by Otto Penzler
—
In a moment Bannister hurried toward them with one of the agents. Traile would hardly have recognized the financier, though he had seen pictures of him. In addition to being a financial power, with his hotels, his steamship line, and his brokerage house, Mark Bannister was known as a Beau Brummel. But now his handsome face was haggard with fear and strain. His cheeks were unshaven, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Blood was dripping from a small cut on his jaw, where flying glass had struck.
“Which one?” he rasped to the man beside him, as he reached the group.
“This is Special Agent Allen,” said the other, indicating the lanky D.J. man.
The millionaire jerked around to Allen.
“I’m Mark Bannister. I want to see you—alone!”
Allen hesitated, glanced at Traile. Traile spoke in an undertone.
“You question him first, while I examine the skull up in your lab.”
Allen motioned to one of his men.
“Take charge, Weller. Find out all you can, and explain to the cops what happened.”
Traile and Eric entered an elevator with the millionaire and Bill Allen. The operator looked, wide-eyed, from Allen’s tommy gun to the cut on Bannister’s jaw. The financier glared at him, stamped out at the fourteenth floor, almost falling over a wrinkled old charwoman who was mopping up the corridor.
As Bannister and Allen disappeared into an office, Traile nodded for Eric to follow him into the laboratory. The technician on duty was a pleasant-faced agent named Jim Stone. Traile knew him from a former visit, when Director Glover had introduced him as Roger Scott, a private criminologist who was to be given the run of the place.
“What happened down below?” Stone asked, after Traile introduced Eric. “I heard the shooting, but couldn’t see much from the window.”
Traile explained briefly.
“Hell’s bells!” said Stone. “That and the Courtland murder will split the town wide open.”
“How did you know about Courtland?” Traile asked sharply. “Police teletype?”
“No, there was a radio news flash almost an hour ago. All about his head being sewed on backward and—” Stone stared as Traile brought the gold skull from under his coat. “What the devil is the idea of that?”
“That’s what we want to know,” said Traile as he put the skull down on a table. “Let me have a magnifying glass, will you? I haven’t had time for a careful examination.”
“You mean you found this thing?” exclaimed Stone, amazed.
Traile hesitated only a moment.
“It was at the head of Courtland’s coffin, but don’t mention that to anyone. I’m explaining to you because there’s some danger connected with it, and it will have to be closely guarded.”
Professional interest quickly conquered Stone’s first astonishment. He brought a magnifying glass, switched on a bright light. Traile took the glass, bent over the gleaming skull, and looked through the eye sockets. After a brief scrutiny he carefully turned it upside down and peered in through the throat opening. The skull was empty, and except for a few scratches the interior of the metal shell was unmarked.
“What did you expect to find?” asked Eric, as Traile straightened up with a look of disappointment.
“I thought some secret of the cult might be engraved inside,” Traile answered a trifle shortly. The puzzle was beginning to annoy him.
“Maybe it’s written so small that this glass won’t show it up,” suggested Stone. “I can put it under the big microscope.”
“I don’t think there’s anything to see,” said Traile. “But you might as well try it.”
—
Stone started to pick up the skull, then grasped it in both hands. “Say, that thing’s heavy! I wouldn’t mind having what it’s worth in cash.”
“It’s probably worth about ten thousand dollars,” stated Traile. “But I’ve had proof that it’s valued for some other reason.”
“Ten thousand bucks would be plenty of reason for me,” said Eric.
“Same here,” grinned Stone. He carried the skull over to a large compound microscope and was placing it on the stage when Allen hastily entered the room. Behind the agent came Bannister. Allen closed the door, turned to Traile and addressed him by the name he had temporarily assumed.
“Scott, I’ve already told Mr. Bannister that you’re working with us on this Courtland case. He has some information that should help us.
“It’s help for myself I want,” the millionaire said bluntly. His hard eyes probed at Traile. “You saw what happened down there—I escaped death by a miracle—my bodyguard was murdered—”
“Bodyguard?” said Traile.
“He was acting as chauffeur,” snapped Bannister, “because the regular man disappeared—vanished like five more of my employees! I tell you it’s maddening—knowing there’s something closing in on you—knowing there are eyes watching you all the time.”
He looked around fiercely at Eric and Stone, who were both staring at him, then pulled a crumpled paper from his coat pocket.
“Here’s a sample of what I mean. Read that, and for ‘Citizen Nine’ substitute ‘Mark Bannister’!”
The message was typewritten in green ink. Traile’s dark eyes passed quickly over the words.
SECRET REPORT 31 ON CITIZEN NINE
DATE: JULY 17, 8 P.M. TO MIDNIGHT
At 8:03, Citizen 9 called from his penthouse apartment on top Hotel Lordmore, speaking by direct wire to the hotel manager. Gave instructions that Citizens 12 and 14 were to be brought up secretly from garage in basement—
“Think of it!” rasped Bannister. “One of my own hotels—my private wire! But go on—go on!”
