Death from Nowhere

by Clayton Rawson

  “And who is Mr. Alexander?” Church held his breath after asking that one. Because once he found that out, maybe.…

  But the Inspector’s hopes were doomed. “That,” Don said, “is why I came running up here. I was hoping that you could tell me.”

  Inspector Church gritted his teeth. “No. I won’t take that. Some guy you don’t know phoned and asked you to call him back. The next thing that happens is murder. Can’t you see how silly you sound?”

  “Yes,” Don agreed politely. “I see your point, but I’m afraid that’s the story I’m going to be stuck with. All I can add is that he spoke to Chan in an Indian dialect, that his first name is Ted, and that he admitted having just arrived this morning from India.”

  The Inspector’s eyes grew round. “You hear that, Schultz?” he demanded. “This morning from India. Get on it. Check boats, busses, trains, planes and anything else you can think of.” He turned back to the magician. “And you still insist that you don’t know any Ted Alexander, any Theodore G. Alexander from India, or maybe Chicago?”

  “Theodore G. — Chicago?” Don asked. “Oh, I see. The hotel register. No, Inspector, it’s a total blank. Did you get any sort of a description from the desk clerk.”

  Church nodded. “About five foot eight, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, brown hair, dark, tanned complexion, brown eyes, good looking, white linen suit, panama.”

  Diavolo hesitated slightly. That description bothered him. He heard the words echoing in his mind, and a hunch that had been growing within him grew still larger — a hunch that was quite impossible.

  Aloud he said, “That description could fit a lot of people. Not very illuminating. I wonder if I could see his signature on the register? The name could be phony but if the man did know me, as he seemed to, I might recognize the handwriting.”

  Church pointed at a detective. “Get it,” he ordered.

  Don’s eyes had been taking in the details of the room, particularly the large dark stain on the carpet by the door, the heavy water carafe on the floor, and the bullet hole in the wall across the room. Now, before Church could get under way with another string of queries, he asked, “What makes you so sure it’s murder? If you haven’t got a body, how do you know—”

  The Inspector didn’t answer that question but another man soon did. Diavolo was interrupted by a cop who put his head in at the door and announced, “The doc says Delaney can talk now. Do you—”

  “I do,” Church said, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s have him.”

  The cop vanished and a moment later brought in a weary, rather wobbly gentleman who was wearing what, at first glance, appeared to be a turban. He was not an Oriental, however, but Irish; and his headgear was constructed of hospital gauze and adhesive tape. It exuded a strong odor of antiseptic.

  As the man lowered himself somewhat gingerly into a chair, Church said, “You’re the house detective here, Delaney?”

  Delaney started to nod, and then decided, considering what was going on inside his head at the moment, that he had better use some other method of communication. He said, “Yes,” not very loud.

  Church said. “At about two-fifteen a woman in Room 720 reported that she had heard what she thought might be a revolver shot originating somewhere on this floor. You investigated, put your head in to Room 713 and got yourself knocked silly.

  “Later, when you woke up for a few minutes you managed to get to the phone and report that you’d found a dead man. Then you dropped off to sleep again.

  “It might interest you to know that there wasn’t any dead man when we got here, that there is a lot of blood and a bullet hole in the wall. But the bullet didn’t go through anybody. What’s the rest of it?”

  Delaney, in a worried way, said, “Well, there was a body when I first came in. It was gone when I woke up enough to crawl to the phone. If it isn’t here now, the guy that conked me must have taken it when he lammed.”

  Church was a shade sarcastic. “Under his coat maybe? It’s broad daylight and there aren’t any witnesses who noticed any bodies being carted away. Get on with it.”

  “This dame that phoned down to the desk,” Delaney said. “She’s an old gal who jitters. Last time she hollered for a detective it was to chase a June bug out of her room. June bugs must be awful dumb, because anything that would sneak in at her window at one A.M.—

  “Never mind the alibis,” Church cut in impatiently. “I get it. That’s why it took you so long to get up here?”

