by Otto Penzler
For an instant, as Traile picked up the scattered materials, a bitter light came into his eyes. If only he, too, could know that precious gift of sleep—could shut out everything for even one short hour. But Death was the only sleep he would ever know.
He turned back to the packing box, his thoughts still somber.
It had been twenty-seven years since that childhood injury which had made him a man apart. It had happened in India, where his parents were traveling. He had been only two years old, but he knew the story by heart. A skull fracture…a hasty operation by a Hindu surgeon…then the discovery that the man had damaged the lobe of the brain controlling the function of sleep. Sleepless nights and days when they feared that he would die…the Yogi who had trained him to relax his body completely, even though his mind would ever be awake. His strange boyhood back in the States…a day and a night tutor, to keep his wakeful brain occupied with one subject after another…a physical instructor to balance that strenuous mental life with games, exercise, sports.
Traile found the leather case he bad been seeking. He sat down, started to open it, then paused, realizing a sudden weariness. He stretched, relaxing his tall form to the utmost, then sat back and idly lighted a cigarette. For a few minutes he stared out into the night, through the bulletproof window.
If he were right, somewhere in the vastness of Manhattan was hidden the most dangerous man in the world—Dr. Yen Sin, malignant wizard of crime, and head of that unholy organization, the Invisible Empire. Traile’s jaw hardened. The Yellow Doctor had escaped him in Washington, and now he would be fully on guard. But there was one advantage. Dr. Yen Sin would be looking for five Q-men—instead of one man connected with five Federal departments.
He lighted another cigarette; the tobacco helped him to relax. With his mind still on the Yellow Doctor, he opened his newspaper. For a week he had watched for something that would give a clue to Dr. Yen Sin’s activities, if he were really in New York.
His restless eyes flicked over the headlines. A gang killing…a senator’s speech, warning of the danger of inflation…a hint of sabotage in the sinking of a new submarine, on its trial runs before being delivered to the Navy…a murder trial…a rehash story on the week-old disappearance of John J. Meredith, prominent Wall Street figure, and a missing-persons item hooked up with it.
Traile’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he read the last story. Two of the cases were believed murder, but the bodies had not been found. The police knew of no motives….
He put down the paper and turned quickly to the leather box. His bronzed face was now alert; all his tired expression had vanished during that brief “relax-period.” He opened the case. At first glance, it appeared to be filled with toys, each one clipped separately to the canvas lining. There was a tiny church, with a clock in its steeple; a brass soldier, with a bayoneted rifle; a small model ship; a toy pistol hardly two inches long; and a score of other similar objects.
—
Traile stood up briskly, crossed the room and brought back a small black box. It was a special microwave radio, a new self-powered type, developed by World Radio and Cables. It was still switched on, but so far he had failed to hear the strange Chinese code which Eric and one of the company engineers had caught two nights ago.
He connected two wires with tiny binding posts at the back of the toy church. Like most of his collection of “miniaturia,” the church was not what it seemed. It was a diminutive radio, with a sensitive directional indicator.
As he sat back, waiting, his eyes strayed over the things which cluttered the room. They were like monuments down the long vista of sleepless years, even to the language books on the table. He had been a linguist at ten. At fifteen, his mind had been that of a mature man. Since then his life had been a constant seeking for new hobbies, new problems to ward off the desolation of endless nights. It was this which had accidentally led him into the web of the Yellow Doctor’s criminal empire.
A faint hum from the toy church told him that the miniature tubes were warm. He glanced at the black box. The standard broadcast and licensed shortwave bands were tuned out. Anything which came in now would be from an unlicensed station, transmitting in the micro-frequencies no ordinary receiver would catch. He set the dials again at the point where the mysterious code had been heard. But there was only silence. He waited a minute or two, then stood up and moved restlessly about the den. It was not quite four. There would be a long, lonely stretch before Eric would awaken. He picked up a hobby magazine, rummaged through it.
