by Lin Carter
Chandra Lal nodded silently and slipped the folded piece of currency into the conductor’s hand.
The conductor left the car. Chandra Lal settled back, keeping one keen eye fixed on the back of the Chinese youth’s neck. The train clattered on through the night, swaying and rattling on clicking wheels that ate up the miles.
CHAPTER 11 — The Signal Vanishes
By the time the big limousine pulled into the gravel-strewn carriage drive of Twelve Oaks and parked, Scorchy Muldoon and Ace Harrigan had already arrived, or so Zarkon and Nick Naldini deduced from the fact that their sleek red sports car was also drawn up in front of the huge Georgian red-brick mansion in which Jerred Streiger had so mysteriously died.
They got out and entered the house, to find Scorchy and Ace and a beautiful young woman with blond hair gathering in the library. The peppery little boxer introduced the blond girl as Ernestine Grimshaw and explained how the daily newspapers had incorrectly given her first name as “Ernest.” Zarkon greeted her quietly.
Doc Jenkins and Menlo Parker were also in the big room, setting up the new location-finder.
“It was the only room in the house big enough,” explained the little scientist, peevishly. “Outside o’ the study, it’s the only one with these French windows. We tried to get the unit in the front door, but it was too tight a fit. Stables and stuff out back don’t have a power outlet.”
Zarkon nodded and turned his attention to the large instrument. Doc Jenkins was engaged in putting up the big grid on which a very detailed block-by-block map of Knickerbocker City and outlying environs was drawn. The big dumb-looking sandy-haired man with the outsized hands and feet grinned sheepishly at his leader and mumbled something about hoping he had everything fixed in place correctly. Zarkon swiftly examined the various dial-settings and internal connections and announced everything was functional.
Menlo Parker examined it with an unkind eye. “Hmmph!” he snorted. “Hope the dang thing works, after all. You got a signal already, chief?”
“Two of them,” said Zarkon somberly. The shriveled little scientist grinned nastily and began adjusting the machine. Two blips of red light appeared on the map-grid, moving very slowly in a westerly direction.
“Hmmph! Cussed thing works after all,” said Menlo. “What’s the map say, Doc?”
The big foolish-looking man peered at it nearsightedly. “‘S between Herkwell and Winster,” he said in his dull, heavy tones. “Comin’ into Winster. Seems to be stopping there.”
Ace scratched his chin reflectively. “Looks like those two crooks are on the train,” said the handsome aviator. “Both towns are regular stops on the Long Island Railroad.”
Zarkon nodded, but said nothing. He had already reached the same conclusion himself.
“Pullin’ outa Winster now, chief,” said Doc Jenkins. They watched the twin red blips slowly traverse the map of Long Island.
Dr. Ernestine Grimshaw watched the scene with bright-eyed fascination. She obviously comprehended nothing of what was going on, or very little. So Scorchy Muldoon and Nick Naldini hung around her, eager to explain. Both men had a sharp eye for a good-looking girl, and generally the two rivals competed for the attentions of whatever attractive young female entered into one of their adventures.
“Big dumb-lookin’ guy with the hands the size of baseball catcher’s mitts, he’s Doc Jenkins,” said Scorchy confidentially.
“That’s correct, my dear young lady,” grinned Nick Naldini in his fulsome, courtly way. “Nor is Jenkins quite the obtuse lout he looks. Unlike my diminutive associate here, he possesses a brilliant intelligence. In fact, he rejoices in the possession of one of the most remarkable brains in existence. You will have heard of those men fortunate enough to be born with an eidetic memory? A mind that never forgets any sensory impression? Well, this is indeed the case with Theophilus Jenkins. He has eyes like a camera and ears like a tape recorder, and a brain that functions like an IBM computer. He can instantly summon to mind any face he has ever seen, any voice he has ever heard, any fact he has ever read. Why, our Mr. Jenkins can recite, from memory alone, any book or magazine or newspaper he has ever scrutinized, although he read it ten, fifteen, even twenty years ago.”
Ernestine Grimshaw nodded interestedly. “I’ve heard of such cases in medical history,” the girl doctor murmured. “But it’s fascinating to find one in person. I imagine his extraordinary talents make him a very valuable member of your organization ...”