Citizens 12 and 14 arrived by private penthouse elevator at 8:10. During dinner, Citizen 14 produced copy of latest secret report on his movements. Announced he was going to the police. Citizens 9 and 12 argued against this, but at 10:35 he left for that purpose. At 11:15, Citizen 12 departed after phoning down to his private detective escort to meet him on mezzanine floor. Citizen 9 stationed special guard at switchboard controlling the private elevator, with orders to keep current shut off. Retired at 11:50, after searching entire apartment.
Traile looked up slowly.
“Is this report accurate?”
“It’s exact!” the millionaire said harshly. “The thing is uncanny. Our conference didn’t start until dinner had been served and my servants had been sent downstairs.
Traile studied the lower edge of the paper.
“A piece had been cut off here. Did you do it?”
Bannister did not answer for a moment. Then he rammed his hands into his coat pockets and spoke abruptly.
“All right, I’ll tell you! I’ve received thirty of those damned reports, some even describing things I thought nobody could possibly know. Each one has contained mention of something private, personal.” He made a savage gesture. “Every man in my position has made mistakes on the way up. But how these devils ever learned—”
“Then it’s blackmail?” Traile asked calmly.
“It must be!” grated Bannister. “But they haven’t asked a cent. After each report—except this one—I’ve had a mysterious phone call. I’ve been told to go to a certain place to meet someone—but a different spot has been named every time. I’ve gone three times, with private detectives hiding nearby—but no one appeared.”
“If you’d come to us sooner—” began Allen, but the millionaire cut him off with a snort.
“Never mind about that! I’m here now and I want protection. I heard the news that Courtland’s been murdered, and after what just occurred I know I must be next on the list.”
Traile looked at him keenly.
“The man called ‘Citizen Fourteen’ in this message was Peter Courtland, wasn’t he?”
Bannister started.
“What makes you think that?”
“It’s evident that no rich man complained to the police about being threatened,�
� said Traile, “or the detectives on the Courtland case would have seen a connection. It’s fair to assume that he was seized on his way to Centre Street.”
—
The haggard expression came back into the millionaire’s face. “You’re right, it was old Courtland. He and Merton Cloyd came last night to help me form a scheme to fight this mysterious group. They were getting reports like this, too.”
Allen cleared his throat.
“You and the others hadn’t any idea, then, who was back of the letters?”
Bannister started to shake his head, then paused.
“Cloyd and I didn’t, but something last night made me think that Courtland knew more than he was telling. I asked him if he’d made contact with these devils. He denied it, but the way he acted—”
A woman’s querulous voice was suddenly audible from out in the hall. Its shrill accents were cut off by a muttered snarl and the sound of a blow. As Allen ran to the side door there was a stifled cry, and a clatter of something against the panels.
“Be careful!” rapped Traile. “Stand to one side when you open it!”
Allen gripped the knob, jumped back. As the door opened, the handle of a mop slid down and struck the floor. Just beyond, the old charwoman was struggling to her feet, a bruise on her wrinkled face. Traile helped her up.
“Thanks, sir—but I’ll be all right now,” she said in a quavering voice.
“What happened?” Allen demanded.
The old woman whimpered, rubbing her bruised cheek.
“It was a man, sir—I come on him sudden-like, and there he was, with his ear to the door, listenin’—”
“What did he look like? Which way did he go?” Allen broke in impatiently.
“His face was queer—almost like a dead man’s.” The old woman looked fearfully toward the stairs to the lower floors. “You’d best be careful—he’s a bad one.”
“It must have been one of the Gray Men,” Traile said to Allen in a lowered voice. “If you work fast, you may be able to catch him.”
Allen dashed toward the front offices, and in a few moments his agents were spreading out in a hasty search. The old charwoman picked up her mop and bucket, shuffled down the hall. Traile turned back into the laboratory as he saw that Stone had come into the hall with Bannister and Eric.
“We shouldn’t have left the skull unguarded,” he said anxiously.
“Nobody could’ve come through from the front,” replied the technician. “There are always three or four men up there.”
Traile locked the door as Bannister and Eric followed him into the room. Stone switched on one of the special illuminators attached to the microscope.
The millionaire gave a puzzled look at the skull, then glanced back at Traile.
“You appear to have influence here. I want some of your agents to guard me.”
“My connection is unofficial,” said Traile. “But Allen can probably arrange it.”
As he started out with Bannister, he turned to Eric.
“You’d better stay here with Stone. Keep your gun ready, in case you hear anyone else at that door.”
When they reached Allen’s office, the senior agent was just putting down the phone.
“No luck yet,” be said irritably, “but I’m having all entrances watched.”
The millionaire gruffly stated his request for D.J. agents to guard him. Allen hesitated.
“So far, Mr. Bannister, it’s not a Federal case. The Courtland murder and the attack on you are police matters. Those secret reports don’t actually constitute a crime.”
“What about the abduction of my servants—my two secretaries?” rasped Bannister. “I came here because I don’t want publicity. The police will spread it all over the papers. You people have a reputation for doing things quietly.”
Allen gave Traile a sidewise glance. “What do you think?”
Traile’s dark eyes rested on the millionaire’s haggard face.
“Mr. Bannister, have you ever heard of the Invisible Empire?”
Bannister shook his head.
“No, what is it?”
“It’s the organization back of those reports,” replied Traile.
