John Russell Fearn Omnibus

by John Russell Fearn

  With the methodical care of a man accustomed to handling dangerous articles Mane extracted a small metal ball from his valise. He looked around for a moment and finally saw an empty metal table supported on a single pillar bolted to the floor.

  “Is that table pillar solid?” he inquired.

  “Why…yes,” Kronheim admitted, gazing in wonder.

  “Thank you. Now watch carefully, please. This may spoil your table but it is worth it for the demonstration…”

  Mane pulled a small pin out of the metal ball and then put the ball on the table top. Immediately the metal sphere glowed slightly and began to sink rapidly out of sight. The hole it made closed up again with a slight suck of air and the table top was once more smooth. Three minutes or so passed, then there was a dull report. The pillar of the table exploded with moderate violence and toppled the structure to the floor.

  Kronheim jumped to his feet and strode over with Standish to where Mane stood pondering.

  “What the devil did you do?” Standish demanded.

  “The model bomb sank through the solid metal and exploded at the predetermined point at the base of the pillar,” Mane said modestly. “Had I wished I could have sunk it right through this building.”

  “A self-sinking bomb?” Standish hazarded, incredulous.

  “Able to sink to any required depth by simply adjusting the mechanism.”

  Kronheim took a deep breath and looked sharply at his advisor. Standish nodded quietly, but he looked puzzled. Had he not known the table pillar was solid steel he could have put the demonstration down to a clever conjuring trick.

  “Just how do you explain it, doctor?” he asked, musing.

  “It’s a simple idea,” Mane shrugged. “I’ll outline it to you, but of course I’m retaining the exact details until we see if we can come to terms… First of all, anything must move downwards towards to the earth’s centre because of the law of gravitation. This particular idea began when I watched a stone sink in a lake one day. Suppose, I asked, something could be invented to sink through solids? Suppose a form of explosive able to blow up at any depth without previous drilling? I figured it would be immensely useful in laying foundations, opening up mines—”

  “Quite, quite,” Kronheim said impatiently “But the explanation?”

  “Well, I devised a small mechanism.” Mane opened the hemispheres of an unused model bomb and pointed to the intricate internal workings. “You, Professor Standish, may follow the idea. Solids are composed of atoms, and atoms are miniature solar systems. In other words, if you picture them from a sideways angle, they are flat. But this flatness points in all directions. It is not organized. Because of this no solid can fall through another: no two solids can be said to occupy the same space at the same time…”

  “Right so far,” Standish acknowledged briefly.

  “Atoms have poles,” Mane resumed, “but they point in all directions. I figured that by magnetism I could make them all point in one direction! There are magnets in this bomb, as you see…”

  Standish said slowly, “In which case you would make the atoms all flat—parallel—so that they would block only about fifteen percent of the space they occupied in the disordered form?”

  “That’s it,” Mane nodded. “That slight resistance causes my bomb to sink slowly and not immediately. The force of gravity which of course operates under all conditions draws the bomb downwards and the bomb’s magnets straighten the atomic formations on the journey. Hence nothing can bar it and it just sinks. In short, it is a case of passing one solid through another and the moment the bomb has passed and the magnetism has gone the atoms disorder again leaving the ordinary solidity. That is why there was no bore left in the table stand where the bomb travelled: the steel atoms had reformed to cover all traces of its passage.”

  “Amazing…” Kronheim whispered. “Positively amazing!”

  He seemed inordinately fascinated by the idea. Suddenly seeming to make up his mind he caught Mane by the arm.

  “Come into my office, doctor. There are details to talk over. Financial details,” he purred, now as friendly as a well-filled tiger.

  Mane nodded his untidy grey head and scooped up his case.

  “I — I thought you might like it, Mr. Kronheim— “

  “Like it! Man alive, it’s colossal! Sit down, won’t you…? Now…” Kronheim flopped at his desk and pressed a button. Then he said, “I said you could name your own figure, doctor. Within reason, of course,” he added, grinning mirthlessly.