“Ah, that they do indeed, fair lady,” smirked Nick Naldini. In close proximity to a pretty girl, the lanky magician became all oily voice and sleek good manners. He tweaked his waxed mustachios and preened his Mephistophelean little beard while hovering at the blond girl’s side. Scorchy viewed this with smoldering suspicion; the long-standing feud between these two never waxed hotter than when they were both jostling for the favors of an attractive young woman.
“Pay no attention to Oilcan Harry here, miss,” interposed the redheaded boxer. “Sure an’ he’s a smooth-talker! That other guy there, the skinny one who looks as if yez could snap his arms an’ legs loike they wuz a couple o’ dry sticks, he’s after bein’ Mendell Lowell Parker, the famous scientist and inventor. I kin innerduce ye, if ye loike; one o’ my dearest pals, unlike this broken-down ham actor an’ third-rate vaudevillian, here!”
Stung to the quick, the magician turned furious eyes on the grinning little Irishman.
“Lissen here, you half-witted Hibernian half-pint,” he began in a choked voice. In no time the two were squabbling loudly. Bewilderedly, Ernestine Grimshaw turned to Ace Harrigan, who was watching the show with a wide grin.
“Are they always like this, Mr. Harrigan?” she asked faintly. He shrugged.
“Nearly always; especially when there’s a pretty girl around,” he confessed slyly. “A couple of real ladies’ men, those two! But don’t take their yelling too seriously. They’re actually the best of friends.”
Sherrinford served coffee and cake, but the Omega men were too interested in what was happening on the big map-grid to do more than nibble a bit. The twin blips, still apparently riding the train, had now crossed the river and were entering the city proper. As they got further and further away from Holmwood, the signals got fainter and fainter. Finally, they dimmed and flickered out.
“Pshaw! I suspected as much,” snapped Menlo Parker viciously. “Range was the problem all the time. I warned you, chief, if you’ll remember!”
Zarkon nodded grimly. “Yes, you were certainly right, Menlo. The trouble is that the bead-sized energy cell is too small to have enough range. Now I regret having you and Doc come out here with the location-finder; if it was still set up at Headquarters, you’d be close enough to the two men for their movements to still be visible on the grid.”
“Is it too late to move the gadget back to Headquarters, chief?” inquired Doc Jenkins.
“Probably,” said Zarkon glumly. “Or it will be by the time we get it moved back and set up again. The energy cells only have enough juice to keep broadcasting for about an hour and a half. By the time we get the location-finder back home, they’ll have gone dead anyway. Doc, what was the last location just before the signals faded out?”
Doc squinted at the tiny lettering on the grid and rattled off a street address. “Looked like they were both on the subway, chief, travelin’ downtown — maybe to Brooklyn. Dang shame we lost ‘em!”
“It is,” Zarkon acknowledged. “But when I asked you to bring the set out here, I had no way of guessing the suspects would go into the city. I thought it likely their destination would be somewhere out here on the island. Ah, well. No use blaming ourselves for what can’t be helped.”
“So where does that leave us, chief?” asked Scorchy Muldoon.
“Without much in the way of leads to follow up on, I’m afraid,” confessed the Ultimate Man impassively. “Ricks of Homicide is doing all the paperwork on this case, tracking down the corporation in Switzerland to which the Grim Reaper
instructs his victims to sign over their holdings. I’ve no doubt this will prove to be one of those dummy corporations which exist only on paper, and whose directorship consists of false names with phony addresses. Constable Gibbs is checking on the employment bureau from which Streiger hired Pei Ling, but that may prove a false trail to follow, too, leading nowhere ...”
“So what d’we do now?” asked Scorchy plaintively. “Cripes, but I’m perishin’ fer a little action! ‘Tis been so long since I hit somebody, me fists is gittin’ rusty from disuse.”
“Like your brain, heh?” snickered Nick Naldini sarcastically. The little Irishman flushed scarlet, balled his fists, and fixed the lanky magician with a furious glare.
“Lissen here, you broken-down escape artist, watch yer tongue or I’ll be after givin’ me fists a little practice on yer horse-face!”
