The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

by Otto Penzler

  Traile’s bronzed face was stern. “Because Courtland’s murderers left it at the head of his coffin.”

  The millionaire started.

  “But why, in Heaven’s name?” Traile was hurrying from window to window, examining the ledges.

  “I believe it was a mistake,” he answered. “Since then, agents of the Invisible Empire have tried desperately to recover it. And now they’ve succeeded, unless—” He stopped short.

  “What’s the matter?” Eric asked.

  “The charwoman!” Traile whirled toward the door to the hall. “I was a fool not to guess it before.”

  —

  He jerked open the door, then spun around to Bannister. “Warn Allen not to let that woman get out of the building! We’ll be searching for her at once.” Eric raced after him to the rear elevator shafts. When a car came up, Traile shot a sharp look at the attendant and then spoke. “Have you seen the charwoman who works on this floor?”

  “Ya mean the new one?” said the operator. “She’s up on Sixteen. I saw her a few minutes ago.”

  Traile sprang into the car.

  “Take us up!” When they reached the floor, he flung a crisp order at the man. “Go back to Fourteen and find Mr. Allen—Bureau of Investigation. Tell him to rush a squad up here!”

  “Yes, sir!” gulped the operator. The car started down. Traile drew a fresh cartridge clip from a leather pocket under his belt.

  “Take the left corridor,” he whispered to Eric, as he rammed the magazine into his gun. “She’ll probably have other spies helping her, so be on your guard.”

  A determined look came into Eric’s youthful face. He hurried away on tiptoe. Traile took the other hall, watching each door that he passed. It was only seven thirty, and all the offices still appeared to be deserted. He made a right-angle turn, was almost to the next one when he saw an open window at the end of a side corridor leading to a fire escape. As he started toward it, Eric appeared from the other direction.

  “No sign of her—” the younger man began.

  “Quiet,” whispered Traile. He leaned out warily, then straightened. “There’s a window open in the second office to the left. Cover the door while I sneak in from this direction.”

  He stole out onto the fire escape, noiselessly made his way to the office window. As he reached it he heard a gasp, then he saw the charwoman run for the door. She threw it open, then gave a moan as Eric confronted her in the shadowy entrance. Traile saw her cringe away from him, a wretched figure in tattered black, her streaked gray hair tumbling down over her eyes.

  “Watch her, Eric!” he said sharply. “She’s a cold-blooded murderess!”

  Eric made no answer. Traile climbed through the window, after a quick glance to be sure that no one else was in the room. As he saw the torment in Eric’s eyes, he grasped their captive’s shoulder and pulled her around. A strange sight met his gaze.

  Gone were the wrinkled features of the old charwoman. Only a smudge of make-up here and there remained to betray the secret. An oval face, lovely with a foreign, exotic charm, looked up at him in despair.

  “Good God!” he said, half under his breath. He reached out toward the tangled hair. Two slim hands, no longer gnarled, flew up to her head, but it was too late. As he lifted away the wig, the lustrous black hair of a beautiful woman was revealed. The last faint hope vanished from Eric Gordon’s blue eyes.

  “Sonya!” he groaned. “To think you could do that awful thing!”

  A haunted look crossed her face.

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said in a shaken voice. “It was only intended to drive him from the room while—”

  “While you stole the golden skull,” Traile finished grimly. “But you killed him, nevertheless.”

  “No, no! I was not the—” She broke off, drew herself up with a quiet dignity. “Arrest me if you will. I am a criminal—yes. But I have never killed anyone.”

  —

  Eric had come into the room, was watching her in misery. But at her last words some of the hope came back into his face.

  “Michael, she’s telling the truth! Look at her eyes—you can see—”

  Traile smiled bitterly.

  “I’m afraid your infatuation has blinded you, Eric.”

  “It’s not infatuation!” Eric burst out hotly. “If she weren’t any good, I’d never care—”

  A slow flush came into Sonya Damitri’s pale cheeks as he left the sentence unfinished.

  Traile broke in coldly before she could speak.

