The Science Fiction of Erle Stanley Gardner - The Human Zero

by Matin Greenberg

  And Forbes rattled on in perpetual conversation. He touched on thousands of subjects, exhausted them in a brief rapid monologue, and pattered on to other subjects. With the cordials he branched into war-time aviation.

  “Cleverest stunt of ’em all was the Yankee chap that piloted the ‘captured’ plane back over the German lines and got commissioned to fly back as a spy. What was that fellow’s name? Always made up my mind I’d keep track of him, see what he did afterward. Nickley, Naker, no, by gad, it was Nickers! Wasn’t any relation of yours, was he, Nickers? You’re from the States.”

  Phil Nickers blew a casual smoke ring.

  “The city directories in the States are full of persons named Nickers,” he said.

  Through the drifting smoke he saw Murasingh’s face. The muscles themselves remained impassive, but the dark eyes glittered with red hatred. And Forbes was grinning, the frankly impertinent grin of one who has let a cat out of the conversational bag.

  “Have some more Benedictine,” proffered the colonel, heartily.

  Nickers shook his head. He would have given much to throttle Forbes.

  The dining room was up on a glassed-in porch. The huge windows slid back. Screens kept out insects, but let in soft, spice-scented breezes. Below the terraced lawn glowed mysterious lights. Night sounds, softened by the warm air, penetrated the room, mingled with the clink of glass and silver as well-trained servants bustled about their tasks.

  And Arthur Forbes became suddenly silent.

  Nickers was relieved when the girl flashed a signal to her uncle. The chairs scraped back. The torture of that first dinner was over.

  Nickers sought his room, pleading fatigue from travel. Billiards did not appeal to him. The thought of cards bored him. And a sudden suspicion made him want to inspect his baggage. An Indian servant had unpacked his bags before dinner. But his brief case was locked, and he had dropped it into his heavy kit bag, and locked the bag.

  Some flash of deep suspicion caused him to unlock bag and brief case. The papers had been replaced with an eye to order, but a misplaced letter told the story. The brief case had been systematically searched, the locks picked in a thoroughly workmanlike manner.

  The papers had, of course, been carefully prepared. They were the papers that a Mr. Philip Nickers, of Seattle, Washington, U.S.A., touring to collect material for a book, would be likely to carry. The secret notebook contained data and instructions, carefully concealed among a lot of meaningless notes.

  Phil Nickers looked up as a step sounded without. A gentle tap on the door announced a visitor.

  Arthur Forbes grinned at him from the threshold. Moving with the silence of a shadow, he availed himself of an invitation which had not been given, and slipped into the room.

  “Thought I talked too much at dinner, eh?”

  Nickers made no comment.

  “Had to be sure of my ground before I made the break,” went on Forbes. “You’ll be Phil Nickers, former army aviator, at present a detective, sent here to investigate the deaths of Harley Kent and his daughter, Audrey. I think Murasingh suspects it. You may have noticed his eyes contained rather a glitter once or twice. And we don’t have many chaps from the States dropping in on us in such an elaborately casual manner. They’re bound to attract attention and interest.”

  Phil Nickers measured his visitor with uncordial eyes.

  “Some one’s been interested enough to pick the locks on my baggage and make a search of my private papers.”

  If Forbes noticed the glare of hostile accusation which accompanied the words, he gave no sign.

  “They would,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s Murasingh for you, efficient, prudent. You can’t tell just how many of the servants he controls; but it’s plenty.”

  Nickers remained uncordial.

  “Just what was it caused you to associate my name with that of the aviator?”

  “Bless you, dear chap, you’re as obvious as a school boy— no, no! Don’t take offense, Nickers. But down here we get a schooling in native indirectness. As far as I’m concerned, I remembered your pictures. A man who wishes to become a detective should never become nationally known and pose for motion picture newsreels. But I’d rather kept track of you anyway. You see, aviation’s my hobby. I’ve never amounted to much as a pilot. Bad heart keeps me out of the game for one thing. But I keep track of the best of them. I heard you’d gone into business.

