“The magician knows too much. Louie—”
Don’s hand jerked as it began the swift move toward his gun. He wasn’t going to stand there and take the blast from the gunman’s gun without any back talk at all.
His hand never reached his gun.
The butler’s hand, blackjack raised, had started its downward motion first. A thousand fiery points of light whirled before Don’s eyes, scattered, and dropped swiftly into blackness.
The magician’s body crumpled and dropped.
The disembodied voice gave one more command. “Throw him into the safe. Lock it. And get going!”
The butler hesitated a brief moment, then lifted the limp, scarlet-costumed figure and dumped it inside the dark interior of the safe. Perry was thorough. He changed the combination, slammed the heavy, foot-thick door, threw the bolt and whirled the dial. Then he smashed the micrometer.
Had Don Diavolo been conscious and able to use the controlled breathing methods that he used in some of his underwater feats, the air within the safe would be breathable for as much as two hours. But he was unconscious and breathing at a normal rate. Under these conditions the air would last a half hour at the most.
The best safe-blower in the country couldn’t get that door open in under an hour. Even if he did, the blast would be fatal to the man inside. The only practical existing way to get into the safe now was through a knowledge of the new combination, something that was itself locked within the head of one man — Perry.
Then, in the lobby downstairs, a hitch occurred. Dumont was not successful in holding the attention of the waiting detective. St. Louis Louie had to use his heater. But the detective, as he fell, managed one shot in reply. He missed Louie. His bullet entered Perry’s head just below the right eye, tunnelled upward through the mental filing system of nervous tissue and made its exit just behind and above the left ear.
A certain series of eight numbers in a certain sequence, the combination of Nathan Ziegler’s safe was as utterly lost as if it had never been.
CHAPTER XI
Into Thin Air
COLONEL Ernest Kaselmeyer, manager of the Manhattan Music Hall, was sputtering colored fire and throwing off streams of sparks like a two dollar Fourth of July pinwheel.
“Diavolo!” he thundered. “I’ve got his name in lights clear across the front of this theater! Letters six feet high! Last night he does not give his last show. I had to return four hundred admissions! He should go on in five minutes — and none of you have the slightest idea where he is! Maybe I should go back to managing a flea circus! Magicians! Bah!”
Pat, Mickey, and Karl listened to his fulminations without paying attention to the words. They all turned expectantly each time there were footsteps in the corridor outside. Their faces all fell together each time as the steps went on past.
Karl was at the window, his eyes, behind their thick lensed glasses, fixed on the flow of traffic before the stage door in the street below. “I knew something like this would happen sooner or later,” he frowned. “That driver should have been back ages ago. I’ll wait another ten minutes, then I’m going to get Church after Belmont.”
“Belmont?” Mickey asked. “Why him?”
“Because Don had me examine that check Belmont gave him. I found his fingerprints. His right thumb matches the thumbprints on the note the Invisible Man left at Ziegler’s!”
“I’m going to phone the Inspector now,” Pat said. “He might be able to pick up a clue at the house on 106th Street. If Glenn—” Her voice broke on his name, but her chin was firm as she went toward the phone.
Chan Chandar Manchu who had just replaced the receiver after vainly trying to locate Horseshoe, Larry and Woody, said, “I’ll get him for you, Miss Pat.”
But he failed there too. Inspector Church was, at that moment, roaring up Riverside Drive in a police car whose screaming siren was loud and angry. The report of a gun battle in the lobby of the hotel at 848 West End Avenue had just come in.
Chan had not been able to reach Woody Haines because that gentleman was talking to the detective stationed outside the hotel on Riverside Drive. He had gone there to get an interview with Nathan Ziegler, seen the dick and stopped to question him. The detective was telling him that the art dealer had asked for police protection after the robbery, afraid that the Invisible Man might not be satisfied with the haul at his shop, but would attempt also to steal certain valuable art objects from Ziegler’s own private collection.
