booth.

  “Yes. This is Williams.” Carpenter spoke rapidly. “You’re selling the wheat? Good.” He considered and then gave a list of stock issues which he wished to have purchased. “All right?” he concluded.

  The other voice was dubious. “We’ll need a good deal of cash for that, Mr. Williams. Suppose you drop in and talk it over first.”

  “Impossible!” Carpenter answered. “I’ll send the cash. And be ready to get all the Manhattan National I can stand if it goes below 300.”

  The broker replied, “It never will, Mr. Williams.”

  “I’m not so sure.” Carpenter hung up.

  He put his eye to the edge of the telephone booth window, ascertained that the shop was still empty, opened the door and went out.

  Half an hour later he had made his way into the lower offices of the Manhattan National Bank. He stood in a position midway between the low wooden railing that ran in front of desks where a score of employees worked and the entrance to the vault. His next operation required some time. Carpenter made three trips into the vault. He was able to watch the persons who went in; there was no necessity of concealing himself.

  From the wrapped currency available on the inner side of the vault he chose bundles, displaced them, moved them along the floor toward the door. He crawled through the door behind the guarded parties who had entered. He moved the money to the table of the
vault clerk and dropped it into a waste basket. It was ticklish business—not because Carpenter was in danger of being caught, but because at any moment some one might perceive the money either moving along the floor or resting where it did not belong.

  Carpenter next faced the busy room and lifted the basket a few feet. Once he set it down at the rail. Once in a corner. The third effort carried it around the edge of the staircase. The basket still served at the top of the stairs. He used the most normal locations available in which to set it. He moved it very slowly. A score of people saw it while it was standing still. No one thought of it as the vehicle for a great theft.

  It was most difficult to get the basket through the front door. People were constantly walking in and out. He waited patiently and finally took a chance. Once he had reached the street, he walked directly behind a man, holding the basket under and a little bit to the rear so that the man appeared to be carrying it.

  Eventually he was able to bury the basket in a rubbish can several blocks from the bank. It was an hour and five minutes before he returned to the vicinity—dressed, this time, as the aged man who was to be known as Mr. Charles Williams. He procured the basket again by the strategy of rummaging through the newspapers in the trash container. A single sheet of newsprint covered the packages of bills. Carpenter walked down the street hurriedly, got into a cab, gave a corner near George Street on Seventh Avenue as his address, and went home. Perhaps fifty people had seen him with the waste basket and most of them had noticed his great height, his bushy beard, his peculiar goggles. None of them connected the spectacle with the robbery.

  Carpenter’s theft amounted to about three quarters of a million dollars. He left a part of it in his room at Number 95 and with the rest he went out again. It was wrapped in brown paper. He sent it by a Western Union messenger to the offices of Wesson and Robinson. From another telephone booth he called his broker again.

  “Williams speaking. Did you get the money?”

  “Yes.”