  “Yes. I didn’t hurry much because I figured it was more bugs or maybe that pet poodle of hers had slipped and gone down the drain or something. She had her door locked when I got here and a dresser pulled over in front of it. I think she was hiding under the bed.

  “She didn’t know what room the noise had come from. But she knew what a gunshot sounded like because her first husband, Charley, used to hunt rabbits a lot before that last time when he started out to clean a loaded gun, and—”

  Church broke in explosively, “Listen,” he sputtered, “Do you think you could maybe tell me about the crack you got on the head, or do I have to hear about her second husband and how he died from ptomaine poisoning after an Elk’s clam bake the year Taft was elected! I’ve been investigating this mess for the last hour. I’ve heard her story. I’ve heard all about her husbands. I want your story, dammit!”

  Delaney wasn’t quite so dumb that he missed catching the anger in Church’s voice. He decided he’d better speed it up a bit.

  “Sorry, Inspector,” he said. “I—I was standing there listening to her run off at the mouth and I heard a phone start to ring down here in this room. And nobody answered it. That seemed sort of funny because I was pretty sure I’d heard somebody moving around in here when I went past the door. So I thought maybe the old girl hadn’t imagined the whole thing and I came over and tried the door. It was locked.”

  Delaney stopped a moment, took another lungful of air and rubbed his head gingerly.

  Church, sizzling with impatience, glared at him and started to swear just as Delaney got going again.

  “I knocked on the door and said I wanted in. I said it a couple of times, and then a man’s voice said, ‘Yes, just a minute. I was bathing.’ The phone had stopped ringing by that time. Then this guy unlocked the door, and I started in. I saw right away that 720’s idea of hiding under a bed hadn’t been such a bad one because there was a man lying on the floor just inside the door.

  “There was a knife sticking out of his side and a lot of blood on his shirt. I was just reaching for my rod when something hit me on the head.”

  “That was a good idea, too,” Church muttered. “But it was certainly a long time coming to you. You didn’t see the guy that hit you, naturally?”

  “No.”

  “And the guy with the knife in him. Ever see him before?”

  “Yes. I was down at the desk this morning when he signed in. His name is T.G. Alexander. From Chicago.”

  “I wish I could be sure of that,” the Inspector said skeptically. “If his name really does turn out to be Alexander, I’ll give you a job on the force.”

  Don Diavolo asked a question. “What about his luggage, Inspector? No clues there?”

  “He didn’t have any. He sent a bellboy out after some underwear and socks just after he checked in. He took a shower and probably changed to the clean ones. The ones he took off must have had laundry marks on them because they’ve disappeared too.”

  “It looks,” Don said. “as if the murderer didn’t want us to find out who his victim was.”

  “It looks,” Church added disgustedly, “as if he was going to get his wish. Look what I’ve got to go on! Some blood, a bullet in the wall, a house dick who doesn’t think very fast, and a magician who can’t say anything but I don’t know!”

  Delaney came to bat again. “There was one other thing, Inspector. I got half a glimpse at it just before I got socked. On the corner of that table there was a package somebody had just opened. An o
ilskin wrapping and on it, a queer looking dagger. It was about a foot long, with a squiggly edge, and it was yellow like brass. It had a funny raised design along the blade, a cockeyed drawing of some bearded dopes with bows and arrows and a bull.”

  “A bull?” Sergeant Brophy asked curiously. “You mean a cop?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “I mean a bull. A gentleman cow, like Ferdinand — only this one had wings!”

  Inspector Church’s pained expression seemed to indicate that he was just about to have kittens. Wildcats probably, Don judged. But the marines arrived in the nick of time, in the person of the detective who had been sent to get the hotel register.

  Church took it from him, flipped it open, and shoved it under Don’s nose. “Well,” he wanted to know, “do you recognize the handwriting?”

  Don Diavolo frowned hard at the neat script. After a bit he looked up at the Inspector. There was a scowl on his bronzed face and a deeply puzzled look in his black eyes.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I don’t. But I never saw much of his anyway. And—”

  “His?” Church asked quickly. “Whose?”

