The Human Zero- The Science Fiction Stories Of Erle Stanley Gardner

by Matin Greenberg

  “Probably there is something in the very life force itself which combines with this ray to eliminate life, temperature, substance. Think of what that means!”

  She sighed and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Sid, but I just can’t follow you. They’ll find Dangerfield somewhere or other. Probably there was some secret passage in that room. The fact that there were two here indicates that there must be others in that room.

  “You’ve been working on this thing until it’s got you groggy. Go home and roll in for a few hours’ sleep—please.”

  He grimly shook his head.

  “I know I’m working on a live lead.”

  She moved away from him.

  “Be good, Sid. I’ve got to telephone in a story to the rewrite, and I’ve got to write some sob-sister articles. They will be putting out extras. I think this is all that’s going to develop here.”

  Sid Rodney watched her move away.

  He shrugged his shoulders, turned his attention to the empty cage in which the white rats had been playing about.

  His jaw was thrust forward, his lips clamped in a firm, straight line.

  CHAPTER 6

  Still They Vanish

  Captain Harder lay on the hospital bed, his grizzled face drawn and gray. The skin seemed strangely milky and the eyes were tired. But the indomitable spirit of the man kept him driving forward.

  Sid Rodney sat on the foot of the bed, smoking a cigarette.

  Captain Harder had a telephone receiver strapped to his left ear. The line was connected directly with headquarters. Over it, he detailed such orders as he had to his men.

  Between-times he talked with the detective.

  The receiver rattled with metallic noises. Captain Harder ceased talking to listen to the message, grunted.

  He turned to Sid Rodney.

  “They’ve literally tom the interior out of that room where we found the empty clothes,” he said. “There isn’t the faintest sign of a passageway. There isn’t any exit, not a one. It’s solid steel, lined with asbestos, backed with concrete. Evidently a room for experiments . . . Oh, Lord, that shoulder feels cold!

  “Hello, here’s something else.”

  The telephone receiver again rattled forth a message.

  Captain Harder’s eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets.

  “What?” he yelled.

  The receiver continued to rattle forth words.

  “Well, don’t touch a thing. Take photographs. Get the fingerprint men to work on the case. Look at the watch and see if it stopped, and, if it did, find out what time it stopped.”

  He sighed, turned from the mouthpiece of the telephone to stare at Sid Rodney with eyes that held something akin to panic in them.

  “They’ve found the clothes of Arthur Soloman, the banker!”

  Sid Rodney frowned.

  “The clothes?”

  The officer sighed, nodded, weakly.

  “Yes, the clothes.”

  “Where?”

  “They were sitting at the steering wheel of Soloman’s roadster. The car had skidded into the curb. The clothes are all filled out just as though there’d been a human occupant that had slipped out of them by melting into the thin air. The shoes are laced. One of the feet, or, rather, one of the empty shoes is on the brake pedal of the machine. The sleeves of the coat are hung over the wooden rim of the steering wheel. The collar’s got a tie in it . . . Just the same as the way we found Dangerfield’s clothes.

  “One of the men found the roadster and reported. The squad that handled the Dangerfield case went out there on the jump . . .”

  He broke off as the receiver started to rattle again.

  He listened, frowned, grunted.

  “Okay, go over everything with a fine-toothed comb,” he said, and turned once more to Sid Rodney.

  “The watch,” he said, “had stopped, and didn’t start running again until the officer took it out of the pocket and gave it just a little jar in so doing. The hands pointed to exactly thirteen minutes past ten o’clock.”

  “That,” observed Rodney, “was more than two hours after Albert Crome had died, more than two hours after the disappearance of the white rats.”

  Captain Harder rolled his head from side to side on the propped-up pile of pillows.

  “Forget those white rats, Rodney. You’re just making a spectacular something that will frighten the public to death. God knows they’re going to be panicky enough as it is. I’d feel different about the thing if I thought there was anything to it.”

  Rodney nodded, got up from the bed.

  “Well, captain, when they told me you were keeping your finger on the job, I decided to run in and tell you, so you’d know as much about it as I do. But I tell you I saw those white rats vanish.”

  The captain grinned.

  “Seen ’em myself, Rodney, in a magician’s show. I’ve seen a woman vanish, seen another one sawed in two. I’ve even seen pink elephants walking along the foot of the bed—but that was in the old days.”

  Sid Rodney matched his grin, patted the captain’s foot beneath the spotless white of the hospital bedspread.

  “Take care of yourself, old-timer, and don’t let this thing keep you from getting some sleep. You’ve lost some blood and you’ll need it. Where were the banker’s clothes found?”

  “Out on Seventy-first and Boyle Streets.”

  “They leaving them there?”

  “For the time being. I’m going to have the car finger-printed from hood to gas tank. And I’m having the boys form a line and close off the street. We’re going to go all over the things with a fine-toothed comb, looking for clues.

  “If you want to run out there you’ll find Selby in charge. Tell him I said you were to have any of the news, and if you find out anything more, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

  “Sure, cap. Sure!”

  “Okay. So long.”

  And Captain Harder heaved a tremulous sigh.