Woody was listening to this when they heard the shots from inside. As the detective drew his gun and sped toward the lobby, Woody noticed something that the dick missed. He saw a taxi come around the nearest corner on two wheels and slide to a grinding stop before the building. “A getaway car,” Woody murmured. “Maybe, just in case—” He turned quickly and signaled a cruising taxi down the street.
A moment later, St. Louis Louie, the butler and Dumont, the latter white-faced and shaken, ran out and piled into the cab.
Woody leaned forward in his seat. “Follow that cab, Mac,” he commanded. “If you lose it, I’ll have your scalp.”
“Lissen, buddy,” the driver said. “Why should I stick my neck out? Those mobsters mean business. If they see us tailin’ ’em …”
“What they’ll do won’t be half as bad as what I’ll do if you don’t,” Woody cut in. “Keep your lip buttoned, your chin up, and step on that gas!”
The driver looked back over his shoulder straight into the nose of the .32 Colt that Woody held in one big paw. He carefully noted Woody’s bulky shoulders and All-American arms.
“Okay, boss,” he said, his eyes round, “Play like I didn’t mention it.” The taxi leaped forward with a grinding clash of gears.
The two detectives were being loaded into an ambulance when Church’s car skidded to a stop before the hotel. The Inspector and Sergeant Brophy hit the pavement, running. They collected a frightened hotel desk clerk as they sailed through the lobby and an elevator shot upward, carrying them toward the Ziegler apartment.
The clerk opened the door with a master key and the two detectives rushed in. Their search at first was fruitless. The hall, living room and study were quite empty. Church, in passing, gave the big safe a suspicious glance, noticed that it seemed undisturbed and securely locked, dismissed it from his mind and went on.
It was Sergeant Brophy who found the body.
“Bathroom door’s locked,” he called. “Get that clerk in here.”
When the clerk’s key had thrown the bolt and Brophy, gun ready, had pushed back the door, they saw Nathan Ziegler’s body, stiff with rigor, lying on the cold tiles. There were three bullet holes in his chest.
“Sergeant,” Church started, “Get headquarters and—”
It was then that he heard the muffled thumping sound. He turned toward the two bedroom doors. One was locked.
The clerk’s shaking hand fumbled with his key. Church shoved him aside to unlock the door himself.
A girl lay on the bed, her feet kicking desperately against the footboard. Her ankles and wrists were tied with adhesive; a towel was pulled tight across her mouth and knotted behind her head. Her wide black eyes were filled with horror until Church drew a knife and began to cut the towel. Then they flooded with tears of relief and her taut body relaxed.
Sergeant Brophy turned to the clerk, “Get the house doctor!” The clerk left at a run and Brophy dashed for the phone in the study.
Inspector Church removed the gag from the girl’s mouth, cut the tape that held her wrists and then stiffened. He dropped his knife and ran.
Brophy’s voice had come back to him from the study, saying, “Fancy meeting you here! Put your hands up Diavolo!”
As Church galloped into the study, Brophy said, “He must have been hiding in here, Inspector. And he opened the safe while we were in the bedroom. Another minute and he’d have been gone.”
The safe door was wide and Don Diavolo was supporting himself with difficulty, leaning heavily on his hand
s on the desk. He was drawing fresh air into his lungs in great draughts.
“Handcuffs, Brophy!” Church ordered, “And watch him. If he tries to go invisible on us, shoot!”
Diavolo shook his head and gave them half a smile. He inhaled another long breath of oxygen and said, “I wasn’t trying to get into the safe, Inspector. I just got out. Look at the door.”
Church looked. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.
The plate on the inner side of the safe door that covers the locking mechanism had been removed exposing the combination wheels inside. The plate, its screws, and a knife with a broken point lay on the safe floor.
Don Diavolo rubbed the bump on the back of his head gingerly. “They knocked me out, Inspector, and locked me in. I pulled out of it just in time, broke off the point of my knife and used it as a screwdriver. Once the plate was off I could manipulate the wheels with my hands. It’s much easier to get out of a safe than into one — provided you aren’t unconscious. The air in that place nearly put me under again before I got the bolt to slide over.”
