Death out of Thin Air

by Clayton Rawson

  Don made a pass with his hand above his coat lapel. By some conjurer’s means this caused a green carnation to appear there instantly. The Maharajah of Vdai-Loo4 walked down the front steps of the Reverend VanLio’s house. He was thinking of Inspector Church and softly whistling a swing version of I Can’t Give You Anything But Love.

  Mickey Collins, wearing her black wig now, sat at the wheel of an inconspicuous black sedan. Outwardly, it was completely ordinary, but beneath its hood there was a supercharged motor that could show its heels even to the big red Packard.

  “I’ll drive, Mike,” Don said, and she moved over.

  The Theatrical Arts Building, a recently completed skyscraper, was uptown, just a few blocks from the Music Hall. Don gave Mickey the wheel and got out.

  “Wait for me,” he said. “If any cops try to date you up, keep a stiff upper lip. I’ll bail you out. Be good.”

  He saw the headlines on the evening papers as he passed the newsstand in the lobby.

  UNKNOWN GIRL KILLED IN MUSIC HALL

  DIAVOLO ARRESTED FOR MURDER

  THEN VANISHES INTO THIN AIR!

  Police Baffled!

  Diavolo nearly started to whistle again, Yankee Doodle this time — but remembering that he was supposed to be an Indian Prince, grinned instead.

  Chandler’s offices were on the 51st floor. Diavolo stepped from the elevator, walked the length of the corridor, and pushed at the door. It swung inward a few inches and then stopped against something soft and yielding. Diavolo looked down and saw that what blocked it was the body of a girl.

  Almost instantly his gun was in his right hand. His left pushed firmly on the door, shoving the body aside.

  He raised the gun and then stopped — too late. The door of Chandler’s office, beyond the anteroom, closed sharply and Diavolo heard the lock click over. But he had had one quick glimpse — his first one — of the Bat!

  It had, beneath the flowing black cape, the figure of a man — a man who could move, as he had just done, like lightning. And Don had caught one swift glimpse of the horrible bat face with its grinning brutish smile and its sharply-pointed, gleaming teeth.

  Don took a quick look at the girl. He saw the fallen stenographer’s notebook at her side. Chandler’s secretary, evidently. He could find no marks on her neck, and, though her face was pale, she breathed regularly.

  Don crossed the anteroom in four long strides, knelt by the closed door and drew from his pocket a key ring on which were a number of slender, curiously shaped, angular instruments. He eyed the lock, selected one of the picklocks, inserted it in the keyhole and began probing.

  There was a familiar clicking sound behind him and he threw a quick glance over his shoulder.

  The secretary had quietly pulled herself to her feet. She was dialling the phone.

  “Operator! Operator!” she called. “Get the police quick.”

  Diavolo moved as if shot from a gun. Before she could scream, he had snatched the phone and was covering her with his gun. He shook his head at her warningly and spoke into the phone.

  The girl’s eyes grew round with fright. Then they closed as she fainted again at Diavolo’s feet. This strange brown-skinned Oriental was speaking in her own voice!

  He said, “The police, operator, for God’s sake! No. 47 Battery Place. Hurry!” Then he hung up.

  He turned swiftly to continue his work at the lock. “Whew,” he said to himself. “That was a close one. But Battery Place is far enough downtown — ah, that does it.”

  Under his expert manipulation, the bolt within the lock finally moved over.

  Don Diavolo stood up, gun in hand, and slowly pushed the door inward. But no bat figure sprang at him. Once again there was an open window and a body on the floor — Avery Chandler’s.

  A small brown-furred bat like the one that had flown out through Diavolo’s dressing room window fluttered at his throat! Chandler was clawing at the animal with his hands.

  Diavolo sprang forward as the bat rose awkwardly in the air. He swung at it with the butt of his gun and the repulsive flying-thing dropped, squeaking, to the floor.

  Don threw a quick look around, scowled at the dark square of the open window, saw a door in the left hand wall and made for it. He stood to one side against the wall, his hand on the knob. He yanked the door open.

