Death from Nowhere

by Clayton Rawson

  It was exactly four forty-five when Diavolo’s cab drew up before the Emperor Theater Building in Times Square. Just as he stepped out R.J. Hagenbaugh died thirty-four stories above.

  The magician paid off his driver and went into the lobby. He waited there for a moment just inside the doors. The two detectives hurried in, saw him, then stopped abruptly and pretended to scrutinize the bulletin board; Don approached them and said:

  “Just in case you lose me in the elevators I’m on my way to the thirty-fourth floor, offices of Whitetops, Inc. That’s quite all right. Don’t mention it.” He grinned and walked away.

  The two dicks pretended to look as if they didn’t get it, but their acting wasn’t anything to write home about. The expressions on their faces were what is commonly known as sheepish. They were just flustered enough that they almost did miss making the same elevator that Don took.

  “And the next stop after this one,” Don grinned at them, “is going to be police headquarters. Maybe we could all go in the same cab. My treat and it would save the city a taxi fare.”

  They gave him blank stares.

  “No?” Don shrugged. “Well you can’t report that I didn’t try to cooperate.” He gave up trying to be sociable and then after a moment chuckled and recited:

  “I have two little shadows

  That go in and out with me;

  But what can be the use of them

  Is more than I can see!”

  This was too much. One of the dicks turned to the other and said, “Maybe he’s an advertising stunt.”

  The second nodded, “Or a loony.” He turned to the elevator operator, “The Pennsylvania Petroleum Refining Company is on thirty-four, isn’t it?”

  Don answered before the operator had a chance. “That’s right. But the name’s been changed. It’s the High Test Banana Oil Company now. You boys should be able to do business with them.”

  One of the dicks gave up. “Listen, wise guy,” he growled. “I’ve a good notion to take you in right now.”

  The elevator operator said, “Thirty-four.”

  Don stepped out. “Oh,” he said turning. “Then maybe you’ll need these.” He held out two police revolvers and a pair of handcuffs.

  The detectives stared, then grabbed at their property. But before they could grab at him, Don Diavolo moved lithely across the corridor and vanished through a door whose glass panel bore the letters: Whitetops, Inc. R.J. Hagenbaugh Shows.

  The detectives stood there for a moment boiling like a couple of forgotten teakettles. They even spouted steam — steam in the shape of words so inflammable that they can’t be printed here because the postal authorities won’t accept incendiary matter for mailing.

  Finally one of them said something usable. “We could take him in on a pocket-picking charge, Sam.”

  “Oh yeah?” Sam growled. “Church is going to be sore enough that Diavolo caught wise we were trailing him. What do you think he’ll do if we admit we were frisked? I’m going to phone in for instructions and get somebody to take over. The magician won’t do anything he shouldn’t as long as he knows we’re on deck.” Sam gave the down button an angry poke.

  His companion scowled doubtfully at the door through which Diavolo had gone. “I wish I was sure of that, Sam,” he said. “I’ve got a hunch he’s up to something right now.”

  “Sure. So have I. But we can’t barge in there without something better’n hunches. And chewing the rag out here isn’t doing anybody any good. Come on. You watch the elevators and the fire-stairs from the lobby while I phone. Maybe Church can get some of the other boys up here before he shows again.”

  R.J. Hagenbaugh’s anteroom beyond the door was, except for the circus posters and autographed photos of performers that lined the walls, like a thousand other offices. A low partition cut the room in half. On one side of it were several chairs for visitors and on the other, filing cabinets, a desk, phone, typewriter, an inner door marked Private, and Miss Isabelle Skinner.

  Miss Skinner was pounding angrily on her typewriter. Clark Gable, Chester Morris, Robert Taylor, and Rudolph Valentino’s ghost could have walked into the room at that moment and she would have snapped at all of them. R.J. Hagenbaugh was bad enough to work for at any time; today he had been completely impossible.

  That telegram from Lakewego an hour ago had been the last straw.