“You’ll have to stand on a chair to reach up that far, short stuff,” snarled Naldini.
“Oh, for the luvva Mike, will you two lay off it,” grumped Doc Jenkins disgustedly. “Save all that pep and energy for the crooks we’re after, can’t you?”
“What crooks?” inquired Ace Harrigan practically. “We just lost ‘em, didn’t we? Now we’re stuck here until something new breaks.”
They started squabbling again. The telephone rang in the hall and Sherrinford appeared in the doorway to summon Prince Zarkon to take the call. A few moments later, the Man of Mysteries came back into the room. His features were as impassive and inscrutable as ever, but those who knew him well could discern a trace of excitement in his bearing.
“What’s up, chief?” inquired Menlo Parker sharply. “You look perked up. Sumphin’ new happen?”
“That was Constable Gibbs on the phone,” said Zarkon imperturbably, but with the faintest echo of excitement behind his tone of voice. “Ogilvie Mather has just received another warning from the Grim Reaper.”
CHAPTER 12 — The Face at the Window
Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs and his nephew Redneck were already at the Mather estate when Zarkon and his men, together with Dr. Ernestine Grimshaw, pulled up in their cars. The disreputable-looking officer, if anything, looked to be in even shabbier condition than he had at their last meeting.
He pushed the brim of his Stetson back from his perspiring forehead with one calloused thumb and sketched a sloppy salute when Zarkon came into the mansion. Between one thumb and forefinger he gingerly pinched a small gray envelope which bore no stamp.
“Shore ain’ no rest fer th’ weary t’night, Mister Prince,” the peace officer said grumpily. “Two a these blastid li’l gray letters’n one night’s more’n a feller kin bear!”
“When did this one arrive?” inquired Zarkon, opening it on the table in the foyer and examining it under the table lamp.
“Cain’t say fer shore jest when, suh,” piped Redford Pickett brightly. “Found hit in th’ mailbox by th’ road twenny minutes t’half a hour ago, though. Somebody jest up an’ slipped hit in, I guess!”
Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs thrust his long, blue-stubbled jaw out belligerently. “Aw, hesh up, Redneck, cain’t y’see my fren’ th’ Prince wuz talkin’ t’ me, not yew?”
“Shore thing, Oggie. Sorry, Oggie,” said the immaculate young man with an amiable smile.
“An’ don’t call me ‘Oggie,’ call me Uncle Oggie, dang it!”
“Shore thing, Oggie. Uncle Oggie, thet is,” replied the youth unabashedly.
“Dang kids jest don’t show no respec’ no more t’they elders these days,” grouched the Constable. Then, spying Ernestine Grimshaw among the Omega men, the Constable took off his hat. “Dang good thing yew come along tew, Doc; mebbe yew’d best take a look at pore ol’ Mister Mather. He’s a mite poorly.”
“I don’t have my bag with me,” said that young lady, “but I’ll see how he is. Which room is he in?” The Constable told her and Ernestine Grimshaw mounted the stairway.
“I imagine that Mr. Mather is somewhat shaken up by receipt of this second warning letter, arriving so close in time to the first?” murmured Prince Zarkon. Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs sniffed loudly, looking sorrowful.
“Shaken up ain’ quite th’ word fer it, Prince,” said the officer. “Ol’ man Mather jest about had himse’f a conniption fit when they foun’ thet-thar second note! Got him laid out up in his room like he wuz at death’s door. Cain’t say I blame him none fer gettin’ upset, though. I’d be near-’bout set back on moh heels too, wuz somebody a-sendin’ me them li’l gray letters!”
“What’s it say, chief?” inquired Nick Naldini, curiously. Zarkon handed him the letter without comment and he read it and passed it on to Scorchy with a low whistle. The letter read:
This is the second of seven warnings, Ogilvie Mather. You will receive five more, and you can never be certain just when they will arrive. But when the seventh and last is in your hands, if you still have not signed over your holdings in Magnum, your next visitor will be —
The Grim Reaper
“Cripes,” muttered Scorchy uneasily, “he sure don’t fool around none, does he? The Grim Reaper, I mean!” He passed the note on to Ace Harrigan.