  “I—I thought, perhaps—one million dollars for exclusive rights of the Mane Bomb.” Mane looked half scared at his own suggestion.

  Kronheim did not even hesitate. “A million it is—and you shall have your cheque before you leave this office…” He looked up as Val Turner, his young personal secretary came into the room. He looked more like a champion wrestler than a secretary. He was blond-headed, massive shouldered, hazel-eyed. There had been moments when his secretarial work had been merged into that of bodyguard.

  “Turner, make out a check for a million dollars and a contract,” Kronheim said. “Usual thing—entire rights. Quick as you can and I’ll sign both.”

  “Yes, sir.” Val Turner glanced at the scientist, then went back into his own adjoining room.

  “I suppose,” Kronheim said, “you’ve got this bomb patented? The patent rights automatically become mine by our contract.”

  “I could never afford the patent,” Mane answered quietly. “I have very little money, Mr. Kronheim. That—that won’t upset things, will it?”

  “On the contrary!” Kronheim gave a grim smile.

  Mane began to fumble with his valise. “I have here all the details, the scientific prints, samples of the magnetic bars, everything. You can soon work out the details.”

  “Take them over, Standish…” Kronheim motioned to the scientist as he came in from the laboratory.

  “You can probably see why other people thought the idea would be barbaric if used for warfare?” Mane murmured. “My bombs could be dropped anywhere and leave no trace until they blew up. I didn’t invent them for that reason, though—”

  Val Turner came back with papers and check in hand. In a moment Kronheim appended his signature to both and stood watching Mane’s thin hand clutching the pen.

  “It is not often I meet a real scientist, doctor,” he said at last, handing over the check. “Drop in again—whenever you please. Turner, see the doctor safely out of the building.”

  Mane gathered up his empty case and hat. “Thank you, Mr. Kronheim, over again. You don’t know what this money will mean to Gloria and me. We’ve been so poor and—”

  “Of course—of course…” Kronheim beamed the old man and the secretary from the room, watched the door close. When he turned once more his smile had broadened into a taut line across his face.

  “Well, Standish? It’s genuine, of course?”

  “The real thing. The simplest and yet the most brilliant invention of its kind I have ever seen. It was worth all of that million dollars.”

  Slowly Kronheim said, “Believe it or not, that old fool has no patent for the invention…”

  “No record of his ever having invented it, you mean?”

  “That’s just what I mean.” Kronheim sat down and gazed at the material and plans Mane had left behind. “Like manna from heaven!” he breathed. “Bombs that leave no trace! The supreme means of finishing our campaign and tearing this blasted country wide open. We have the agents, from Maine to California: the European rings and societies are ready to go to work the moment I give the order… We can sow the country with these invisible death dealers! Thousands of them, manufactured in my own industrial works and with the infinite money supply of the Cause. We have fought hard to smash the neutrality of America, Standish—and at last an American brings the means of really doing it. I guess it’s rather ironic.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t concern myself with philosophies, Kronheim,” Standish replied. “I�
��m a European scientist and am prepared to destroy democracy at any price. As a scientist I will work to that end: as a man I rather deplore the vicious cunning of this invention. However, we have got to see something for a million dollars…”

  Kronheim smiled—but it was his eyes that Standish noted most. Their blueness was icy and did not match the lips. Standish had seen the danger signal offtimes before.

  *

  It was close on seven in the evening and most of the Trust staff had left for home when Standish came out of his laboratory again with a satisfied smile.

  “Got a moment, Kronheim?” he asked, advancing to where the big man was still working amidst a pile of memoranda.

  “If it’s important, yes. If not, get out.”

  “I sorted out this Mane invention.”

  “What about it?” Kronheim lay back in his chair with the desk light full on his pitiless eyes.

  “Just this. We can make bombs of any size and use any sort of explosive we want. Adjustment of the mechanism times the moment of the explosion and the duration of the magnetism. That means we could send the things down five feet or five miles. No limit. There have been plenty of weapons but none like this one! I want your orders. All we want now is manufacture—so what do I do?”