Church looked at Don and then back at the safe. He scowled undecidedly. Then he shook his head. “Clever as usual. But I’m not so sure. This could be some more of your blasted misdirection.”
“Inspector,” Diavolo said wearily. “Please! You think of the damnedest — Who is that?”
Don motioned toward the doorway where the girl stood, the cut adhesive still dangling from her wrists and ankles.
The girl, staring at Don Diavolo, said, “And he murdered my father. I saw him!”
Don gasped at her. “I—I murdered your father? When did that happen?”
“Last night,” the girl said, trembling with emotion. “Dad had just changed the combination of the safe and he was locking it. You came in with two other men. One of them grabbed me; you and the other went into the study. You were wearing those red clothes and a red mask. I—I heard you tell my father to put his hands up, and then I heard him slam the door of the safe. You swore, and then—”
The girl could go no further. She sank into a chair and covered her face with her hands, sobbing.
“Church,” Diavolo said, “Ask her what time last night.”
But the girl was hysterical now, and beyond questioning. The desk clerk hurried in with a doctor and they led Rose Ziegler to a bedroom.
Church said, “Yeah, I know. You’re ready with some phony alibi, but it won’t go down. I’ve got too much now. An eyewitness. You can’t get around that.”
Don looked at him for a moment and then said slowly, “You think that I’m the Invisible Man?”
“I know you are,” Church shot back. “And the chair up at Sing Sing is one little gadget that you won’t be able to squirm out of. Brophy—”
Don moved slightly away from the desk.
“Stay where you are!” Brophy ordered, coming toward him.
Don shook his head. “But I’m not the Invisi—”
The voice that cut him off affected both Church and Brophy like a powerful electric charge. They jerked, stood stock still, and stared at the automatic that floated slowly up in midair from behind the desk.
The cold familiar voice rang in their ears. “No, he’s not the Invisible Man, Inspector. And he did not kill—”
Church’s and Brophy’s guns spit fire together. The gun that pointed at them from midair dropped suddenly.
The Inspector and the Sergeant rounded the desk from opposite sides and pounced — on nothing. The gun lay there on the rug, but they could not feel the prone body they had hoped to find beneath their hands.
Church reached out and picked up the gun. As his fingers touched it, his jaw dropped, hung there a moment, and then instantly, he was on his feet whirling to face Don Diavolo.
But Don Diavolo had become as invisible as the phantom that had held the gun! Where Diavolo had been, Inspector Church saw exactly nothing at all!
CHAPTER XII
The Little Man Who Wasn’t There
WHEN the Inspector and Sergeant Brophy had fired and jumped toward the gun behind the desk, Don Diavolo had made a swift and silent pounce for the door. He heard them pounding down the corridor after him as the elevator started its descent and he saw the frantic signals of the red light on the control board. The colored boy who ran the car took one look at Don’s face and decided to make a non-stop trip.
Outside, Don signaled a taxi and, as he swung aboard, ordered, “The nearest phone, and step on it.”
Three blocks over in a drugstore booth, Diavolo dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed the Music Hall. “Chan,” he said, talking rapidly, “I’m in dutch with the police force again. I’m going down to Fox Street, but they’ll have the place surrounded before I can get there. Did you reach Karl? … He’s there. Good … Have him bring the VanLio costume and cut cross town in a cab. I’ll meet him at 50th and 11th Avenue … Kaselmeyer? … Tell him that if I come in for the next show, it would be the first step toward Sing Sing and he’d have to refund admissions from now on. Get Karl started.”
A half hour later two clerics descended from a cab before a red brick house at 79 Fox Street. One was a tall young man with a handsome bronzed face and black eyes that twinkled as he saw the detectives stationed on the stoop next door. His companion was an elderly little man with a great shock of white hair and thick-lensed spectacles. They were both dressed in sober black and their collars were on backward.
The short man carried a briefcase that might have contained sermons or missionary reports. Actually it held the famous scarlet evening clothes which the police, at No. 77, were watching for.