  Nothing came out — there was nothing there. Nothing but a suit of clothes on a hanger, a pair of black shoes, a derby hat, an umbrella and several empty club-soda bottles.

  Behind him, Chandler’s voice said, “Who — who are you?”

  “Diavolo,” the Maharajah said, turning. Chandler, on the floor had rolled over and was trying to pull himself up.

  Don went toward him. “Quick! What happened in here?”

  But Chandler, the glasses on his nose askew, was staring wide-eyed at a safe that stood in the corner of the room. Its heavy door was open and a litter of papers that had spilled from within were scattered before it.

  “He got the bonds,” Chandler gasped. “Thirty thousand in negotiable securities. I was just locking up when—”

  “Did he knock you out?” Don asked, helping Chandler to his feet. Chandler, a man of about forty with prematurely gray hair, was a cripple, an infantile paralysis victim apparently, whose right foot was nearly six inches shorter than his left. The heavy shoe with its thick reinforced sole which he wore made up the difference in length and caused him to walk with a swinging limp. Now, he had difficulty in standing at all. He held a shaking hand to his head.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Blackjack. And when I came out of it that damned bat was at my throat!” Chandler moved haltingly toward the safe.

  Diavolo, knowing what he would see and not liking it, went to the window and looked out. He was now beginning to realize fully the caliber of the Thing that he was fighting.

  This time there was no possibility of a daredevil human fly. No man alive who was not contemplating suicide would dare go out that window. Alive — Don thought — but suppose the man was not alive! Suppose….

  At the Music Hall the drop had been only five stories and the wall was climbable. Here the drop was perfectly sheer — thirty-one stories of it down to the twentieth floor setback. And the smooth facade of the building was utterly without hand or foothold!

  No one — nothing could scale that sheer, dizzying escarpment unless it were a lizard — or a Vampire — an undead being whose powers were half ghostly, half human!

  Diavolo turned to Chandler who stood unhappily regarding an empty drawer in the safe, one hand still holding his head.

  “Chandler, how did that Thing get out of this room?”

  Chandler looked up in amazement. “Why I—I assumed that, somehow, he got past you at the door. Didn’t—”

  “No,” Don said, “he didn’t. He wasn’t here when I got in.” Diavolo pointed to the body of the bat on the floor. “He either changed himself into that — or he went out the window. I don’t know which is worse, because if he went by the window then he can fly!”

  Chandler stared with round eyes at the window. Diavolo added, “You said you know who the Bat is. If he’s a man and not a ghost, that only makes it worse. I think this is where you’d better tell me about it.”

  Chandler limped forward haltingly and dropped into a chair. He rested his elbows on the desk and held his head in his hands. Slowly he said,

  “The Bat is Gilles de Rais!”

  Don Diavolo felt an icy tingle along his spine. He stared at Chandler in unbelief.

  “For God’s sake, man!” he cried, “Are you mad? Gilles de Rais has been dead five hundred years!”

  “Yes,” Chandler said, “I know that.”

  Count Draco

  4

  Don Diavolo’s weakness for anagrams was cropping out here again. Vdai-Loo was merely chop-suey for Diavolo.

  CHAPTER VII

  Bat Out of Hell

  DON DIAVOLO poured Chandler a glass of water from the carafe on the desk and waited for him
to collect himself. The secretary, recovered, looked fearfully in at the door, was reassured by her employer, and withdrew.

  Chandler finally spoke again, “I had better start at the beginning. You should know who the murdered girl was. Her name was Mlle. Marie Zsgany, a Hungarian medium. She has been giving séances at the Count’s apartments on Park Avenue. Remarkable ones. I’ve seen a few séances in my time, but never anything like these. You won’t believe—”

  “After what you’ve just said,” Diavolo answered, “I’m ready to believe nearly anything. The Count? Who is he?”

  “Count Draco, an Austrian, from somewhere in Carpathia I think. He brought Mlle. Zsgany to this country. They have been in New York about a month giving private demonstrations of Mlle. Zsgany’s strange powers for a select few people who are interested in such matters.”