  “Even if you’re telling the truth, you’re still an accessory to murder.”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Eric cried fiercely. “She wasn’t the one who did it—she’s innocent!”

  The girl gave him a sad smile from under her long black lashes.

  “I shall never forget—that you believed in me,” she said softly.

  There was a sudden movement in the doorway.

  “Good work,” came a muffled snarl. “Raise your hands—you two!”

  Traile had wheeled as the man appeared. There in the doorway stood one of the gray-faced men. His oddly sunken eyes glared over a leveled gun. For a split second, Traile hesitated, but Eric was in his line of fire. Slowly, he raised his hands. The Gray Man stepped into the room. He closed the door, snatched Eric’s gun and thrust it into his pocket.

  “Get the other one,” he harshly ordered Sonya. His bloodless lips seemed hardly to move when he spoke.

  The girl hastily took Traile’s gun, laid it on a desk. He saw her wince before the look in Eric’s eyes.

  “Where is the Golden Skull?” demanded the Gray Man. His queer eyes flicked toward the dirty water in the bucket which Sonya had carried.

  “It’s still in there,” she said in a low voice. “They haven’t dropped the line.”

  “It will be down in a few seconds,” said the man. “Be ready to hook on the bucket while I take care of these two.”

  A frightened light came into her great black eyes.

  “You can’t kill them!” Her expression quickly altered, under his penetrating glare. “The last orders were that they were to be taken alive.”

  “There’s no chance for that now,” retorted the Gray Man. “I’d better finish them.”

  “You know the penalty for disobeying!” the girl exclaimed. “Tie them up, or lock them in that closet.”

  Something scraped, out on the fire escape. Sonya picked up the bucket and carried it to the window. As the Gray Man drove the two captives toward the closet, Traile saw a hook dangling just outside. The girl grasped it, and in a moment he saw the bucket disappear upward.

  “Hurry up and finish changing,” the Gray Man muttered nervously. “Those agents may be up here any minute.”

  Sonya took up a thick briefcase from the desk, and ran into the room adjoining the office. The man twitched his gun toward Eric.

  “Reach back and open that door. And don’t try any tricks.”

  Eric obeyed in angry silence. The Gray Man cast a hasty look into the closet, evidently searching for something to bind and gag the two men. Traile had not moved, after being forced back toward the wall, but his dark eyes never left their captor’s face. Suddenly the Gray Man stiffened.

  “Turn around!” he said in a muffled tone.

  Eric started to obey, but Traile halted him with a swift warning.

  “Watch out! He intends to slug you!”

  The Gray Man lunged toward him, stopped with a snarled oath, swerving his gun back and forth to cover them.

  “Turn around, both of you!” he rasped. “Unless you want a dose of lead!”

  Eric tensed, but Traile signaled with a jerk of his head.

  “Hold it! He doesn’t dare kill us.”

  —

  There was a gasp, and Sonya reappeared. The ragged dress of the charwoman had been replaced by a smart knitted suit, and a small sport hat covered her dark hair. Instead of the shabby shoes, she wore a pair of modish pumps. “What are you doing?” she demande
d. “I told you—look out!”

  Her cry was directed at Eric. In the brief instant when the Gray Man’s gaze jerked toward her, Eric had crouched for a spring. But the other man had whirled, lifting his gun for a furious blow. Traile hurtled between him and Eric. The butt of the pistol, descending with a force that would have crushed Eric’s skull, struck Traile’s shoulder.

  That sudden leap had knocked Eric backward into the closet. The impact of the gun numbed Traile’s left arm, swung him around. He lashed out with his right, and the Gray Man’s pistol jetted flame toward the ceiling. But before Traile could wrest the gun from his hand, a vicious blow to the stomach sent him reeling. The door slammed as he fell against Eric, then the lock clicked, and the voices of Sonya and the Gray Man quickly died away.

  It was half a minute before Traile could get his breath from that blow to his solar plexus. Eric frantically bent over him in the dark.

  “Michael! Oh, good Lord, he’s been shot!”

  “No—only took my wind,” Traile managed to groan. He pulled himself to his feet. “We’ve got to break out of here.”