“Chief, does it strike you that the tempo of the delivery of the notes has picked up a bit?” asked Nick Naldini. “I mean, the seven notes that Jerred Streiger received were stretched out over two weeks, weren’t they? Yet here Ogilvie Mather has already gotten two of them within just a few hours! I wonder if our man isn’t running scared; maybe our presence on the scene is spooking him just a little.”
“Perhaps,” murmured Zarkon. Then, turning to Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs, Zarkon asked a question. “Constable, do you have that list of any recent additions to Mr. Mather’s staff which I asked you to compile?”
“Shore do. It’s right here,” said the Constable, digging a scrap of dirty paper from his trouser pocket.
“Who is the newest member of the staff?” inquired Prince Zarkon.
Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs squinted at the scrap of paper in his fist.
“Says here Charlie Wong; he’s one a them chef fellers.”
“Of Chinese extraction, I gather,” said Zarkon.
“Shore is!”
“And did you also obtain the name of the hiring service Mr. Mather used?”
“Shore did.”
“Was this Wong hired through the Herrolds Employment Bureau?” asked Zarkon.
Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs stared down at the piece of paper in his hand. His eyes stuck out of his long knobby face and deep in his throat he made a gargling sound.
“How did yew know thet?” he asked faintly.
Zarkon smiled, but said nothing.
Redford Pickett stuck his thumbs through his Sam Browne belt and stared at the Man of Mysteries.
“Yew mean this-here Chinaman is th’ one what’s sendin’ Mister Mather alla them threatenin’ letters?” he asked, his face incredulous.
Zarkon said nothing for a long moment. His inscrutable features were an emotionless golden mask. Then —
“I dislike making predictions on the basis of such very slender evidence,” said the Man of Mysteries in a quiet voice. “However, I believe it likely that the Chinese cook is our man, as far as Ogilvie Mather’s impending murder is concerned, anyway.”
Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs stared at Zarkon, his eyes round with surprise.
“Howcum yew figger he’s th’ feller slippin’ pore Mister Mather them threatenin’ letters?” the officer demanded.
“Pure inference, I’m afraid,” admitted Prince Zarkon slowly. “I have little if any evidence wherewith to support my allegation.”
“Then howcum yew say —”
“The murderer of Jerred Streiger was a youth of Chinese extraction,” explained Zarkon, “who was also but recently added to the staff. And he, too, was hired under the auspices of the Herrolds Employment Bureau. I have yet to hear from Detective Inspector Ricks on this point, but I believe I can with safety predict that when we receive the word from Interpol in Gen
eva, it will be easy to demonstrate that this employment service is one of the numerous business enterprises owned and operated by an international conglomerate called the Pan-Global Corporation.”
Oglethorpe Gibbs scratched his knobby brow with one horny thumbnail. “Hain’t thet th’ company th’ Grim Reaper tol’ Ogilvie Mather t’ sign over his holdin’s tew?” he inquired shrewdly.
“That is correct, Constable,” Zarkon nodded. The Constable chewed on this curious item of information for a moment, an angry glint appearing in his eyes.
“D’yew mean t’tell me, Mister Prince, that this-here employmint agency air in th’ business o’ slip-pin’ hired assassins inta jobs where they kin bump off they employers?”
“I believe that this will eventually be proven in a court of law, yes,” acknowledged Zarkon gravely. “And I also believe that Pulitzer Haines was murdered in exactly this fashion. If you care to question his staff, I expect you will find at least one servant of Chinese extraction was added to the staff in some capacity no more than a month before his death — said servant having since decamped mysteriously, leaving no forwarding address.”
“Well, now, if thet shore don’t beat all! Gol-ding it,” swore Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs feelingly. “Redneck, yew git aroun’ t’ th’ servants’ quarters an’ slap th’ cuffs on this-here Charlie Wong!”
“Shore will, Oggie,” said the strapping young deputy obligingly. Then, as a menacing gleam appeared in the Constable’s eye, he added hastily: “Uncle Oggie, thet is! What’s th’ charge, Unk, jes’ in case th’ feller wants t’ know?”
“Suspicion a murder, yew blastid simpleton!”
Before the young deputy could leave the room, Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw uttered a stifled shriek. With one shaking hand, the plucky girl pointed to the window.