  “Look here, old chap, don’t get me wrong. I suspected your identity and your mission. I think Murasingh knows. This is a funny comer of the world, not at all like the States. And Harley Kent was a friend of mine. I’d have started an investigation myself if I’d had anything to go on, or been in any position to do it. Mind you, it may be all right. Kent was murdered, truly enough. How or by whom, are questions. But the girl, Audrey: well, until they find her body, I won’t be at all certain. The charred corpse that was found in the ruins of the house wasn’t Audrey. It was one of the native women. I’m virtually certain of that, despite the identification from rings and teeth. And there was a mysterious airplane heard that night. But, of course, your folks know all about that or they wouldn’t have sent an aviator out on the case.”

  Phil Nickers balanced a pencil upon the table. In the silence which followed, his eyes remained riveted upon the slim, wooden cylinder.

  “You’re doing the talking,” he said, at length. “I’m listening. You have a theory?”

  Arthur Forbes jerked a bony thumb over his shoulder.

  “To the north of here is forbidden territory,” he said.

  If Nickers knew what was meant he did not betray it. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Quite so. All along here. The inner line beyond which whites can’t go. It’s recognized by treaty. In Darrang, toward the Bhutias, Akas and Daphlas. In Lakhimper, toward the Daphlas, Mirio, Abors, Mishmis, Khamtis, Singphos and Nagas; and in Sibsager, toward the Nagas.”

  Nickers had managed to get the pencil balanced.

  “Just who is Murasingh?” he asked, shooting the question with explosive abruptness.

  Forbes lowered his voice.

  “String of native titles that’d take five minutes to tell. Aside from that, he’s a sportsman and adventurer. Educated in England. That part of the education that has to do with reading and writing stuck. As for the rest it’s a question— just as it is with any educated native. He plays polo, pilots a plane, does quite a bit of hunting, not much drinking, keeps fit, and is reputed, strictly sub rosa, to be fomenting trouble.”

  The pencil, moved by some faint puff of languid air, dropped to the table. Nickers gave his attention to rebalancing it.

  “And, while you may not have noticed it,” muttered Forbes, speaking now in a tone so low that the words could hardly be distinguished, “Jean Crayson and Audrey Kent were very much of a type. Both of them have blond hair, blue eyes, a milky skin, red lips, a full face, rounded figure.”

  Nickers let the pencil roll to the floor.

  “Yes?” he asked, looking full at Forbes.

  “Yes,” said Forbes, arising after the manner of one whose work has been done. And, without so much as a word of good night, walked abruptly from the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  A Night Flight

  The American extinguished the light, moved his chair to the window. There was much food for thought in what he had heard. In the main, it merely corroborated what he had heard before, what had previously been communicated to him as a basis upon which to work. But the similarity in the appearances of the two girls was something new to him. The thought flitted in and out of his mind, and bothered him. What had Forbes meant? What had he been trying to intimate?

  And it bothered Nickers that the elaborate precautions he had taken to conceal the real object of his visit should so easily have been ripped aside.

  He read for two hours, disrobed, and dropped into fitful slumber. The air was heavy, warm, oppressive. Nickers’s body was bathed in a slime of perspiration. Straggling thoughts lod
ged in his mind long enough to breed nightmares.

  The drone of an airplane became the buzzing of a giant bee, settling, about to attack. Nickers gave an exclamation, made a great effort to ward off the huge insect, and stirred his limbs from the lethargy of sleep to the weariness of unrested awaking.

  The sound was plainer now; an airplane was actually dropping to earth not far away. Phil Nickers ripped the covers apart and hit the bare floor. Padding to the window he saw a late moon, pale, distant stars, a steely glow of cold light in the east. And a plane, glinting silver from its moon-tipped wings, banked sharply, settled, and made a three-point landing in a field some five hundred yards distant.

  As the plane came to rest dark shadows flitted to the wings. A man climbed wearily from the cockpit, walked stiffly toward the house. The black, flitting shadows slipped a cloth hood over the motor, wheeled the plane toward a low shed. The moonlight caught the features of the man who strode toward the house.