  Sid Rodney walked rapidly down the corridor of the hospital, entered his car, drove at once to Seventy-first near where it intersected Boyle.

  There was a curious crowd, being kept back by uniformed officers.

  Sid showed his credentials, went through the lines, found Detective Sergeant Selby, and received all of the latest news.

  “We kept trying to locate Soloman at his home. He came in, all right, and his wife told him we were trying to get him. He went to the telephone, presumably to call police headquarters, and the telephone rang just as he was reaching for the receiver.

  “He said ‘hello,’ and then said a doubtful ‘yes.’ His wife heard that much of the conversation. Then she went into an-other room. After that she heard Soloman hang up the receiver, and walk into the hall where he reached for his hat and coat.

  “He didn’t tell her a word about where he was going. Just walked out, got in his car, and drove away. She supposed he was coming to police headquarters.”

  Sid lit a cigarette.

  “Find out who he called?”

  “Can’t seem to get a lead on it.”

  “Was he excited?”

  “His wife thought he was mad at something. He slammed the door as he went out.”

  “These the clothes he was wearing?”

  “Yes.”

  Sid Rodney nodded.

  “Looks just like another of those things. Thanks, Selby. I’ll be seeing you.”

  “Keep sober,” said the police detective.

  Sid Rodney drove to Arthur Soloman’s residence.

  Newspaper reporters, photographers, and detectives were there before him. Mrs. Soloman was staring in dazed confusion, answering questions mechanically, posing for photographers.

  She was a dried-out wisp of a woman, tired-eyed, docile with that docility which comes to one whose spirit has been completely crushed by the constant inhibitions imposed by a domineering mate.

  Sid Rodney asked routine questions and received routine answers. He went through the formu
la of investigation, but there was a gnawing uneasiness in his mind. Some message seemed to be hammering at the borderline of his consciousness, as elusive as a dream, as important as a forgotten appointment.

  Sid Rodney walked slightly to one side, tried to get away from the rattle of voices, the sputter of flash lights as various photographs were made.

  So far there were only a few who appreciated the full significance of those vacant clothes, propped up behind the steering wheel of the empty automobile.

  The telephone rang, rang with the insistent repetition of mechanical disinterest. Some one finally answered. There was a swirl of motion, a beckoning finger.

  “Rodney, it’s for you.”

  Vaguely wondering, Rodney placed the receiver to his ear. There was something he wanted to think about, something he wanted to do, and do at once. Yet it was evading his mind. The telephone call was just another interruption which would prevent sufficient concentration to get the answer he sought.

  “Hello!” he rasped, and his voice did not conceal his irritation.

  It was Ruby Orman on the line, and at the first sound of her voice Sid snapped to attention.

  He knew, suddenly, what was bothering him.

  Ruby should have been present at the Soloman house, getting sob-sister stuff on the fatherless children, the dazed widow who was trying to carry on, hoping against hope.

  “What is it, Ruby?”

  Her words rattled swiftly over the wire, sounded as a barrage of machine gun fire.

  “Listen, Sid; get this straight, because I think it’s important. I’m not over there at Soloman’s because I’m running down something that I think is a hot lead. I want you to tell me something, and it may be frightfully important. What would a powder, rubbed in the hair, have to do with the disappearance, if it was the sort of disappearance you meant?”

  Sid Rodney grunted and registered irritation.

  “What are you doing, Ruby—kidding me?”

  “No, no. Tell me. It’s a matter of life and death.”

  “I don’t know, Ruby. Why?”

  “Because I happen to know that Soloman had a little powder dusted on his hair. It was just a flick of the wrist that put it there. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It looked like a cigarette ash, but I noticed that it seemed to irritate him, and he kept scratching at his head. Did you notice?”

  “No,” snapped Sid, interested. “What makes you think it had anything to do with what happened afterward?”

  “Because I got to investigating about that powder, and wondering, and I casually mentioned the theory you had, and I felt a prickling in my scalp, and then I knew that some of that same powder had been put in my hair. I wonder if . . .

  Sid Rodney was at instant attention.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Over in my apartment. I’ve got an appointment. It’s important. You can’t come over. If it’s what I think it is, the mystery is going to be solved. You’re right. It’s absolute zero, and— My God, Sid, it’s getting cold ...”

  And there was nothing further, nothing save the faint sounds of something thump-thump-thumping—the receiver, dangling from the cord, thumping against the wall.

  Rodney didn’t stop for his hat. He left the room on the run. A newspaper reporter saw him, called to him, ran to follow. Sid didn’t stop. He vaulted into his car, and his foot was pressing the starter before he had grabbed the wheel.

  He floor-boarded the throttle, and skidded at the corner with the car lurching far over against the springs, the tires shrieking a protest.

  He drove like a crazy man, getting to the apartment where Ruby Orman spent the time when she was not sob-sistering for her newspaper. He knew he could beat the elevator up the three flights of stairs, and took them two at a time.

  The door of the apartment was closed. Sid banged his fist upon it in a peremptory knock and then rattled the knob.

  “Oh, Ruby!” he called softly.

  A canary was singing in the apartment. Aside from that, there wa£ no faintest suggestion of sound.

