by Lin Carter
“Young Cal Streiger,” he gurgled, eyes goggling blankly. “Well, I never. Why ... who’d have thought the young idiot had enough brains to be a master-criminal! Never in a million years ...”
CHAPTER 25 — The Last Nail in the Coffin
Eventually, the dazed lawyer recovered from his surprise and regained something of his composure.
“Quiet, please! Everybody please calm down,” he boomed, his expansive voice cutting through the noise. As the mourners quieted, Josiah Seaton wiped his streaming brow with a silk handkerchief and turned to Prince Zarkon.
“Well, sir, I imagine there’s no question but that Your Highness has sufficient evidence to back up these astounding accusations, although for the very life of me I can’t imagine what proof there could be of such an incredible thing. I’ve known this boy all his life, and, quite frankly, well ...”
The portly lawyer let his words trail away uncomfortably. Prince Zarkon smiled.
“Yes, I believe I have all the evidence I need to convict the criminal,” he said. “Every piece of evidence we gather in the course of investigating a crime is like another nail in the criminal’s coffin. Oddly enough, it was you yourself, Mr. Seaton, who inadvertently managed to supply me with one of the most important clues in the case, although I hardly recognized it as such at the time.”
“I did? What was that?”
“His address. When we first discussed the case in your office a day or two ago, perhaps you will remember. You told me that Streiger’s nephew was a rather unworldly young man, whose one and only vice was a consuming passion for radio, in which field he was something of an inventor.”
“Oh yes, of course; I remember the occasion well. But what does that have to do with ... ?”
“With the murder? The only method of causing a blood clot without leaving a chemical residue in the bloodstream or causing a mark on the body is a little-known side-effect of radio short waves. From extremely close range, short waves in the so-called ‘hard’ radio frequencies can cause the blood to clot. But it would take a radio experimenter of considerable expertise to know how to do it, and to devise an instrument able to cause this effect. Cal Streiger, who holds several small patents on short wave radio modifications, is just the sort of inventor who could concoct such a device. And that is the secret of the Invisible Death, a portable broadcasting unit in the hard frequencies.”
“But are you certain that was the method used?” pressed Josiah Seaton dubiously.
“Quite certain, because while such short waves leave no mark of any kind on the human body, they react chemically with ordinary panes of glass, such as that used in French windows. They cause a minor discoloration similar to that caused by prolonged exposure to desert sunshine. If you have ever seen a piece of glass in the desert, which has lain out in the open for several years, you will know the peculiar iridescence such prolonged exposure to strong sunlight causes in glass, even bottle-glass. That iridescent coloring was first noticed by Charles Tiffany, the famous art nouveau craftsman, who strove to produce a similar opalescence in his stained glass vases and lampshades. He did it during the art nouveau era by chemical means; today, modern art glass in that style is rendered iridescent by brief periods of exposure to radio short waves.”
“Incredible. Simply incredible!”
“And if any further evidence is needed, my friend Detective Inspector Ricks should be gathering it right now. I talked to him about noontime and we planned a police raid on young Streiger’s workshop. We should find prototype models of the Invisible Death projector, plans or blueprints or schematics, or at least notes on the progress of his experiments in perfecting the weapon.”
Josiah Seaton was beyond words at this point. He merely nodded helplessly.
“And, of course, you gave me a second clue during our brief chat in your office,” added Zarkon. “You mentioned that his workshop was on Graumann Street. And Graumann Street is on the other side of the block from the street on which Wang Foo’s Tea Shop stands. This tea shop is the main entrance to the secret hideout of the Grim Reaper; I have no doubt that when Ricks’ men start breaking through the walls they will find that at least one of the secret tunnels leading from the hideout comes out in the back room of Caleb Streiger’s workshop on Graumann Street, probably concealed by a sliding panel or something of that nature. Ricks checked the street address for me: the workshop is less than forty-five yards from Wang Foo’s Tea Shop. They are actually in the same building, for the two buildings were built back to back, each facing out on a different street.”
Redneck Pickett thrust his head in the door and signaled to Oglethorpe Gibbs.
“Car’s aroun’ front, Unk,” he said.