  The man was Murasingh.

  Phil Nickers sighed and went back to bed. The air was cool, but still oppressive. The sheets were damp with perspiration. Phil folded himself into the sheets and tossed upon the pillow, his mind seething with unanswered questions.

  At length he fell into fitful and unresting slumber. A dark-skinned servant, attired in white, aroused him with a cup of steaming coffee. Forbes followed the servant, looking as fresh as a dew-touched flower.

  “Get your cold tub, and 111 have a chin-chin with you.”

  Nickers owned a great curiosity. His tub occupied but a few minutes. Dressed, shaved, with fresh linen, he felt better. A casual glance from the window told him the plane had been wheeled into the shed, the doors closed. But the field showed plainly what it was, a private landing field.

  Forbes followed his glance.

  “The colonel has it for his guests. Murasingh, for instance, is a regular visitor. He flies over whenever he takes a notion. Has several planes, that chap. Saw him this morning. He said he didn’t sleep well so he got his plane out and went for a joy ride in the late moonlight. Come on down for breakfast. We’ll probably be alone. Murasingh is making up for the sleep he lost last night. The colonel’s had a cup of coffee and gone for a ride. Miss Jean’s still in her room.”

  Phil ate a silent breakfast, aware of the ceaseless scrutiny of black eyes from behind. Aware, also, that Arthur Forbes had something on his mind.

  “Like to take a look at the field?” asked Forbes, his eyes squinting meaningly.

  Nickers nodded.

  The two men strolled into the sunlight. The glare was eye-wearying.

  Forbes glanced swiftly about him.

  “I happen to know he took off shortly after midnight,” he muttered. “Funny thing was he took off in one plane and came back in another. I was watching with the night glasses.”

  “But what’s that got to do with”—Nickers checked himself—“with the high price of tobacco?” he concluded, irritably.

  Forbes laughed.

  “Maybe nothing. Perhaps a lot. Let’s take a look at the plane.”

  The plane turned out to be a Waco 9, powered with a Curtiss OX5.

  “Funny thing about Murasingh,” genially remarked Forbes, “he uses American planes entirely. He’s got a cabin plane powered with a Wright J4. It’s got more speed than this job. Then he’s got another, a monoplane. That’s what he took off with last night. He brought this job back.”

  The plane was deserted. A dark-skinned servant squatted in the shade some fifty feet away. From time to time he turned his turbaned head in careless appraisal. But he said no word, made no move.

  Forbes leaned over the rear of the fuselage, then climbed to the wing step and peered down at the gasoline gauges. Of a sudden he cocked his head to one side, listening.

  Nickers jerked a thumb toward the back of the pilot’s seat.

  “It’s coming from in there,” he said.

  Both men listened, their ears attentive to the chattering noise which emanated faintly from some part of the plane.

  Forbes gave a swift glance at the squatted native, then pulled the back cushion away from the frame. There appeared a small door, cunningly fashioned. Nickers used his knife blade to obtain a purchase, pulled the door away from its frame.

  Instantly the chattering grew louder. Phil Nickers saw two small points of light glittering, a flash of white, a splotch of red. He drew back in surprise as there came a motion from within the compartment, and a monkey thrust his chattering countenance out into the light.

  The eyes were wide, round, moist. The lips were stretched back from glistening teeth. The red mouth showed as a frame for the clicking tongue that chattered with a shrill, metallic note.

  Phil noticed that the compartment had been fitted as a little room with a mattress, a cup of water, a little food. He saw also, a collar about the monkey’s neck, a gold collar, studded with rubies.

  And then the animal was out, sitting on the back of the pilot’s seat, his tail curled around the edge of the cowl. The chattering arose in volume until it became a shrill patter of protest.

  Phil Nickers glanced to one side. What he saw surprised him. The native watchman had become a dynamo of action. He was running swiftly toward them. In his right hand the sun caught the glint of cold steel.

  From the other side came the pound of swift steps, and Murasingh shot around the comer of the shed, saw the two men, and came to an abrupt stop.