  Sid turned the knob, pushed his shoulder against the door. It was unlocked. He walked into the apartment. The canary perked its head upon one side, chirped a welcome, then fluttered nervously to the other side of the cage.

  Sid strode through the little sitting room to the dining room and kitchenette. The telephone was fastened to the wall here.

  But the receiver was not dangling. It had been neatly replaced on its hook. But there was a pile of garments just below the telephone which made Sid stagger against the wall for a brief second before he dared to examine them.

  He knew that skirt, that businesslike jacket, knew the sash, the shoes ... He stepped forward.

  They were Ruby’s clothes, all right, lying there in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  And at the sight Sid Rodney went berserk.

  He flung himself from room to room, ripping open closet doors. For a wild moment he fought back his desire to smash things, tear clothes, rip doors from hinges.

  Then he got a grip on himself, sank into a chair at the table, lit a cigarette with trembling hand. He must think.

  Soloman had had something put in his hair, a powder which irritated . . . Ruby had seen that powder, flicked there—a casual gesture, probably, like a cigarette ash. The powder had irritated . . . Ruby had told some one person something of Rodney’s theory. Powder had been applied to her hair . . . She had known of it . . . She had telephoned . . . She had an appointment . . . And it had become cold . . . Then the clothes at the foot of the telephone . . .

  And the chair in which Sid Rodney had been sitting was flung back upon its shivering legs as he leaped from the table —flung back by the violence of the motion with which he had gone into action.

  He gained the door in three strides, took the stairs on the run, climbed into his automobile, and drove like some mythical dust jinni scurrying forward on the crest of a March wind.

  He whizzed through street intersections, disregarded alike traffic laws and arterial stops, swung down a wide street given over to exclusive residences, and came to a stop before a large house constructed along the conventional lines of English architecture.

  He jumped from the machine, ran rapidly up the steps, held his finger against the doorbell.

  A man in livery came to the door, regarded him with grave yet passive disapproval.

  “This is the residence of P. H. Dangerfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “His secretary, Mr. Sands, is here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see him,” said Sid, and started to walk into the door.

  The servant’s impassive face changed expression by not so much as a flicker, but he moved his broad bulk in such a manner as to stand between the detective and the stairs.

  “If you’ll pardon me, sir, the library to the left is the reception room. If you will give me your name and wait there I’ll tell Mr. Sands that you are here. Then, if he wishes to see you, you will be notified.”

  There was a very perceptible emphasis upon the word “if.”

  Sid Rodney glanced over the man’s shoulder at the stairs.

  “He’s upstairs, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir, in the office, sir.”

  Sid Rodney started up.

  The servant moved with swiftness, once more blocking the way.

  “I beg your pardon, sir!”

  His eyes were hard, his voice firm.

  Sid Rodney shook his head impatiently, as a fighter shakes the perspiration out of his eyes, as a charging bull shakes aside some minor obstruction.

  “To hell with that stuff! I haven’t got time!”

  And Sid Rodney pushed the servant to one side.

  The man made a futile grab at Sid’s coat.

  “Not so fast . . .”

  Sid didn’t even look back. “Faster, then!” he said, with a cold grin.

  The arm flashed around and down. The liveried servant spun, clutched at the cloth, missed, and
went backward down the few steps to the landing.

  Rodney was halfway up the stairs by the time the servant had scrambled over to hands and knees.

  “Oh, Sands!” called Rodney.

  There was no answer.

  Rodney grunted, tried a door—a bedroom; another door— a bath; another door—the office.

  It seemed vacant. A desk, a swivel chair, a leather-covered couch, several sectional bookcases, some luxuriously comfortable chairs, a filing case or two . . . and Sid Rodney jumped back with a startled exclamation.

  A suit of clothes was spread out on the couch.

  He ran toward it.

  It was the checkered suit Sands had been wearing at the time of the interview at police headquarters. It was quite empty, was arranged after the manner of a suit spread out upon the couch in the same position a man would have assumed had he been resting.

  Rodney bent over it.

  There was no necktie around the collar of the shirt. The sleeves of the shirt were in the coat. The vest was buttoned over the shirt. The shoes were on the floor by the side of the couch, arranged as though they had been taken off by some man about to lie down.

  CHAPTER 7

  A Fiend Is Unmasked

  Sid Rodney went through the pockets with swift fingers. He found a typewritten note upon a bit of folded paper. It bore his name and he opened and read it with staring eyes.

  Sid Rodney, Ruby Orman, and Bob Sands, each one to be visited by the mysterious agency which has removed the others. This is no demand for money. This is a sentence of death.

  Sid Rodney put the paper in his own pocket, took the watch from the suit, checked the time with the time of his own watch. They were identical as far as the position of the hands was concerned.

  Sid Rodney replaced the watch, started through the rest of the pockets, found a cigarette case, an automatic lighter, a knife, fountain pen and pencil, a ring of keys, a wallet.

  He opened the wallet.

  It was crammed with bills, bills of large denomination. There were some papers as well, a letter in feminine handwriting, evidently written by an old friend, a railroad folder, a prospectus of an Oriental tour.