  “I’m beginning to get ideas, Inspector. Several things in the last few minutes have been gradually adding up and Delaney’s bull puts the finishing touch on it. I don’t like my idea much either.”

  “Maybe I’ll like it better,” Church prodded. “After you’ve told me about it.”

  “The winged bull, Inspector, was a sacred animal among a lot of the early civilizations, especially the Persian. Theodore VanRyn, a young archeologist whom I knew rather well, started out three years ago on a field expedition into the East. He was going through Persia toward India following the route the armies of Al — so that’s it!” Don blinked. “Alexander the Great — T.G. Alexander!”

  “Theodore VanRyn,” Church said. “What else do you know about him? Where can I get a line on him? Who—”

  “You might try the Explorer’s Club,” Don said, “and the Museum of Natural History, but I call tell you one very interesting fact that you’ll discover as you phone them.”

  “What?”

  “They’ll tell you that Theodore VanRyn died in southern Persia over a year ago!”

  CHAPTER VI

  The Window Trick

  INSPECTOR CHURCH tried the Explorer’s Club and the Museum of Natural History and that is exactly what he was told. News of Theodore VanRyn’s death in a sandstorm had reached them from Isfahan, Persia, in July of the preceding year.

  The Explorer’s Club was also puzzled over the fact that several pieces of luggage, bearing VanRyn’s name, had been delivered there that morning from the airport.

  The Inspector’s eyes grew round as he heard that.

  “Luggage,” he said as he hung up. “There might be a lead in that. Yes, Muller?” He turned toward a detective who had just come in and whose satisfied expression seemed to indicate that he might have news.

  Muller had news. News that pleased Church though it didn’t help a lot. But news that made Don Diavolo sit up and take notice, blinking.

  “I got two more witnesses down in the lobby,” Muller said, “that seen that Hindu when he came in.”

  Church nodded. “Okay. Keep them on file. Brophy, you take over here until I get back. I’m going up to the Explorer’s Club.”

  Thoughtfully, Don Diavolo dropped the lighted cigarette he had been smoking into his left fist, made a hasty mystic pass over it, and opened his fingers to discover that the cigarette, as usual, had vanished. Then he reached for his hat.

  “Do you mind if I keep you company, Inspector?” he asked.

  Church gave him a sour look. “I’m not going your way,” he said flatly. “This is one case you don’t work any magic on. It’s bad enough now, what with mysterious Hindus in turbans floating around through it. If you had any more to do with it than you’ve had already I couldn’t stand it. You can go, but don’t go any place that I can’t reach you.”

  The Inspector started for the door, stopped there a moment, and then warned, “And don’t let me catch you trying to amuse yourself with any of your amateur detecting! You understand?”

  Don smiled. “The directions seem to be simple enough. I’ll try hard.” Under his breath he added: “Not to let you catch me.”

  The Inspector, when he arrived in the lobby, was snowed under and almost lost to sight beneath an avalanche of reporters. Don Diavolo circled the mob scene, caught Woody’s eye, and beckoned him.

  “If you want a story,” the magician said, when Woody had extricated himself, “don’t ask him. Follow me.”

  Woody Haines grinned. “I expected to see you come down wearing the usual handcuffs. What’s the matter? The Inspector fresh out of them this morning? Oh, no, you don’t!”

  The reporter’s last remark was addressed to a colleague from the News who had caught sight of Woody’s companion and decided that interviewing a magician about a vanishing body was a sound idea. He, with three companion newshawks, were circling Woody and Don with the evident intention of cutting in between them and the door.

  Woody grinned and said, “Take the ball, Don. I’ll run interference.”

  He did too. He opened up a hole in the opposition as wide as a barn door and Diavolo sped through it to make a touchdown at the nearest taxi stand.

  The driver gave them a nervous glance, hoped they hadn’t just robbed a bank, and stepped on the gas.

  “Fox Street,” Don ordered. Then he turned to Woody. “Did you gather any little items of information about a mysterious Hindu who has something to do with this case?”

  Woody’s face fell. “That is what I was going to ask you.”

  “You heard about him then?”