—
An angry color darkened Bannister’s face. “If you already know about this business, why didn’t you say so?”
“I didn’t know about the letters,” Traile said calmly. “But from the Courtland evidence—”
He stopped as Eric Gordon burst into the office.
“Come on!” Eric exclaimed. There was an excited light in his blue eyes. “Stone’s found out something.”
All three men jumped to their feet.
“What is it?” clipped Traile, as they hurried toward the laboratory.
“I don’t know,” Eric said tensely. “He said one of the light rays showed up some writing that seemed to be inside the metal. Then all of a sudden he got a scared look, and sent me back here to get you.”
“It may be the key to the whole thing,” Allen said in an eager voice.
Traile nodded, started through the room adjoining the laboratory. He was halfway to the connecting door when a muffled hissing became audible from the other room. Then a voice rose in a scream of agony.
“It’s Stone!” shouted Allen.
Traile sprang for the door. He flung it open, then jumped back in amazement. A cloud of weirdly beautiful smoke was swirling within the laboratory. In its opaque, shimmering haze shone every hue of the rainbow.
Somewhere from the depths of that pastel-colored smoke came a terrible, frenzied cry. It died away, and there was only the muffled hissing which had been heard at first.
The opening of the door had brought some of the smoke billowing into the other room. It puffed into Traile’s face, stinging his eyes. He stumbled against Bannister. Then, realizing that the smoke was not immediately poisonous, he drew a deep breath of fresh air and dashed into the laboratory.
Through the eddying smoke he glimpsed something jerking around madly near the center of the room. He could vaguely see flashes of colored light, like fireworks seen through a heavy fog. The hissing came from that spot.
Half-blinded, he managed to find a window and raise it. Not until the colored smoke had blown away from where he stood did he risk taking a breath. The rest of the room was still hidden from view. He could hear Allen coughing, and the others stumbling around in the smoke.
“Keep back until it’s clear!” he called out.
A figure staggered toward him, almost collapsed at the open window. It was Bannister.
“What is it?” gasped the millionaire.
“I don’t know,” Traile answered tautly. He strained his eyes for a sign of Jim Stone. The hissing began to diminish, and in a few moments it had ended. The eerie smoke dissipated rapidly as fresh air blew into the room.
As Allen and Eric Gordon appeared in the colored haze, Traile stepped toward the center of the laboratory. The queer flashes of light had ceased with the hissing, but the last of that strange and beautiful smoke still hovered over the spot.
As it started to fade, a bony hand became visible. Then swiftly the smoke thinned, revealing the dreadful thing which lay beneath. Traile stared down in stark horror.
There on the floor was a rainbow-colored skeleton! It was all that remained of Jim Stone.
Chapter 6
The Woman in Rags
Allen swayed back, white and sick. “Oh, my God!” he whispered.
Eric and Bannister looked down with stunned faces at the shimmering, gruesome figure. Faint wisps of colored smoke still eddied around the rainbow-hued skeleton. The effect was one of horrible beauty, more dreadful than bleached white bones would have been.
“Oh, God!” Allen said again. He pulled his eyes away, looked dazedly at Traile. “What terrible thing—”
Traile shook his head, then knelt down, his lean face pale under its tan. A slight breeze was blowing in from the opened window. Suddenly the left arm of the skeleton quivered, then a ti
ny cloud of bright ashes fluttered into the air. The next moment the hand and forearm crumbled into rainbow-colored dust.
Traile stood up and quickly closed the window. But the crumbling process continued, until in a minute, only a vague-shaped, sinister pile of colored ash remained on the marble floor. He gazed at it a moment longer, then with a start turned to the big microscope. In the horror of his discovery, he had forgotten the golden skull. Allen followed his swift glance.
“It’s gone!” he said hoarsely.
Traile bent over the mounting stage to which the skull had been fastened. One side was mottled with the same colors as those of the rainbow ashes. He heard an exclamation, looked up into Allen’s tortured face.
“The stuff that killed him must have been a part of the skull!” rasped the D.J. man.
“No,” Traile said grimly, “he was killed by something else, so that someone could get the skull out of here. Look at this clamp. It’s twisted from a jerk, and there’s a scraping of gold on the setscrew.”
Eric Gordon ran across to the hall door.
“It’s still locked,” he exclaimed.
“A master key would take care of that,” rapped Traile. He wheeled to the half-dazed Allen. “They’ll be trying to get it out of the building. It’s doubly important now—”
A savage look replaced the sickness in the senior agent’s eyes.
“By God, if I catch the fiend who did this—” The rest was lost as he ran toward the front offices.
His whirlwind exit sent a flurry of rainbow ash into the air. Bannister stared at it and shivered. Traile turned to Eric.
“Did Stone give you any other hint of what he learned about the skull?”
“Not a word,” mumbled Eric. “But whatever he saw, it gave him a bad scare. He jumped back and told me to get you as fast as I could. I may be wrong, but I think it was something beside the writing that scared him.”
“I should have had a dozen men in here guarding him,” Traile said self-accusingly. “I might have known something would happen.”
“Why was that little gold skull so important?” Bannister interposed curiously.