Suddenly, from the room where Eric slept, a low-pitched buzzer sounded. He hurried into the room, slid open a small panel which hid a special switchboard. There were several numbered sockets. A bulb was flashing over the symbol “Q-5,” which was his designation when he was working with the Department of Justice. The line was a direct wire to the Bureau of Investigation, at Washington.
“Michael?” came a barked query as he plugged in the phone. He recognized the voice of Director John Glover.
“Right,” he said. Back of him, Eric stirred.
“I’ve a lead on Doctor Yen Sin,” Glover said hastily. “The son of Peter Courtland was stabbed to death half an hour ago at the entrance to my hotel. It was done by a Chinese who got away. Before he died, young Courtland gasped out something about his father and the Invisible Empire. He had just arrived from New York, and was evidently bringing me a message.”
“You haven’t notified your Manhattan office?”
“No, the State Department says you’re in full charge of the Invisible Empire case.”
“Give me fifteen minutes,” said Traile swiftly. “Then phone Lexington Street to send two squads of agents to surround the Courtland place on Riverside Drive. Tell them to close in quietly. I’ll fire a shot if I need help.”
“Got it,” barked Glover. He hung up, and Traile turned to find Eric Gordon dressing.
“What’s up?” Eric asked eagerly.
Traile told him while he slipped off his smoking jacket and fastened a shoulder harness in place.
“You’d better take a gun, too,” he advised, as he put on his coat. “If Courtland is mixed up with Doctor Yen Sin, we may run into anything.”
—
Eric was ready in less than a minute. He hurried after Traile as the taller man strode into the den. They were almost at the steel-backed door to the hall when a sharp da-dit-da-dit rasped from the micro-set. Traile snatched up a pencil and pad.
“Here—you can take code faster than I can! I’ll check the direction.”
Eric began a hasty scribble, but the code abruptly ended. There was a long buzz, then from the silence which followed came a sinister, toneless voice.
“Main Control. Interpreter, Group Six, stand by.”
Traile went rigid. It was the voice of the Invisible Emperor!
“Holy smoke!” Eric said tensely. “It’s Doctor Yen Sin!”
Traile motioned him to silence, for the Yellow Doctor was speaking again. This time the words were Chinese. After a few moments there was a pause.
“What did he say?” Eric exclaimed.
Traile wheeled to a wall map of Greater New York.
“He simply counted from one to ten in Shamo dialect. What was that first code?”
“X-three-D, repeated,” said Eric.
“Probably the call number of this ‘Group Six,’ ” muttered Traile. He took up a ruler, looked at the hour hand of the tiny church-steeple clock. “The bearing is just about a hundred and sixty degrees.”
“—eleven, twelve, thirteen,” came the calm words of the Invisible Emperor. “Alternate two-five interval, Interpreter.”
“Look!” said Eric excitedly. “Your bearing line goes within a block of Chinatown, between Pell Street and the East River.”
Traile seized a strap from a bundle and swiftly fastened the micro-set to the miniature church.
“Come on,” he said, thrusting the set under his arm. “We can take a cross-bearing on the way to the Courtland p
lace, and trace the station later.”
“Why not follow it now?” demanded Eric as they went into the hall.
Traile set a special lock on the steel-backed door.
“The Courtland lead is more important. We might be hours locating the transmitter, and even then they may be operating it by remote control.”
Chapter 2
The Corpse with the Twisted Head
The elevator came up, and they descended to the first floor. The lobby was deserted except for the desk clerk and two drowsy bellhops.
“You’re up early again, Mr. Scott,” yawned the clerk. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“In the daytime,” Traile replied tersely. He led the way to the garage at the rear of the apartment hotel, and in a few moments his car was rolling out into the night. Free of building interference, the micro-set brought the voice of Dr. Yen Sin to an audible note.
“—at one-minute intervals, Group Six,” came the silken accents both he and Eric had grown to hate. A monotonous buzzing followed.
“Watch the indicator,” Traile said as he turned westward.
