Death out of Thin Air

by Clayton Rawson

  “Then, when Church got back to Healy’s office he started to pick up his hat. He had left it lying on Healy’s desk. That note was lying on the crown of his hat.”

  Don read it aloud.

  Inspector Church and as many friends as he cares to bring are cordially invited to attend the theft of the Madras Siva from The Museum of Indian Art at precisely 11 A.M. on Wednesday. Sorry about Sergeant Healy, but what he had to tell you would have been inconvenient.

  Sincerely yours,

  THE INVISIBLE MAN.

  “Tomorrow at four,” Don said. “Chan. The Madras Siva. What is it?”

  Chan frowned. “The Madras Siva is a statue of Siva, The Destroyer, posed as Nataraja, Lord of the Dance. It is a nearly priceless sculpture assigned to the tenth century, and I should say that its theft was impossible under any conditions.”

  “Why?” Woody asked.

  “Because the statue is bronze, seven feet high and Siva has usual four arms extended in all directions like an octopus. Very unhandy object to pilfer.”

  Larry Keeler said, “It can’t be done. The guy’s a loony.”

  Don Diavolo looked at the note again. “He certainly seems sure of himself.”

  “After what happened to Healy, Woody said, “he has a right to be. He’s got the whole Metropolitan Police Force standing on its ear right now. I’m breaking the story in the next edition and I want you to tell me—”

  “This fingerprint that shows on the notepaper, Woody. Explain that.”

  “The lab gave the note the once over with their iodine fumes and developed that print. One thumbprint with a half inch scar across it. But it’s not in the files either here or in Washington. Now what sort of hocus pocus is this Invisible bloke using? You’re the expert on that subject. I want a signed interview.”

  Don was only half listening to Woody’s request. He was more interested, and considerably startled by the curious expression that he saw on Patricia Collins’ face.

  Pat, his blond young lady assistant who gets sawed in two, burned alive and generally mistreated at each performance only to come up smiling again at the next, had entered the room in time to hear most of Woody’s story.

  When she saw the reproduction of the note her face had gone completely white. Her hand as she reached and took the paper for a closer look trembled.

  Don Diavolo

  Woody

  Mickey

  Pat Collins (we think)

  Inspector Church

  Karl

  Slow suffocation, Don Diavolo thought, was not the easiest way to die

  CHAPTER III

  $10,000 An Hour

  Don pretended not to notice Pat’s trembling reaction and he turned quickly to Woody. “At the auto show a week ago,” he said, “The Lord Motor Company displayed their new V-12 and a Dr. Valeski Palgar trained an electrical gadget of his invention on it six times a day. He called it an Invisibility Inducer.

  “The Lord car promptly, in full view and under bright lights, faded out of sight except for the chassis and the running motor. When the doctor threw his switches into reverse the Fisher body slowly materialized again. The night before I had intended to go take a look at it someone burgled the Grand Central Palace and walked off with the doctor’s machine.

  “The next morning it was discovered that Dr. Palgar too had vanished. The papers were full of it. And now, I don’t need to be a mind-reader to know darned well that you’re going to tell me next that Sergeant Healy was working on the doctor’s disappearance. Right?”

  “Right,” Woody replied at once. “That’s what puts the finishing touch on the story. If it wasn’t for that vanishing invisible ray the D. A. would have had Inspector Church laced in a straitjacket before now. It’s the only thing that gives him an out.”

  “Palgar’s invisibility gimmick was an advertising stunt, wasn’t it?” Horseshoe asked. “Why don’t you ask the Lord Company’s advertising department what the gaff was? I should think they’d—”

  “But they don’t.” Woody answered. “I got on to them right away. They’ve had cops in their hair ever since last night, and they couldn’t tell any of us one blamed thing. They were pretty pleased about the publicity when their invisible ray vanished as if it had backfired, but now, with a murder tacked on, they don’t like it.

  “Palgar spent a couple of days before the show opened setting up his gadget, but he wasn’t giving out any secrets. He worked behind closed doors and he yelled bloody murder every time anyone even tried to poke his nose into the place. He—”

  Chan who had gone to answer the phone in the other room returned and announced, “A Mr. J.D. Belmont downstairs asking to see you.”