  He turned his uninjured shoulder, and together they crashed against the door. At the second attempt, a panel splintered. As the door burst open, Allen and three of his men charged into the room.

  “What the hell?” yelped the senior agent as he recognized them.

  “No time to explain!” said Traile. “They hauled the skull up to the roof!”

  “They must be crossing to the next building,” snapped Allen. He and his agents raced for the elevators.

  Traile’s gun was still lying on the desk. He picked it up, went out into the hall. Another squad of agents appeared. Traile tersely described Sonya while Eric stood by unhappily. The operatives quickly separated to look for her and continue their search for the Gray Man. Traile and Eric silently went down to the fourteenth floor.

  Ten minutes later a glum-faced group assembled in Allen’s office.

  “They’re a slick outfit, all right,” growled the senior agent. “They got away clean.”

  “What about the girl?” Eric asked, staring at the floor.

  The agent named Weller spoke up.

  “She went right out the front way, before we got the second warning.” He grinned ruefully. “When you’re looking for an old charwoman, you don’t stop a classy dame like that.”

  Traile was the only one who saw the relief in Eric’s eyes. There was a brief silence, then he turned to Bannister.

  “Do you happen to know whether Harley Kent still owns the Vare Diamond?”

  The millionaire looked surprised.

  “So far as I know. Why?”

  “I want to pay him a visit.” Traile looked at Allen. “I think you’d better come, too.”

  “What about the protection I asked for?” said Bannister. In the last half-hour, his unshaven face had become more haggard than ever.

  “You can go along with us,” said Allen. “We’ll talk over the details on the way.”

  As they went out, two men came along the hall which led to the laboratory. They were carefully carrying a porcelain tray with a pane of glass for a cover. As Traile glanced down, the hall lights sparkled in the rainbow dust which had once been a man.

  Chapter 7

  “You Have Till Midnight to Live”

  For almost half an hour, the talking Buddha had been silent. Before the idol, the Yellow Doctor sat like some grim statue of Satan. His glittering, tawny eyes were fixed in space. Only the restless tapping of his talon-like fingers betrayed the tension within him.

  Suddenly the eyes of the Buddha glowed bright green. The Crime Emperor swiftly leaned forward.

  “Main Control!” The words all but crackled.

  “The Golden Skull is recovered,” a voice said rapidly. “A Federal technician examining it was destroyed. Operating group safely withdrawn, and Agent Twenty-two also clear. No clues left unless by the Gray Man cooperating.”

  Dr. Yen Sin slowly sat back in his chair.

  “What report on Michael Traile?”

  “Left the building ten minutes ago with man known as Citizen Nine, Gordon, and Agent Allen,” was the reply from the idol. “Gordon carried small black box strapped to what appeared to be a toy church. Party was delayed at the door by arrival of Police Commissioner, presumably investigating Courtland case, also by detectives covering the action in Lexington Avenue. Traile and Allen conferred privately with the commissioner, then followed Gordon and Citizen Nine into a car. Personal observation transferred to Group Two.”

  The Crime Emperor touched one of the buttons before him. A buzzing was audible, and the numbered wheel began to rotate slowly. In a few seconds the Buddha’s eyes, which had dimmed, shone brightly again.

  “Group Two.” A husky voice spoke against a muffled background of traffic sounds. “On Fifth Avenue, following car containing—”

  “I am already informed,” Dr. Yen Sin interrupted, “as to the occupants. Notify me at once when they arrive at Hotel Lordmore.”

  “They’re not going to the Lordmore,” came the hurried reply from the talking Buddha. “Observer in crowd overheard senior agent’s orders to the escort, to follow them to residence of Harley Kent.”

  The Yellow Doctor’s robed figure stiffened.

  “This should have been reported at once!”

  “We tried, but the signal wasn’t answered,” began the other nervously. “I thought—”

  “Break contact!” said Dr. Yen Sin. “Proceed as rapidly as possible to the Kent residence. Assign one man to carry out these instructions.” He spoke incisively for almost a minute. “Act at once on his signal. I shall delay the escorting agents, but count on no more than two minutes.”