  Woody nodded. “He popped up in front of the information-desk clerk earlier this afternoon and asked for Mr. Alexander’s room number. The clerk gave it to him and he said, ‘Thanks.’ The next thing anybody knows the hotel dick phoned down from Alexander’s room and hollered ‘Murder.’”

  “What did he look like?”

  “The clerk wasn’t so helpful on that. He said all Hindus looked alike to him and this looked like a Hindu. Chocolate-colored face, clean shaven, polite manners, quite ordinary clothes except for a big white turban where his hat should have been. What’s that story you were going to give me?”

  “Ted VanRyn,” Don said. “You remember him, Woody?”

  The reporter nodded. “Yes. Sure. We went to school together. I introduced you to him. He never came back from that treasure hunt of his in—”

  Don Diavolo turned on his companion as suddenly as if he had been end-man in a game of crack the whip.

  “Did I hear you say ‘treasure hunt?’”

  “You did,” Woody answered. “Ted gave people to understand that he was going to hunt for arrowheads, busted pottery and whatever else it is archeologists spend their time digging up. He was going to follow the route that Alexander the Gr—” Woody broke off abruptly and blinked at Don. “Saaay,” he drawled. “Just what is this? T.G. Alexander … Alexander the Great?”

  “It might be a clue,” Diavolo replied. “I don’t know yet. What was he really after?”

  Woody, looking baffled but thoroughly wide awake, continued: “He was going to follow the route that Alexander’s armies took through Persia and Afghanistan about 300 B.C. He dropped a hint in my ear on the q.t. that he was also going to have a look for a couple of carloads of buried loot that Alex is supposed to have buried somewhere along the way.

  “He said he’d run across a clue or two, and that if they panned out he’d have a story when he got back that would make my mouth water. But he never got back.”

  “And what does he have to do with the mystery of Room 713 anyway? Why … what … who … how …” Woody’s excitement over he-wasn’t-quite-sure-what was getting up steam so fast that he stuttered.

  Don tried to calm him down. “Ted VanRyn — or somebody that pretends he’s Ted VanRyn part of the time and T.G. Alexander of Chicago the rest
of the time — blew in to town this morning. He phoned me. I was out. He talked to Chan in Hindustani, wanted me to phone back.

  “When I did, I got Church, and then discovered that Mr. Alexander has been stabbed by a mysterious Hindu who finishes off by socking a hotel dick and vanishing in broad daylight with Alexander’s body. I want to know more about Theodore VanRyn, please.”

  “There’s not a lot,” Woody said, his eyes popping. “No family that I know of. Nearest thing to a relative he had was Judith Allison and that knot hadn’t been tied yet. They were going to be married when he got back. She’s a niece of your old pal, Nicholas Sayre.”

  That statement, popping so unexpectedly out of Woody’s mouth, hit Don Diavolo square in the solar plexus with all the force of one of Alexander the Great’s battering rams.

  “Woody,” he said weakly. “That wraps the case up in a nice neat package and ties a great big red ribbon on it! Not more than two hours ago Nicholas Sayre bet me ten grand that I couldn’t figure out how his latest miracle man vanishes into thin air. He’s a Hindu and if we don’t find him wearing a big white turban — I’ll eat it!”

  Woody gulped, then whistled. “What was it you said he does?”

  “You heard me,” Don answered. “He vanishes into thin air. And I’ve got a dinner invitation to meet him. I think I’ll get you one and Chan too. Sayre is death on reporters, so you can be Prof. Molyneaux, president of the European Council for Psychic Research or something. How’s your French?”

  “Not bad — when I’m talking to a Hindu,” Woody said, “but—”

  “No buts, young man. Come along. Only I hope the story you get won’t turn out with a head that reads: Magician baffled by Hindu wonder. Nicholas Sayre scores goal for occult forces. His buildup is too good to be true.”

  The cab rolled up before the House of Mystery and Don Diavolo was out and gone before it had stopped moving. He found The Horseshoe Kid in the living room nursing a tall drink and happily dealing himself aces with his left hand. Pat was there too, watching him, but she didn’t seem too happy.