“On yer feet, yew,” growled Constable Oglethorpe Gibbs. The unhappy young man climbed to his feet and stumbled out of the room, accompanied by the Constable. He still looked unprepossessing: a gangling and shy and awkward young man, who hardly fitted anyone’s mental picture of that mysterious crime mastermind, the Grim Reaper.
Looking after him, Josiah Seaton sighed dispiritedly, picking up his briefcase and draping his topcoat over his arm.
“I still can’t believe it,” he wheezed. “Cal Streiger! A super-criminal ... I’d never have guessed the dear boy had it in him. The gumption, I mean, and, well, the cleverness.”
“Well, he didn’t do it all alone, of course,” Zarkon said quietly. “You helped more than a little.”
The room froze in utter silence at this quietly-voiced verbal bombshell.
The color drained from Seaton’s face, leaving it pale and unhealthy-looking and blotched. The lawyer said nothing, merely watched Prince Zarkon with bright, wary eyes. They were sharp and fearful, those eyes. They were the eyes of a small animal caught in a trap.
“Save for the act of a homicidal maniac,” Zarkon said, “the crime of murder is never completely divorced from the profit motive. Even a crime of passion involves personal gain; if a wife murders a husband, or a husband a wife, the motive may generally be found in the matter of inheritance, or insurance money, or merely the wish to clear the ground for a more desirable marriage. It was much the same in this case. While Caleb Streiger stood to inherit the house and grounds — whose value would amount to a comfortable fortune — the only other real beneficiary from the death of Jerred Streiger is the Streiger Foundation, of which you are the Director-in-Chief.
“This was actually the most vital clue into the entire mystery, and it was one of the very first things I learned, long before it meant anything to me,” said Zarkon slowly. “Think back to our brief meeting in your office. A chance gesture knocked a large malachite ashtray off your desk. I picked it up and replaced it, and at the time I noticed without really paying any attention to the inscription carved in the base. It was presented to you by the Board of Directors of the Foundation upon your election to that office. Now, according to an informant on the Stock Exchange, the Board only meets three times a year to rubber-stamp decisions made by the Director-in-Chief. Yourself. You run the Foundation, control its monies, plan its investments. It was you who would most benefit from the death of Jerred Streiger, not his nephew.
“This morning, when I talked with Ricks on the phone, I got the news I had been waiting for. Interpol finally pierced through the web of interlocking directorships and dummy corporations, to the real owner of the Pan-Global Corporation — the Swiss conglomerate to which the Grim Reaper demanded his future victims sign over their holdings. It is a subsidiary of the Streiger Foundation, solely under your control. And officials of the state licensing bureau informed me that the Foundation similarly holds the controlling interest in another company, the Herrolds Employment Bureau, which is the firm from which Pei Ling and the two other Chinese murderers were hired by Pulitzer Haines, Jerred Streiger, and Ogilvie Mather. Every trail I followed in this case leads back to you, Mr. Seaton. You are the power behind the throne — the real mastermind. You are the Grim Reaper.”
“I underestimated you, Prince Zarkon,�
�� whispered Josiah Seaton through stiff, colorless lips.