  COPS HIT SHOW WITH ATTACHMENT FOR FIVE GRAND CAN BEAT IT IN COURT BUT MUST POST BOND GAVE CHIEF BUTTERFIELD AFTERNOON GATE RECEIPTS BUT NEED ANOTHER FIVE HUNDRED. DOC WHIPPLE JAILED AS SECURITY — LILLIAN POWERS

  Lillian Powers was part owner of the Hagenbaugh Powers circus and Doc Whipple was the legal adjuster and Hagenbaugh’s representative in the latter’s absence. The wire, Miss Skinner knew, meant that the Lakewego chief of police, unsatisfied for some reason with his usual cut of graft, had let someone plaster an attachment on the show. It was an obvious shakedown, and a humdinger.

  R.J. wouldn’t have stood for that ordinarily. He’d have rolled up his sleeves, gone to work with the efficiency of long experience, and cooked up a neat double-reverse play of some sort that would have left Chief Butterfield gasping, scared green that he’d lose his job, and excruciatingly apologetic.

  But this time, strangely enough, Hagenbaugh did nothing of the sort. He hit the ceiling, true enough, and he erupted with some words that even Miss Skinner who thought she knew them all by this time had never heard before. But the telegram he had dictated, once Blondie had deleted the words she knew Western Union wouldn’t send anyway, wasn’t like him at all.

  BANKS CLOSED TAKE BALANCE FROM NIGHT GATE WHAT MAKES WHIPPLE THINK HE IS A FIXER — HAGENBAUGH

  Miss Skinner didn’t get it. Something had been eating her boss for a week or so now. He had growled and snarled constantly at whoever happened to be within growling and snarling distance. Most of the time that had been Miss Skinner. And now she found herself doing the same to anyone unlucky enough to put his head in at the door.

  That was one reason that Don Diavolo had a little difficulty in crashing Hagenbaugh’s office. He sailed his hat into a nearby chair, gave the girl a cheerful grin and said, “Hello, beautiful. Tell your boss I’m here. He’s expecting me. If he isn’t, the old walrus is not as bright as he gives out. And don’t tell me he isn’t in or I’ll turn you into a rabbit. I can smell that cigar of his from here.”

  She scowled at him. “You’re Don Diavolo, aren’t you?”

  He admitted it. “Yes. I was afraid you might know that.”

  “The Hagenbaugh Shows,” she said icily, “do not need any magicians at the moment. If you care to fill out this employment card” — she shoved it at him — “Mr. Hagenbaugh will get in touch with you when any openings occur.”

  “Now listen, Blondie,” Diavolo said, “you know darned well that I’m not looking for a job with any circus. And I resent the inference that I’d even consider working for a tank-town grifter like R.J. Climb down off your high horse like a good girl and tell him I’m here, will you?”

  “He’s busy,” she snapped. “He’s in conference. He said he wasn’t to be interrupted on any account. He isn’t seeing anyone else today. Stop back in the morning.”

  “Tomorrow’s the Fourth of July. You’ll be closed.”

  Miss Skinner returned to her typing. “Yes,” she said, “I know.”

  Don Diavolo looked at her for a moment. “No,” he said. “That won’t do at all. I’m seeing him now. And that’s an ultimatum! If you won’t announce me, we’ll dispense with the formality. So nice to have met you.”

  He started toward the door marked Private.

  The girl stopped typing and put her hand on the phone. “Go ahead,” she said. “Bust in on him. I can have a police car here in two minutes.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” The magician shook his head. “Since he told you not to let me in, he’s changed his mind. I know, I’m a mindreader. Listen.”

  Diavolo stopped, came back, reached across to the interoffice communic
ator on her desk, and flipped up a switch. Then, rapidly, he talked at the apparatus. “Hello, R.J., Don Diavolo broadcasting. This cute but smart secretary of yours must have her signals mixed. She says you can’t see me.”

  The girl grinned at Diavolo calmly. Her eyes said, “Now you’ve done it!” But when she heard the answering voice from the communicator she stared at the machine as if it were something she had never seen before. Her blue eyes were suddenly round and incredulous.

  The voice said, “Don’t mind her. Come right in!”

  Don spread his hands. “You see?” he said. Then he quickly strode toward Hagenbaugh’s door and turned the knob. Blondie watched him dazedly.

  Don was thinking, “Ventriloquism is certainly a handy accomplishment. I hope I can get out of the lion’s den as easily.” Then his confidence took a body blow. The stunt hadn’t worked so well after all. Hagenbaugh’s door was locked!