  Woody blinked. “J.D. Belmont. Holy cats! You do move in society, don’t you, Don? What causes this?”

  “Without looking in my crystal ball,” Don said, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never set eyes on the man before. Have him sent up, Chan.”

  “Who,” Horseshoe asked, “is J.D. Belmont?”

  Woody stared at him. “So,” he said, pretending to be greatly offended, “you don’t read my column. Or maybe you just don’t read. Try it sometime. J.D. Belmont is a millionaire about six times over — or is it sixty? I always get lost at that altitude. He is a sort of invisible man himself — the unseen mastermind behind a couple of dozen corporations and scads of holding companies. He spends his ill-gotten gains on his art collection. He’s gathered in half the Old Masterpieces of Europe, his jewel collection has never been equalled, his library of Shakespeare First Folios, Gutenberg Bibles and illuminated manuscripts is—”

  The Horseshoe Kid, obviously interested, asked, “Does he play poker?”

  “He does,” Woody said. “But when he plays the stakes are so high you wouldn’t be able to buy into the game unless you got a finance company to back you.”

  “Hmm.” Horseshoe replied. “I’ll have to give that some thought. I haven’t met the sucker yet that I couldn’t—”

  As he heard the door to the corridor open Don got up. “You folks sit tight,” he said. He went out and started to close the door behind him.

  But Woody Haines slipped through after him, piloting his hefty frame with amazing agility. “No, you don’t,” he whispered. “I’m cutting myself in on this. It looks like a story.”

  J.D. Belmont stood in the center of the room. A stony-eyed gentleman who was obviously a private detective stuck close to his side and a uniformed chauffeur stood in the doorway, blocking it. They both had their right hands in coat pockets that bulged suspiciously.

  The chauffeur was nervous. He kept looking back over his shoulders. Both of them acted as if they had itchy trigger fingers.

  Mr. Belmont seemed a bit nervous himself; his short, gruff manner was even a little grouchier than usual. He was a large, heavily built man with bushy jutting eyebrows and a vast frown. He chewed irritably at a long cigar whose gold band bore his own initials. He emitted smoke like a Chinese dragon and there were sulphurous sparks in his deep voice.

  “Mr. Diavolo?” he grunted.

  Don nodded and introduced Woody as J. Haywood Haines without mentioning that he was a newspaper columnist. J.D. Belmont had a reputation for throwing things at reporters.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” Don asked.

  “No,” Belmont said. “Can’t stay. Much too busy. I’ve got a job for you. Don’t have confidence in the police force in this town. Bunch of nincompoops. Hmmmph!” The Finance King, like a destroyer trying to hide from a submarine, exhaled another cloud of smoke.

  “But I have a job,” Don started to object. “I—”

  J.D. said, “I know. Damn good act too. Fooled me completely.” He said it as if that was the first time anything like that had ever happened. “That trick of yours where you put the girl in the box, slide steel plates through her neck and hips, and then show us her head and her legs with nothing at all between. How do you do it? Mirrors, I suppose?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, Mr. Belmont,” D
on replied. “You see I’ve never been able to figure it out myself. It isn’t mirrors though, I’m sure about that. First thing I thought of too. I looked. There aren’t any.”

  The financier almost produced a grin, but the heavy black eyebrows and his brusque, pugnacious manner killed it, half formed. “Yes. Of course. Quite right. About this job. It’ll last about an hour. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars. Be at my home at Oyster Bay at ten-thirty tomorrow night. Do you have a pen?”

  Don said, “I do a show tomorrow night at eleven o’clock. I don’t think—”

  Belmont broke in. “Look here, young man. Are you trying to hold me up? Hmmmph. I’ll make it ten thousand. Now stop arguing.” He took a checkbook from his pocket, seated himself and opened it across his knee. He held out his hand. “Pen please, young man. I’m in a hurry.”