“You did not find it difficult to persuade Caleb Streiger to help you kill his uncle. You’ve known that unfortunate young man all his life, and you were the friendly parental-substitute to which he turned when his uncle rebuffed him and cut him off. You have a glib tongue and a winning manner. It must have been child’s play for you to gradually talk the boy into murder. As for Pulitzer Haines, he was a decoy, I suspect. You had him killed because you had no connection with him whatsoever. He was hard as nails, or had that reputation among the stockbrokers; he would never yield to threats. He died, so that when Streiger died, it would seem as if a cunning criminal was attempting to wrest a fortune from an . entire group of wealthy and influential men —”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Josiah Seaton. And now for the first time a certain warmth and vigor crept into his hollow tones. “Pulitzer Haines, Jerred Streiger, and Ogilvie Mather were the principal members in a secret group of powerful investors who caused a fluctuation in the Market which ruined me, wiped me out, left me penniless. They did not intend to destroy me, of course; they never realized that my holdings were among those destroyed when they caused the Market to wobble ever so slightly. They made a fortune from that wobble; I lost everything I had — everything except my brain, my will, my cunning. I hated them, and would have destroyed them one by one. In so doing, I gained possession of Streiger’s vast holdings. I would have gained control over Mather’s holdings, too, because he was weak. He would have given in. So would the next two on my list, also members of the group. I was too old to start over, Zarkon. I determined to become wealthier than ever before, and to destroy my destroyers in the process. And I would have succeeded, had it not been for you. I underestimated you. But no more than you have underestimated me —”
With those words, Seaton let fall the topcoat which he had draped over his arm — the arm holding the briefcase. Masked by the coat, no eye had seen his hand dip into the open briefcase and draw therefrom the strange tubular glittering radio projector which he now held clenched in one hand like the deadly weapon it was. Swiveling the instrument about, he said harshly: “Let no one move! From this range I can cause a clot in anyone in the room — and they’ll be dead of a heart attack within seconds.”
Scorchy swore a fierce Gaelic oath, hands curling into hard fists. But Nick Naldini laid his hand on the little boxer’s arm, restraining him.
“Easy, boy! The chief’s right up front. He’ll get it first if anybody tries anything.”
“You’re right, my Mephistophelean friend,” snarled Seaton, showing his teeth in a tigerish grin. The strange radiogun in his fat fist was pointed unswervingly at Prince Zarkon’s heart. “If any of you so much as move, it is Prince Zarkon who will be the first to die the Invisible Death!”
Zarkon faced him unflinchingly, his black magnetic eyes quiet and somber.
“You are wrong again, Seaton. I did not in the least underestimate you. I came to this showdown fully prepared.”
“Eh?”
“You are no expert in the radio field, unlike your hapless dupe, Caleb Streiger. So you are probably unaware that an alloy of cadmium and beryllium is proof to radio in the short wave lengths. My associate, Menlo Parker, constructed for me an undergarment of overlapping thin plates of this alloy, which I put on under my clothing just before entering this room. Perhaps you will recall that, before entering, I went to the restroom? At that time I donned this protective garment. Wearing it, your radio projector cannot harm me in the slightest.”
Seaton blinked, fierce wary eyes suddenly going dull.
“Eh?” he repeated, his face sagging. His rotund figure had been tense with coiled energy, like a predatory thing. Now it seemed heavy and unresponsive, and his movements were listless.
“You cannot hurt me,” Zarkon repeated in a level voice. “And I am standing close enough to you that before you can turn it on another person, I can be on you. I am younger and stronger than you are; you are no match for me in a struggle. Put the instrument down and surrender yourself. Do it now!”
The probing eyes of black magnetic fire held the dull gaze of the heavy-faced lawyer. All animation seemed to have gone out of Seaton. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed heavily, and his hand wavered and fell. The radio weapon slipped from his loose grip and crashed to the floor, delicate ray tubes shattering. And people all over the room started to breathe again.
“Thank God,” said Ricks hoarsely from the doorway leading into the hall. The detective stepped into view, holstering the revolver he held gripped in one hand. “I had a bead on him from the door, but you were between us, Prince Zarkon, and I was afraid to shoot.” He took out a pair of cuffs and snapped them on the wrists of the lawyer, who stood unresisting, staring dully into nothingness with empty eyes. “Damn clever trick, that cadmium underwear,” said the detective feelingly.
Zarkon permitted himself a rare smile.
“I fear I am guilty of a slight prevarication,” he chuckled.
“How’s that? I thought —”
“There is no metal known which reflects short waves in the manner I mentioned.”
Ricks swore and turned pale and bit his lips. “You mean that was just — a bluff?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Zarkon. And it was all over.
After the police had taken Josiah Seaton and Caleb Streiger away to the lockup in town, the Omega men dismantled the location-finder and packed it away in the Silver Ghost. It was time to go.
Nick Naldini and Scorchy Muldoon tried heroically to get a date with Doctor Ernestine Grimshaw, or at least to secure her telephone number. But the pretty blond physician fended off their advances in a casual, absent-minded way, almost by unconscious instinct.