  That tore it. He couldn’t very well pick the lock with the girl watching him. There wasn’t much he could do except stall for a moment and figure out a retreat. He knocked loudly on the door and called, “Say what is this, a game? I thought you asked me to—”

  And at that instant Don Diavolo heard the key on the other side turn over in the lock. Quickly Diavolo grasped the knob again and pushed the door open. He stepped through hastily and slammed it behind him before the girl could hear the bellow of rage that Don fully expected would come from R. J. as soon as he saw who his visitor was.

  Don Diavolo was ready to welcome that bellow; he planned to answer it with decisive action.

  But it was the magician’s turn to get a surprise. It wasn’t the circus owner who had unlocked the door. He was on the other side of the room, sitting quietly behind his desk. There was something odd too about the way he slumped forward.…

  Suddenly the scene before Diavolo’s eyes exploded in a brilliant whirling shower of bright sparks. They glowed hotly for a brief moment and then abruptly snuffed out all together. Don Diavolo fell forward into the deep aching void of blackness that took their place.

  Falling, he knew that someone behind the door had blackjacked him!

  CHAPTER III

  Trapped with Death

  THE secretary scowled suspiciously at the closed door. There was certainly no predicting the way her boss acted today. He had told her in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want to see Don Diavolo under any circumstances. And now— She worried at the problem for a moment and then gave it up. She ran a sheet of paper into her machine and returned to her typing.

  Ten minutes later the phone call came. “Broadway 6-8240?” an operator asked. “Lakewego, New York, calling.”

  Then an angry irascible voice came over the wire, a man’s voice. “Hello, hello! I want to talk to Hagenbaugh.”

  Miss Skinner said, “I’ll see if he’s in. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Colonel Van Orman, and you’d better put him on or there’ll be trouble! I’ve stood for all I’m going to from that fat, pot-bellied, two-faced, tinhorn chiseler. If he thinks his advance crew can get away with—”

  Blondie was used to this sort of thing. Coolly she said, “Just a moment, please.” Then she rang the phone in the inner office. The colonel still fumed in her ear. He was certainly hopping mad about something.

  But her boss didn’t answer. The girl rang the phone again. Still no answer. Blondie frowned. Then she switched on the interoffice communicator and said, “Mr. Hagenbaugh. Sorry to interrupt you but the phone call is from Colonel Van Orman. It sounds important.”

  The answering silence that came from the machine’s speaker made the girl turn in her seat to face the door, her eyes widening. She tried once more, “Mr. Hagenbaugh!”

  Then she stood up, hesitated a half a second with a frown gathering on her brow, and marched across and turned the doorknob. It turned all right. The door even gave a fraction of an inch, but it wouldn’t open. It wasn’t locked, but there seemed to be something jammed against it on the inside that prevented it from budging.

  Blondie was alarmed now. The silence, the closed door, Don Diavolo, and before that, the very odd—

  The girl suddenly wheeled and jumped for the phone. Colonel Van Orman’s connection was suddenly broken off. She had forgotten him completely. Frantically she dialed. “Operator! Operator! Give me the police. Quick!”

  Don Diavolo still slept, his limp form stretched on the floor of the inner office. Nothing penetrated that sleep, until finally, far off beyond the confused roaring in his ears and the fiery flashes of pain that had begun to bounce back and forth within his skull, he heard a long drawn banshee howl that rose ominously as it drew nearer.

  “Police siren,” Don thought hazily. “Interesting. Wonder where they’re going? Wonder what all this racket is where my head should be. Wonder …” He dropped off to sleep again.

  But this second nap was short. Another sound came and brought him out of it with a jerk, like the sudden shock of an ice cold shower.

  It was a voice that said, “Okay, boys. Break it in!” He knew that voice. It belonged to Inspector Church.

  Diavolo’s eyes opened just as something thudded heavily against the door. Don looked in the direction. What he saw sent an Arctic shiver racing down his backbone. It nearly made him forget the hot pounding ache that was within his head.

  There was a chair tipped back against that door. Two of its legs dug into the thick beige carpet. Its top was jammed beneath the doorknob.