  Before Don could reply, Woody Haines produced a pen and gave it to Belmont. He said, “Hmmmph” again instead of “Thanks” and started writing. Woody made motions at Don behind the financier’s back, and his mouth silently formed the words, “Take it, you dope.” Woody’s keen brown eyes obviously saw another big story staring him in the face and he wasn’t going to let it get away if he could help it.

  Don said, “Could you tell me what it is you want ten thousand dollars’ worth of, Mr. Belmont?”

  “Protection,” the man growled, waving the check briskly. “Here. I got that in my mail this morning. Thought it was a crackpot until I saw the headlines in the Press an hour or so ago. Showed the note to District-attorney Cleever. He nearly had apoplexy when he saw it. Tells me the note writer murdered a detective last night. Cleever says he expects an arrest any moment. Means he doesn’t know anything about it. I want you out there when it happens. I’ll expect you at ten-thirty.”

  J.D. Belmont turned and sailed out of the room, leaving the check and a haze of smoke. His chauffeur went before him and the dick, scowling heavily, followed after.

  Woody Haines snatched the note from Don’s hand, took one look at it and made for the phone. “Boy, oh boy!” he exclaimed, dialing. “When it rains it pours. Rewrite desk, darling, and shake a leg.”

  He looked back toward Diavolo who was scowling at the door that had slammed behind J.D. Belmont. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you realize that even that check wouldn’t begin to pay for the publicity you’re going to — Hello, Mike. Here’s a new front page for you! … War? Which war? Oh, stick it on the Sports page. Listen. Invisible man duels magician! J.D. Belmont, financial wizard, pays Don Diavolo, Scarlet Wizard, ten thousand smackers to outwit unseen menace. The little man who isn’t there sent J.D. a note this morning. Quote: ‘I want the Antoinette necklace. You won’t miss it. Kindly have it ready for me when I call at eleven o’clock Wednesday night. You may inform the police. Best regards. The Invisible Man.’ Unquote.

  “Don Diavolo replies as follows. Quote: ‘Dear Invisible Man: Go take a running jump in the East River. Love and Kisses. Don Diavolo.’ Unquote. Start working on that. I’ll be over with more right aw—”

  “Hey!” Don shouted suddenly coming out of his brown study. “What goes on here? Blast you, Woody. You can’t—” He started toward the big reporter, but Woody was too near the door. Woody dropped the phone and before Don Diavolo could collar him he was gone.

  “See you later,” his voice floated back. “I’m a busy man. Hmmmph!”

  Don looked at the others who had come crowding into the room when Belmont left. “Pat,” he said, “that little pet elephant of yours gets me into the damnedest messes. I don’t have the slightest idea what makes the invisible man invisible and now—”

  Pat hadn’t as yet recovered from the shock that something about that note had given her. “Don,” she said, her voice wavering. “I want to see you for a minute — alone.” She started back into the inner dressing room.

  The Horseshoe Kid said, “Larry and I are leaving, Pat. We’re going down to Lindy’s and have a drink and I’m going to call his bluff on that no-holds-barred card game. Come on, half-pint. We’ll make it blackjack.”

  Larry got his hat and cracked back. “Okay, butterfingers. It’s your funeral.”

  When they had gone, Don turned to Pat and waved graceful fingers at the photostat that she was still tightly clutching. “What do you know about that note, sweetheart?” he asked. “Better tell me,” he said, more gently.

  Her blue eyes were worried. “Don—I—I know whose thumbprint this is,” she said slowly. “At least I’m — I’m afraid I do.”

  Don took the ’stat and glanced at it swiftly. “The scar?” he guessed, his dark eyes narrowing.

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s exactly like one on Glenn’s hand. And I’m afraid…”

  “Your brother?” Don asked in surprise. “I thought he was in Hollywood.”

  She shook her blond head. “He came back a month ago, Don. The studio didn’t renew his contract. He fell in love with Myra Shaw and she threw him over for some producer. It hit him pretty hard and he started drinking. He reported on the set several times so tight he couldn’t act. That, coming on top of the flop his last picture made — it was a corny script — put him on the skids. But that’s not all.