“All Group Controls, attention!” the voice of the Invisible Emperor came with a sharpened note. “On suspicion of treachery, Female Agent Twenty-two is being removed—”
“No, no!” a woman screamed. “You can’t do this—I haven’t betrayed you!”
The words faded out with a moan. Eric whirled frantically.
“That was Sonya Damitri’s voice! For God’s sake, Michael, follow that bearing!”
Instead, Traile jammed his foot down on the throttle, sent the car racing across Sixth Avenue.
“Doctor Yen Sin forced her to trick you before! Don’t fall for it again.”
“But that yellow fiend’s going to kill her!” Eric cried wildly. “She saved our lives that night—we’ve got to help her!”
“The whole thing is a plant,” rapped Traile. “I was a fool not to see—”
The shriek of a police siren drowned the rest. Eric spun around.
“It’s a prowl car.” He clutched the strapped set. “I’m going to take these and ask them to help me find her!”
“Stay where you are,” muttered Traile. He slowed as the police car drew alongside, then with a swift movement turned his spotlight handle. The beam fell on a dark and vicious face under a low-drawn police cap. Traile saw a bloody rip in the man’s half-buttoned blue coat just in time.
The pseudo-policeman snarled an oath, and then the driver jerked the police car into Traile’s path. Traile stood on the brakes, snatched at his .38.
“San hai!” yelled the dark man.
Three crouching figures leaped up in the rear of the prowl car. They were outside with the swiftness of rats. Traile fired pointblank. The first man went down with a screech. Traile threw the gears into reverse. A yellow face flashed through the spotlight beam. Eric’s gun blasted around the right side of the windshield. The Chinese pitched over.
—
The prowl car roared backward as Traile reversed. The third Chinese sprang to its running board. Before Traile could fire, he leaped across and landed on the hood of the sedan. Eric lunged around his side of the windshield, gun leveled.
A stream of dark vapor shot from a pear-shaped bulb in the hand of the yellow assassin. Eric’s finger tightened convulsively on the trigger as he slumped back. His gun roared, spurted red flame. The Chinese gave a gurgling cry and toppled down against the windshield.
As Eric sagged back, a cold fury swept over Traile. He whipped the .38 toward the prowl car. Two shots crashed, and the man with the bloody coat fell limply over the door. The driver cut his wheels with a desperate speed. As the two machines scraped together, he twisted hastily in his seat. The ringed snout of a silenced gun poked across at Traile.
Traile’s shot and the jump of the silenced weapon were simultaneous. A bullet ripped the seat cushion near Traile’s shoulder. Then the prowl car raked past with a dead man at its wheel.
Above the scraping of fenders, as the cars pulled free, came the trill of a whistle. It was echoed by another not far off, then a siren wailed out in the night. Traile braked to turn, sent the car charging ahead. Those might be real police, or they might be more of the Yellow Doctor’s agents. He took the next corner on two wheels, rolling the dead Chinese into the street. Without slowing, he switched off his lights, plunged into the first alley he saw.
As the whistle blasts faded away, he stopped, anxiously bent over Eric. With relief, he felt the other man move. He quickly propped him up at the window. Eric began to breathe more normally, and in a few moments he opened his eyes. He tried to sit up.
“Take it easy, old man,” said Traile. “You’ll be all right in a minute.”
“What happened?” Eric asked dazedly.
“That killer sprayed you with some kind of anesthetic. They must have had orders to take us alive.”
“I remember now,” Eric mumbled. “It smelled like incense, then everything turned black.”
“I was afraid at first he’d killed you,” Traile said grimly. “Thank Heaven the Yellow Doctor overplayed his hand and gave me warning. But we’d better get out of this area in case he has others looking for us.”
He started the car, and they emerged cautiously from the alley. He switched on the lights, zigzagged through the Fifties, and swung into Broadway at Fifty-seventh Street. By this time Eric had almost recovered.
“How’d you know they were fake cops?” he asked huskily.