  As the eyes of the idol darkened, the Crime Emperor quickly bent over the row of buttons before him.

  —

  With Eric Gordon at the wheel, the sedan swung away from the curb, moving slowly through the crowd which had gathered. Michael Traile, seated in the rear with Bannister, glanced back carelessly. The car with the escorting agents was following at a short distance.

  “I hope you don’t expect another attack,” Bannister said uneasily.

  Traile shook his head.

  “It’s not likely, now. Besides, this car is armored and the windows are bulletproof.”

  The millionaire drew a breath of relief.

  “Thank Heaven for that! I’ve had enough to last me for a long time.”

  “It beats me,” Allan grated from the front seat, “how they’ve got away with everything. The Courtland affair was bad enough—but that damned business right in a Federal building—”

  “I told you we were fighting a master criminal,” Traile said a trifle wearily. He lighted a cigarette, leaned back and relaxed his tightened muscles. “Every important move he makes is planned like a military maneuver, with detailed orders to every man—or woman—involved.”

  From his position at the right, he could see Eric flush. Bannister shook his head.

  “It’s incredible, a thing like that here in Manhattan. If I hadn’t had proof through those secret reports—”

  “I was going to ask you about those,” said Traile. His words had an oddly lazy note, the result of his complete relaxation. “Have you tried to trace the sender?”

  “Yes, but it was useless,” growled the millionaire. “Some came by ordinary mail, some by messengers who could give only vague descriptions of the person who paid for them. They’ve been sent to my Wall Street office, my hotels—even to my yacht.”

  Traile’s dark eyes were on the rear-vision mirror up forward.

  “The one this morning?” he asked absently.

  Bannister scowled.

  “It was at the desk when I hurried down. One of the clerks had heard the radio flash about poor old Courtland, and knowing our association he called me at once. When I reached the desk, he told me the letter had been brought in by a special messenger, about an hour before. It was marked Urgent.”

  Tr
aile gazed through the smoke from his cigarette.

  “If we only knew his exact motive,” he mused. “Blackmail, yes—but if I know the Invisible Emperor that’s only a means to an end.”

  A queer hunted expression came into Bannister’s eyes.

  “Until this morning,” he began slowly, “I never considered anything but plain blackmail. But after Courtland’s murder—and those Chinese gunmen—” He hesitated, made an impatient gesture. “It’s ridiculous, I suppose, but I suddenly recalled an episode which occurred in China almost six years ago.”

  Both Allen and Eric started, and Traile’s bronzed face lost its indolent look.

  “I didn’t know you’d been in China,” he said quickly.

  The millionaire nodded.

  “It was in connection with my importing business—my freight steamship line. I was there about a year, and I’d put over some pretty shrewd deals, when strange things began to happen. One of my ships caught fire—two of my confidential men disappeared—I was threatened with death unless I paid tribute to some mysterious Chinese. I fought back, but things became so bad that I had to leave. The officials at Shanghai told me that they were helpless—that this devil called the Shek would revenge himself if I ever returned.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” Traile said in a grim voice. “The man they called the ‘Cobra’ was none other than Doctor Yen Sin, the man we are seeking.”

  —

  Bannister looked at him in consternation. “What! You mean to say this Invisible Emperor is a Chinese?”

  “Right—and in my opinion the most dangerous man alive! A super-scientist, an evil genius with the ruthless will of a dictator—and an Oriental hatred for the white race that amounts to a mania.”

  There was perspiration on the millionaire’s forehead, and Traile saw the fear in his eyes.

  “Then I was right,” Bannister said hoarsely. “It’s personal vengeance he’s after.”

  Traile’s eyes were again on the rear-vision mirror.

  “Perhaps so,” he muttered. “But in these other cases—” He whirled, stared through the window behind him.

  “What’s the matter?” exclaimed Allen.

  “A suspicious-looking car has been following along with the traffic,” Traile answered. “I noticed it at one side of the escort machine when we left Lexington Avenue. It just now turned and dashed into Forty-fifth Street.”