Above the doorbell at No. 79 was a small dignified inscription that read “Parish House, Rev. O.O. VanLio, D.D.”20 As the two ministers went up the steps the taller one said, “That actor next door must be in trouble again. Detectives everywhere. It’s scandalous! Tsk! Tsk! I fear our parish house is not located in the best of neighborhoods, my dear Bishop.”
The Bishop scowled. His words came from the corner of his mouth. “They’re going to rumble this gaff one of these days. The Inspector isn’t as dumb as he acts sometimes.”
“When he does,” the Reverend answered, “we’ll think up something else.”
Inside, the Reverend VanLio went at once to a tall glass panel that was set into the wall. He looked through into the living room of the house next door.21 What he saw made him grin. The Horseshoe Kid was there, faced by a Lieutenant and two detectives of the Homicide Squad who were radiating questions. The Horseshoe Kid had answers for them — he always did. But he looked just a wee bit uncomfortable just the same.
The Reverend’s finger touched an instrument shaped like a telegrapher’s key and tapped at it sharply. One of a pair of skull bookends within the Diavolo living room moved its jaw, its white teeth clicking. The detectives, startled, turned toward it, and Horseshoe, recognizing the signal, edged backward toward the paneled wall.
When the detectives looked around again the Horseshoe Kid was gone. The wall behind him had opened silently and he had come through into the house next door.
“Thanks, Don,” he said. “It was getting a bit warm in there. I came to report good news and then those gorillas—”
“Good news?” the Reverend said, his voice changing from that of the stiff-backed minister to the lighter tones of Don Diavolo. “I haven’t heard anything that answers to that description all morning. Let’s have it.”
“I got a lead,” Horseshoe said. “Met an old pal this morning, Joe the Whiz. His cannon mob works the soup-and-fish customers at the Met. He tells me there’s a Help Wanted call out on the grapevine. He got it straight from St. Louis Louie who says there’s a few jobs open for the right sort of guys. Considering its source I thought you might be interested.”
“I am,” Don replied. “How do we apply for those jobs?”
“Joe gave me the address,” Horseshoe said. “On East 26th Street. There’s a meeting there this afternoon. I thought you might want to look in so Joe said he�
�d call Louie and duke us in.”
Don Diavolo was already removing the clerical collar. “Who am I?”
“Scarface Mike, from Cicero,” Horseshoe said. Don pulled a wardrobe rack from the wall. “Hmm. Disguise No. 18, I guess. The George Raft one.”
Diavolo stopped once during his change of costume and put through a phone call to the house next door. He watched the Lieutenant through the glass as the latter answered it.
“Inspector Church speaking,” Don said, his voice gruff and filled with authority. “We just collared that magician. You can remove your men from the house. Report back to Centre Street.” Don replaced the receiver and said, “That will clear the coast.”
A short time later Scarface Mike and the Horseshoe Kid ascended the steps of a house on East 26th Street. Karl Hartz watched them from his post in a doorway across the street. Don’s friend, the butler, met them at the door. He didn’t recognize the magician under his turned-down hat, his Latin coating of tan, and his scarred face. Besides, he hardly expected to see Don Diavolo alive again. He had gotten a glowing report from Joe the Whiz of Scarface’s criminal activities and he greeted Mike with respect.
He barred the door behind them and led the way to an inner room.
“Slapsie Monahan,” Horseshoe whispered. “He’s just back from a ten-year jolt at the Ossining college.”
Slapsie ushered them into a room where half a dozen men waited. Don, looking them over, crossed his fingers, hoping that his disguise would hold up under the strain. He and Horseshoe were surrounded by a choice collection of characters all of whom had reputations as shady as the interior of a mine.
St. Louis Louie was there and the Horseshoe Kid recognized one or two others, men whose activities had given more than one desk-sergeant copy for his official blotter.
Don Diavolo looked for Julian Dumont but did not find him. Then his attention was caught and held by the curious machine in the center of the room.
Death out of Thin Air Page 17