  “He dropped every cent he had on roulette and horses. He wouldn’t ask anyone for money, but Woody found out about it somehow — he always does — and I’ve been helping Glenn out. He hates that and he’s just desperate enough to do something like this — only I don’t understand….”

  “How he makes himself invisible?”

  Pat nodded. “Yes. It’s a trick of some sort, isn’t it, Don?”

  “I don’t know. If it is, it’s a honey.” Don scowled. “And I’m going to get to the bottom of it. We could use something like that in the act. Where’s Glenn staying, Pat?”

  “Actor’s hotel on East Fortieth. The Drury Lane.”

  “Good. Chan, you put on your hat and go get him. Tell him Pat wants to see him. Don’t tell him why, but say that it’s important. And bring him back if you have to knock him out.”

  Chan grinned. “My jiu-jitsu is somewhat rusty. This may be an excellent opportunity for practice. Don’t worry, Miss Pat. I’ll bring him in A No. 1 condition.”

  Chan hurried out and Pat stood by the window looking down onto 50th Street. After a moment she said, “But there’s something wrong somewhere Don. Glenn wouldn’t have murdered that detective.”

  Don’s voice had a queer inflection in it as he answered, an incredulous note of amazement. Pat turned toward him quickly.

  “There are a lot of things wrong everywhere, Pat. I’m beginning to think I don’t much like our invisible friend, whoever he is. Look at this.”

  Pat looked where Don’s finger pointed. Woody’s hat, which its owner had been in too great a hurry to take, lay on the divan. A small white card rested on its crown. “That,” Don added, “must have been put there since Woody came into the room.”

  Without touching it, Pat leaned forward to read the pencilled words.

  Keep away from Belmont unless you want trouble.

  — THE INVISIBLE MAN

  “Not as polite as usual,” Don said, scowling at the words.

  Pat looked around nervously. A small shiver crept along her back. She couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that had been growing within her, a curious feeling that was to affect a good many people in the next few days.

  It seemed to her that if her eyes could only stare just a bit harder, she might almost manage to see the figure she had begun to fear was there in the room with them, invisibly listening — and watching every move.

  Horseshoe Kid

  CHAPTER IV

  The Queen’s Necklace

  CHAN CHANDAR MANCHU had once hunted tiger in the Indian jungles. But finding Glenn Collins in Manhattan turned out to be more of a job. There wasn’t any trail to follow. At the Drury Lane Hotel, Chan was informed that Mr. Collins had checked out three days ago and had not left a forwarding address. Chan called Don Diavolo and asked for further orders.


  “Booking agents, Chan,” Don suggested. “Producers’ offices, theatrical boarding houses and hotels. Try them. Pat says he was looking for a job. You might find someone who has his new address. I’m going on for the last show in a few minutes, then home. Report back there.”

  Chan got two dollars’ worth of nickels, tore the pages that contained the numbers of the theatrical agents and hotels from the Classified book, and disappeared into a phone booth.

  The hour being as late as it was, his percentage of completed calls was small. Three of the agents he reached gave him Glenn’s address, but they each said: “The Drury Lane.” None of the hotels had anyone registered by that name.

  Chan called Don again at the Fox Street house in the Village. Karl Hartz, Diavolo’s private mechanical wizard, answered the phone. He listened to Chan’s discouraged report, relayed it to Diavolo and then said, “Don says to try Sardi’s and Lindy’s. If you don’t strike pay dirt there, come on in.”

  The headwaiters at both restaurants knew Glenn Collins by sight; neither had seen him for the last three days. Glenn seemed to have vanished from all his usual haunts quite completely.

  Chan took the subway to Christopher Street and walked the two blocks over to 77 Fox Street, the house which was Don Diavolo’s headquarters when he was playing New York City and which the newspapers always referred to as The House of Magic. It had more gadgets, all devised and installed by Hartz, than the Fun House at Coney Island. Dan Diavolo could, to all intents and purposes, walk through its walls with the greatest of ease. It was as impregnable as a fortress, but to Don and his friends it was, even when surrounded by policemen — as it had been at least once — no more effective a prison than a bag of wet tissue paper.