“I wasn’t sure,” said Traile. “But it was obvious he wanted us to follow that bearing into a trap of some kind. When the police car appeared so quickly, I had a hunch they were Yen Sin’s killers.”
“Then they must’ve bumped off the real cops to get their uniforms and the car,” said Eric.
Traile’s bronzed face was hard.
“Undoubtedly. I saw a bloody knife-slit in one man’s coat. And the blood was fresh, so this thing must have been very recently planned.”
“But I still don’t see,” said Eric, “how Yen Sin knew you’d be tuned in to catch those messages.”
—
Traile gazed thoughtfully ahead as the sedan crossed Columbus Circle. “There’s only one answer. He’s spotted that Q-station. I was evidently being watched from somewhere—unless Doctor Yen Sin learned through someone at the company that we were going to listen in for that code.”
“I never spilled a word,” Eric said indignantly. “And I sneaked out the set without anybody seeing me.”
“Then the first idea must be right. It’s clear that the messages were designed to lead us into a trap. From the way those last signals faded, they were obviously using a narrow beam pointed straight at the building. If it hadn’t been for Glover’s call, I’d probably have followed that lead—at least until Yen Sin brought Sonya into it. That was plainly intended to bring you racing to help her. And he knew I wouldn’t let you go alone.”
“I still can’t believe she did it on purpose,” Eric said miserably.
Traile slowly shook his head.
“You’ll save yourself many heartaches if you forget her, Eric. Even though she’s an unwilling agent, remember she’s still in his power. Yen Sin holds her father prisoner at his base in China, ready to torture him—or kill him if she should betray him.”
A stricken look filled Eric’s boyish face.
“Then you checked on her story?” he asked in a low tone.
Traile glanced at the dash clock, increased the car’s speed.
“Yes, through a source in Shanghai. Her father is Grand Duke Sergius Damitri—one of the old Czarist regime. When the Revolution broke out, he fled with Sonya and her mother. They tried to reach Spain—Sonya’s mother was Spanish—but they couldn’t get out of the Orient. The Grand Duke became mixed up in espionage. His wife died, and Sonya was practically brought up to become an agent for the White Russians. Then a year ago Doctor Yen Sin drew her father into his web, held him as a hostage, and since then has forced her to act as
a spy for the Invisible Empire.”
Eric’s blue eyes blazed.
“The damned fiend! To think of his having a white woman in his power!”
“She’s only one of hundreds. Iris Vaughan is another example. He enslaved her through opium, so he’d have a spy in the British Embassy at Washington.”
“Too bad the Embassy protected her after the raid on Yen Sin’s hideout,” said Eric. “She might have told plenty.”
The sedan reached Seventy-second Street. Traile slowed, turned toward Riverside Drive, speeded up again.
“She was to be turned over to us next day, but she escaped that night,” he said with a trace of glumness. “I thought we were clever when we managed to trace her to San Francisco. I know now that Yen Sin had her lead us there so we’d think he had fled to the Coast. And then she vanished right under my nose.”
“Anyway, it did some good,” Eric pointed out. “We linked our San Francisco communications with the other Q-stations.”
“Thanks to your work,” assented Traile. He turned northward into the drive which paralleled the Hudson. A faint grayness had come into the sky, against which the rows of towering apartments, broken by an occasional mansion, bulked in dark silhouette.
“We’re almost there,” Eric said quickly, as Traile leaned out around the windshield.
“Yes, I know.” A sharp alertness had come into the taller man’s face. “I was looking to see if by chance the D.J. cars had beat us to the place.”
“You really think Courtland is working with Doctor Yen Sin?” exclaimed Eric.
“Not willingly. But the Yellow Doctor may have found some shady spot in old Courtland’s life. In that event, he’ll be a potential enemy.”
A moment later, the car swung in toward the entrance of the Courtland place, which comprised one whole square block. Suddenly, Traile put on the brakes. The huge gates were open, but there in the center and barring the way was a shining crimson pole. In the headlights it was the color of blood.
“Good Lord!” Traile whispered. He leaped out.