  “People like you, Inez LaValle, the Saylors?”

  Chandler nodded. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  “Never mind. Let’s have more. And how did you know I was interested in the Bat? How did you know there had been a murder before it made the papers?”

  “Inez phoned me.” Chandler replied. “She was at the Music Hall. She got a glimpse of the body from the corridor and recognized Mlle. Zsgany. She told me that you had vanished under the noses of the police. It was through her I first heard about the séances. She was the danseuse in my last musical production.”

  “I see,” Don nodded. “What about Count Draco?”

  “At a séance two weeks ago,” Chandler said in a low voice, “Marie Zsgany was in one of her deep trance states when something went wrong! An alien control took possession of her — a being who spoke a strange language. It seemed to be French, but it was different. I could understand some of it, but not enough to follow it well. The Count, however, could translate and he was horrified.

  “He said it was the Old French of the Middle Ages and that the control who was manifesting himself through the medium was the infamous mass murderer, Gilles de Rais! Horrified, Count Draco called for lights, crying that he must bring Mlle. Zsgany out of her trance immediately. I pushed the light button. I was too late!”

  “Gilles de Rais had materialized in the dark of that locked room and he stood there before us, laughing. Mlle. Zsgany came out of her trance, saw the man’s face and fainted. The rest of us weren’t far from it!”

  “And De Rais, while we still stood there, staring at him, said a few words more, laughed again, and turned to the window. He unlocked it and threw it up. The Count’s apartments are in a penthouse. On that side the drop to the street is sheer — as it is outside this window here. It’s thirty stories down. The Bat-figure swung out of the window and crawled out. When we had recovered enough to look out, he had vanished!”

  Chandler pulled a desk drawer open and found a bottle of Scotch. He poured half a glass full and drank it quickly.

  Don Diavolo watched him closely. Was Chandler mad?

  Don had read about the Marshal Gilles de Rais. He knew that the man had lived in France in the Fifteenth Century, that he had been an alchemist who had called sorcery to his aid in a vain search for the Philosopher’s Stone.

  He knew that de Rais had signed in blood a compact with the Devil, become a Satanist and resorted to all the diabolic rites of medieval black magic to attain his ends. He knew that in each of the uncounted black masses which de Rais had performed, a child had been murdered according to the fearful ritual of sacrifice.

  And he knew that the maniac — for you could call him nothing else — in 1440, had been given both an ecclesiastical and secular trial; had been excommunicated as an evoker of demons, an apostate and heretic; and, finally, with two companions had been hanged. If the materialized spirit of a monster like that had managed to come back from beyond the grave.…

  Don shook his head. He didn’t like to think about it.5

  Chandler spoke again. “Count Draco, as I say, was horrified. He told us who Gilles de Rais was and how he had been hanged above a fire. The bodies of his two companions, when the ropes around their necks had burned through, were consumed and the ashes scattered. But the Marshal was a member of a noble family with powerful connections. Some of his friends drew Gilles’ body from the flames, gave it burial.”

  “A serious mistake, that.”

  “Count Draco says that what they should have done, but neglected to do, was to cut off his head with the gravedigger’s spade and drive an aspen stake through his heart. They failed to do that and De Rais became a Vampire. That is why he has the face of a bat!”6

  “And what do you think, Chandler?” Diavolo asked.

  Grimly Chandler said, “In spite of the fact that I’ve seen him, I still don’t believe it! The Vampire may pretend that he is the dead Gilles de Rais — but I think that actually he is Count Draco!”

  “Now wait,” Don said thoughtfully. “You just said that the Count was present when the Vampire materialized. He can’t be in two places at once!”

  Chandler frowned. And then shrugged. “That’s what bothers me. That’s one reason I phoned you. I thought you’d be the one man who could explain that. I’ve seen you do that trick in which your assistant, Miss Collins, is in two places at once.”

  Diavolo nodded, “Yes, but that’s something else again. Then you think Draco and Mlle. Zsgany have been faking. Why?”