At first the two didn’t catch on. Then they saw that old, familiar look in the girl’s big blue eyes whenever she glanced at Prince Zarkon, which she did as frequently as she could. The lanky magician and the feisty little prize-fighter exchanged a mutinous look between them, but sighed resignedly. It had happened many times before; doubtless, it would happen many times in the future.
“Sure, an’ once a good-lookin’ colleen sets her eyes on th’ chief, it’s good-by to the loikes of yez and me, me bucko,” said the Pride of the Muldoons woefully, lapsing into his brogue again. The Irish lingo always caused a distinct pain to the long-legged magician. He groaned and clutched his brow with a theatrical gesture.
“Look out, lads,” he groaned in hollow, sepulchral tones, “here comes that road company Barry Fitzgerald act again!” Scorchy sniffed, bristling; scarcely conscious of the accent into which he fell in moments of stress, it always “got his Irish up” when Nick Naldini made a crack of that nature.
“Lissen here, you third-rate imitation of John Carradine playing Count Dracula,” he growled in pointed allusion to his chum’s Mephisto-like resemblance to that actor in full Transylvanian make-up and rig, “you — you hack stand-in for Houdini, you —”
Stung by the slighting reference to the famous escape artist, whose memory he solemnly venerated, Nick gave vent to a roar of fury and began a new series of spluttering insults on the theme of Scorchy’s noticeable lack of inches. Arguing vehemently, the two sauntered off toward the men loading the helicopter.
Ace Harrigan and Doc Jenkins watched them go, grinning fondly.
“Those two take the cake,” chuckled the big, dumb-looking man with the outsized feet and miracle brain. “They always get to fighting over a cutie, and when she gives ‘em the cold shoulder and starts makin’ sheep’s-eyes at the chief, they get into a squabble and enjoy themselves so much they forget all about the cutie! I always feel sorry for the girl, though ... the chief never gives ‘em a tumble, so they come out empty-handed.”
“Not this time,” grinned Ace Harrigan. The handsome young aviator looked as smug as the cat who had just stolen the key to the canary cage. His brown eyes were sparkling with repressed glee. Doc gave him a baffled glance and ma
de an interrogative motion with his huge, pale, freckled hands.
“I got a date with the blond sawbones myself,” chuckled the crack test pilot. “She’s a sucker for prime ribs and a good dry martini, and it just happens I know the best steak joint in town. They got a guy behind the bar to whom the mixing of a dry martini is an art form, too. So don’t worry about the gal M.D., she’s in for a snazzy night on the town with yours truly —”
Just then Menlo Parker came ambling up. The skinny little scientist looked miffed.
“What are you two bums up to, loitering around here, leaving all the loadin’-up to the rest of us?” He demanded suspiciously.
“Ace was just tellin’ me he’s got a date lined up with —” Doc Jenkins started to explain, but Menlo cut him off with a curt word before the big man could finish.
“Well, that’s tough; cancel it, Ace. The chief just got a call relayed through from Blanco Grande — he wants to fly down there tonight. Somethin’ big brewin’ —”
“For the luvva — from where?” demanded Ace Harrigan sharply.
“Blanco Grande. Capital of one of them vest-pock banana republics south of the border; Hidalgo, that’s the name of the joint. Seems they got some spooky stuff goin’ on ...”
His voice trailed off into silence as an expression of excruciating suffering convulsed the handsome features of the aviator. Ace clapped one hand to his brow with a muffled groan and went tottering off the direction of the pert blond doctor to make his lame apologies. Doc Jenkins wheezed, scarlet with mirth. Menlo turned a sharp, suspicious eye on his huge hulking friend.
“What’s the matter with your’’ he demanded. “Jeeze, you and Ace! Both actin’ like a couple of loonies, I swear! What’s up with you guys, anyway?”
“Nothing,” choked Doc Jenkins, wiping tears of laughter from his pale blue eyes. “It’s just that Ace was chortling, just now, about gettin’ one up on Nick and Scorchy, and here you come along with the bad news. And those two guys got the last laugh, after all.”