  Kronheim pondered for a moment or two, then he said, “Guess we might as well use all our key factories in north, south, east and west. Consolidated Steels can handle it. The Kronheim Trust is Consolidated Steels, so we’re all set. You know more than I do about explosives and such-like, so work out a campaign. Pass the information on through the usual channels so the network can start operating. I’ll give you further instructions later.”

  The scientist nodded, then he and Kronheim both looked up as the outer door opened to admit two massive individuals in soft hats and big overcoats. The taller one tossed a slip of paper on the desk.

  “One million dollars, chief,” he announced cryptically.

  Kronheim frowned, then he grinned. He picked the paper up and tore it slowly in pieces.

  “You mean…Dr. Mane?” Standish asked quietly.

  “Naturally.” Kronheim eyed the strong arm man. “What happened to the good doctor?”

  “He was run over, I guess,” the man sighed. “Naturally we rushed to help the old boy—and I frisked your cheque from him in the process. We were too late. Hit and run driver got him, made off so fast there wasn’t even time to get his number.”

  “In plain language, you had him murdered?” Standish snapped.

  “A hit and run driver,” Kronheim corrected. “Didn’t you hear what Joe said? If they find the driver I’ll put the clamps down and stop things being traced back here. If they don’t…well, I guess Dr. Mane was a fool to let his invention go without a patent. Nobody can ever prove who owned it.”

  “ ’Cept his daughter,” Joe commented sourly.

  “Of course, the daughter! What about her?”

  “I dunno. I haven’t seen her and—”

  “Then find her, you dope!” Kronheim roared. “I want the whole Mane family tree chopped down. Not a trace must be left! Too dangerous. Do what you like, but get her. I’ll see you’re protected.”

  The men went out and Standish said slowly, “I’m not altogether sure I like this indiscriminate elimination, Kronheim. If we get across the Federal Authorities it won’t be just us that will be damaged. The whole Cause will be jeopardized—’

  “Oh, shut up!” Kronheim snorted. “Mane was an American—and I don’t give a damn what happens to Americans. Same goes for his daughter—”

  He broke off in surprise as a ray of light flooded from the wall opposite. Val Turner came quietly out of his office, hat and coat on. He switched off the light in his sanctum and closed the door.

  “What the devil do you want?” Kronheim blazed.

  “Nothing, sir,” Turner replied steadily. “Except to tell you that I have finished my reports. They’re on my desk. Will that be all for tonight?”

  Kronheim sat gazing steadily in the young man’s unflinching eyes for a moment, then he slowly nodded.

  “Yes…Yes, that’s all for tonight.”

  “Good night, sir— Professor Standish.”

  Turner went out quietly then Kronheim’s pale eyes flashed up to the open ventilator over Turner’s office door. Standish followed his master’s gaze.

  “Good God, Kronheim, do you think he heard about—?”

  “Possibly. I thought he’d gone home. If his door had had glass in it we’d have seen the light shining.” Kronheim shrugged. “Let him try proving something and I’ll smack him down so hard he’ll stay put for the rest of his life. Now get out of here, Standish. I’ve work to finish.”

  CHAPTER II

  THE POWER OF KRONHEIM

  Val Turner walked through the quiet expanses of the Trust building with grim thoughts in his brain. He had heard every word of Kronheim’s through his office ventilator—albeit unintentionally.

  “Guess it confirms all Rita said,” he muttered, letting himself down the heights in the personal elevator. Rita was his wife. “Said he was a no-good anti-democrat. Wouldn’t believe her. He’s a murderer, hundred percent, and I just didn’t believe it. Hell, was I dumb!”

  He left the elevator and nodded goodnight to the watchman, passed out into the brightly lit street. It was only a short way to his apartment through the next side street. Lost in his thoughts he marched along, until when he was half way along the side street something prodded him in the back.

  “Keep going—and don’t turn around!”

  He was surprised to hear a woman’s voice—low and merciless.