  “No,” Chandler said. “Not Mlle. Zsgany. She was quite innocent. She thought she really did have mediumistic powers. The Count has been faking the phenomena and not only fooling the sitters, but the medium as well!”

  “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “I know,” Chandler replied, “because in the last day or so something has happened to arouse her suspicions. She came to me this afternoon, here, and told me so. And that’s why she came to see you. I told her that the only man who could expose such a clever faker as the Count was Don Diavolo.”

  “She comes to see me,” the magician said, “and gets herself killed and now the cops are after me. I don’t know whether to thank you for the recommendation or not.” Diavolo walked to the window and stood there looking out over the dark city. “If you’re right,” he mused, “the Count is obviously after just one thing — money. The Saylors are the tobacco millionaires, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Chandler said. “Her father made his pile in the Turko-American Cigarette Co.”

  “And Ogden Saylor, somewhat younger than his wife Estelle, was an Olympic fancy diving champion in ’32.” Diavolo looked once more out down the side of the building that dropped so smoothly away into the darkness. Then he turned.

  “Do you think there will be any more séances after what happened to Mlle. Zsgany?”

  “Yes,” Chandler said. “There will be one tonight. The Count phoned me just before I called you.”

  Diavolo said, “The papers were out with the story by then. Doesn’t he know anything about his medium’s death?”

  Chandler shook his head, “I don’t know. He simply said that the sitting tonight was to make another attempt to break the Vampire’s power and send him back to his grave. The Count has been trying — or pretending to try to do that ever since the Vampire appeared.”

  “Good. Then you’re taking the Maharajah of Vdai-Loo, a gentleman who is deeply interested in occult matters — a gentleman who can make a few occult passes himself on occasion. Are you reporting the theft of your money to the police?”

  “Yes,” Chandler replied. “But not just yet. If I went to them with the story I’ve got, they’d think — what did you say?”

  “Nothing,” Diavolo said. “Go on.” What he had started to say was “Inspector Church would have you in a padded cell quicker than I can vanish a thin dime.”

  “And,” Chandler continued, “I doubt if they could get a thing on the Count. He’s too clever. But I think you could. Phony spirit phenomena are right up your alley.”

  “I don’t like alleys,” Don said, taking the phone and dialing a number, “especially dark alleys
but I’m afraid I’ll have to barge into this one. I haven’t much choice. I’m missing my first evening show right now and I won’t be able to go on again until I can prove to the Inspector that Chan and I didn’t kill the girl. And Kaselmeyer the tightwad, will dock me for every cent he — Hello! Pat?…. I want you to dress as the Maharanee of Vdai-Loo. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

  “We’re going to meet the Bat in person. What!”

  Pat’s voice over the phone was saying, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t possibly, I have a date tonight. You should have called earlier, darling.”

  With her voice, on the phone, there came a faint intermittent scratching sound. Diavolo paid more attention to this than to her words.

  Then he said, “All right. See if you can stall him, I’m on my way!”

  Diavolo slammed the receiver back on the hook, turned and raced for the door.

  Chandler, his mouth open, called after him, “What — where—?”

  Don shouted back, “She says she doesn’t want to meet The Bat! He’s there!”

  Diavolo was gone. And as he raced for the elevators he was thinking, “He must be able to be in two places at once! Even if he can fly he’d have to go like a — My God! — like a bat out of hell!”

  5

  De Rais, according to most authorities, murdered about eight hundred souls. In the official process at his trial one hundred and forty were named, but it was understood then that this represented only a fraction of the whole. See Summers: Geography of Witchcraft, pages 389-396 and page 62.

  6

  Witches, wizards, suicides, children of the devil, the illegitimate offspring of illegitimate parents, and persons dying under the ban of excommunication become marauding vampires after death. They may appear not only in human form but can assume the shape of a dog, cat, toad, or any blood-sucking animal. Vampirism is infectious and the persons who are attacked by a Vampire, themselves become Vampires after death! — New International Encyclopedia.