  It trembled and gave perceptibly as Church’s man again threw his weight against the door.

  Don pulled himself up on to his feet and stood there, swaying uncertainly. His head turned, his dark sharp eyes searching for some evidence of his mysterious assailant. Except for the motionless Hagenbaugh behind his desk, there was no one else in the room — and only one possible hiding place, the three-leaf folding screen at the room’s end.

  Diavolo moved toward it cautiously. Behind it he found nothing but a half open window and a twenty-story sheer drop to the setback on floor fourteen. Don put his head out. The smooth stone facing of the building’s side would not have given foothold to a fly.

  Five floors below, a window washer leaned nonchalantly back above the street, held by the two straps that ran from his belt to the hooks in the window sash.

  Diavolo hailed him. “Ahoy, sailor! Did you happen to see anybody leave by this window in the last few minutes?”

  The workman looked up. “Why, yes, Mac, come to think of it, I did. A whole parade of elephants. Pink ones. Were they yours?”

  Don Diavolo pulled in his head and turned. Another heavy crash shook the door.

  There were two windows behind the desk, both locked on the inside, and both, as Don knew, looking out on an even greater drop, the full thirty-four floors to Broadway.

  All this time the magician had known that there could be only one reason for Hagenbaugh’s strange stillness. He went over now and touched the man’s hand.

  The circus owner was a fat hippopotamus of a man with thin graying hair. His cigar, still smoldering on the desk top where it had fallen, sent up a smell of burned varnish. Running down along the right side of his face and neck were five long parallel red scratches. Hagenbaugh’s hand was cold.

  The chair gave another inch as the Inspector’s man flung himself once more against the door outside.

  Don Diavolo

  Woody

  Mickey

  Pat Collins (we think)

  Inspector Church

  Karl

  CHAPTER IV

  Quick, Watson — The Handcuffs

  DON DIAVOLO realized that one more push like that would force the door enough for someone to get a hand through and disengage the chair.

  He decided that there was one thing he had better do before Church got in — if he was going to do it at all. He’d never get the chance afterward. As the detective outside gathered himself for the final shove, Diavolo sprang across the room. If he could lock that door he’d have time to … Bu
t the keyhole held no key.

  Don scowled, slammed the door back into place and secured the chair more firmly against it.

  The Inspector’s roar had thunder and lightning in it. “Diavolo! You can’t get out. You might as well open up.”

  Don made no answer. He saw the key then lying on the floor. Snatching it up, he inserted it in the lock and turned it over. Then he ran for the phone. The dial tone told him that it was still plugged through to the outside. He dialed a number hurriedly. Plaza 4-8484.

  The Inspector outside commanded grimly, “Brophy. Shoot the lock off!”

  “City desk,” Don said into the phone, his voice tense.

  Brophy fired his first shot into the lock. Diavolo saw the smoke curl upward from the keyhole.

  “Haywood Haines,” he snapped as a second voice answered in his ear. “And hurry it.… What? He’s not—”

  Brophy fired again. The door burst open.

  Don Diavolo groaned. “He’s never in. This is Don Diavolo and I’m sitting on something hot. Find him in a hurry and have him phone me back. The number is—”

  But that was as far as he got. Inspector Church grabbed the phone and barked into it. “Hello! Who is this speaking?”

  The magician quickly clicked the phone rest, breaking the connection. He saw the secretary in the doorway, her eyes round and staring. A detective drew her back into the anteroom and closed the door.

  “Inspector,” Don asked, “is that polite? First you send the boys to spy on me, then you get nosy about my phone conversations. I don’t like—”

  Church roared at him. “Who were you talking to?”

  Meekly, Don replied, “I thought it might be a good idea if I had a little chat with my lawyer.”

  Inspector Church was a brusque and bulky pepperpot with a neat military mustache and a straightforward mind that disliked and mistrusted anything that couldn’t be neatly labeled and filed. Things like magicians and the hocus pocus they were always up to. He knew the whole blamed bag of tricks was phony, and it annoyed him intensely that so many of the things Don Diavolo did weren’t supposed to be possible. His private opinion was that conjuring was just another type of confidence game — an opinion which wasn’t far from wrong and one that made Church suspicious of every move that Don made and of some that he didn’t.