  His face was cold with rage. His eyes were as two pools of red, uncontrolled fire. His lips drew back from white teeth that were as menacing as the fangs of a beast.

  For a moment he stood so, apparently meditating attack, then he took a deep breath, regained control of his manner and features. But his eyes still glowed with red rage.

  “Really, gentlemen, this is rather unusual.”

  The native with the knife slipped beneath the wing.

  Murasingh sharply clapped his hands, rattled out a few swift words of a tongue Phil Nickers did not understand. The man instantly became motionless, waiting. But there was a tense menace about his pose.

  Nickers squirmed. After all, his invasion of Murasingh’s property had been unwarranted. He felt suddenly ill at ease, not sure of himself.

  Forbes took charge of the situation.

  “Heard a devil of a commotion in here, old man, and thought something had gone wrong. Sorry. Pet or something? You don’t object?”

  The eyes lost their reddish glare, became as expressionless as twin chunks of polished ebony. Murasingh was once more charmingly suave, politely hostile.

  “Yes, he’s a pet. Take him for a ride with me sometimes. But I didn’t know he was in there this trip.”

  He held out his arms to the monkey.

  As though steel springs had exploded inside the animal, he went into such swift action that the eye could see only a blur of black fur. The monkey shot from the cockpit to Nickers’s shoulder, from Nickers to Forbes, and fetched up in Murasingh’s arms, his tail wrapped firmly about a forearm, his hairy arms clasped about the swarthy neck, his face flattened against the white lapel of the coat, eyes turning to survey the two white men.

  Elaborately casual, Forbes took his leave. Nickers followed, keenly aware of the eyes that burned behind, following their every motion.

  Forbes lowered his voice, making his words inaudible to any save his companion, and spoke without turning his head.

  “Easy. Don’t look back. Act as though we hadn’t seen a thing out of the ordinary. But keep walking. Keep moving”

  “Why all the fuss over a monkey?” asked Phil.

  “Easy, old chap, easy. We’ll have a chance to talk later. Just act as though you were interested in the scenery now.”

  And Phil stopped, extended a pointing forefinger as though indicating some interesting bit of scenery.

  It was not until they were safely ensconced in Phil’s room that Forbes let down the bars, showed himself as he was, keenly excited, thoughtful.

  “I’d suspected
something of the sort all along,” the Englishman said. “And, even now, I’m not sure of it. But did you see the collar on that monkey? It was solid gold, hand-carved, set with rubies of the finest pigeon blood. And Murasingh didn’t know the brute was in there. You see he’d changed planes somewhere last night.”

  “But, surely, a man has a right to a pet monkey,” expostulated Phil Nickers. “I’ve even seen ’em in the States. And here, where they’re plentiful—”

  Forbes, who had been pacing the room as a penned tiger might pace his cage, whirled upon Nickers.

  “You’ve got photographs of Audrey Kent!”

  Phil was the cautious detective again, reluctant to admit definitely the confidential mission which had taken him to this strange land.

  “Well, supposing I had, what then?”

  “Did you notice the eyes? They were more round than the average eyes. You’ll notice that Jean Cray son has the same sort of eyes.”

  “Well?”

  “Monkey eyes, old chap, monkey eyes! Not very pronounced, but different from the ordinary run of eyes. Did you notice how Jean’s eyes glisten? They’re moist, shiny, and deep. You see them once in a while, eyes like that. I tried to think what it was they reminded me of. Now I know. They’re monkey eyes.”

  Nickers lit a cigarette. “Personally, I think you’re just a bit off,” he said, coldly, suddenly regretting that he had allowed this man to discuss his confidential mission with him.

  Forbes shook his head, without rancor.

  “You just don’t know the country,” he said, good-naturedly.

  Nickers remained coldly formal as the Englishman proceeded:

  “And the collar had Sanskrit words on it! Lord, I’d have given a good deal to have had that confounded monkey hold off his jabbering for just thirty seconds. If I could have stolen that collar!”