  “Just what’s the big idea?” he asked briefly, walking mechanically.

  “Shut up and let me do the talking. I’m Gloria Mane, daughter of Dr. Mane, inventor of the Mane bomb. That mean anything to you?”

  Val remained silent, frowning. The girl’s cutting voice went on.

  “Just three hours ago I saw my dad run down—brutally slain! I was only across the road from where it happened. We’d promised to meet at the Grecian Café. It looked like a hit and run driver—but it wasn’t. It was planned—planned by that vicious barbarian Rolf Kronheim. I warned dad what would happen if he made a deal with Kronheim, and I was right. Dead right!”

  “But I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Val said. “Why pick on me?”

  “You’re connected with Kronheim, otherwise you would not be leaving the Trust Building at this hour in the evening. You’re all I need. Two other guys left just before you but I couldn’t tackle them. So I waited, hoping to get Kronheim himself. You came out alone, easy to handle—

  “Yeah? What makes you think so?”

  Val swung round abruptly. He fully expected the savage blaze of a revolver in his ribs, but instead his surprise action knocked a small hand torch into the gutter. The girl, shabbily dressed, perhaps thirty years old, faced him. He could see her face was white and trembling with both anger and grief.

  “This—this was the gun?” Val asked, picking the torch up.

  “Yes,” she admitted in a low voice. She stared at him through grey eyes moist with tears. “—I don’t know what I’m doing, I guess. Honest I don’t! I use the torch for seeing my way up that rotten hole of a staircase back home. I—” She broke off and shrugged, calming. “Well, hand me over for attempted assault. You win.”

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Miss Mane,” Val answered seriously, giving her back her torch. “It happens that I know your father was murdered, but I had nothing to do with it. It was Kronheim’s own doing…You say you saw your father run down? Naturally you let the police on the spot know your identity?”

  “No. I didn’t tell anybody. I think I went crazy.” Gloria Mane’s voice came in jerks. “I just thought out this idiotic plan to catch somebody belonging to Kronheim’s organization and make him confess the truth to the police… If only you knew what this all means!” she cried hoarsely. “I warned dad, over and over. I know he planned to s
ell his sinking bomb—nothing more than that.”

  “He sold it all right—for a million dollars,” Val said grimly. “I made out the contract myself—but Kronheim took the million back by force during the accident to your father. Your dad had no patent right on his invention, therefore there’s no evidence of his creation of the idea.”

  “But he was the inventor of it—”

  “I know it, and so do you, Miss Mane. You and I are the only two people who can prove that Kronheim both stole and murdered—”

  “Yeah? Don’t be too sure, wise guy!” Val and the girl turned together. The figures of two men in soft hats and big overcoats were dimly visible in the shadows of a nearby doorway. Without a vestige of warning a gun blazed suddenly. Gloria Mane’s lips parted in a half cry, then with both hands at her breast she toppled forward and crashed motionless on the sidewalk.

  “Figure that out, Mr. Val Turner,” came a sneering voice, and the still smoking gun was flipped towards him from the gloom to clatter at his feet.

  Before Val had the chance to collect his wits, doors and windows seemed to sprout open all around him from the tenements. Men and women appeared, drawn by the shot. They stared at him as he picked up the revolver and gazed at the sprawling woman at his feet. It seemed only a matter of seconds before a squad car screamed to a halt at the curb.

  Confused, bewildered, Val heard pronouncements from the general jabber of voices.

  “This woman is dead. Shot through the heart.”

  “Come on, you!” Val found himself seized. Grim-jawed officers seemed to be all around him.

  *

  Rolf Kronheim was just leaving his office for the night when the private wire buzzed.

  “Well?” he asked briefly, and it was strong arm Joe’s voice that greeted him.

  “We got on the track of the Mane daughter as you told us, chief. Spotted her outside the Trust building. At least we figured it was her from the way she was behavin’. We followed her—and in case you don’t know it Turner knows all about the killing of Mane. He told the dame that much.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you—”