The train was slowing down for Keegan. A whistle
from the locomotive ahead had warned the two alert young men in the smoker to
that effect, and they arose to leave the train. Both were neatly and quietly
dressed. One carried a medium-sized camera with the necessary tripod and
accessory satchel. The other carried no impediments of any sort. Both were
smoking cigars, evidently not of expensive variety, judging by the unaromatic
atmosphere thereabouts.
“Can’t see what Bland shipped us up to this
one-horse dump for,” grumbled Skip Handlon, the one who carried the camera. He
was the slighter of the two and perhaps half a head shorter than the other. “Do
you know anything about it?”
“Not much,”
confessed the other as they alighted from the smoker. “All I can tell you is
that Bland sent for me early this morning, told me to get a story out of this
Professor Kell and to drag you along. After we get there you are to do as
judgment dictates. But I remember that the Chief was specific as regards one
thing. You are to get the proff’s mug. Don’t forget. The old fellow may growl
and show fight, but it’s up to you to deliver the goods––or, in this case, get
them. Don’t depend on me for help. I expect to have troubles of my own.” Thus
gloomed Horace Perry, star reporter for the Journal.
“This Keegan
place”––Handlon was using his eyes swiftly and comprehensively––“isn’t worth
much. Can’t see how it manages to even rate a name. Some dump, all right!”
“You said a
couple mouthfuls.”
“How’s the train
service, if any?”
“Rotten. Two
trains a day.” The other was anything but enthusiastic. “We’ve a nice long wait
for the next one, you can bet. Now, just add to that a rough reception after we
reach the old lion’s lair and you get a nice idea of what Bland expects from
his men.”
Handlon made a wry face at this. “The bird who
first applied the words ‘Hard Boiled’ to the Chief’s monniker knew something.”
“You don’t know
the half of it,” retorted Perry encouragingly. “Just wait and see what a beaut
of a fit he can throw for your benefit if you fail to do your stuff––and I
don’t mean maybe.”
Old Man Bland
owned the Journal, hired and fired his crew and did his own editing, with the
help of as capable an office gang as could be gotten together. It is quite
possible that “Hard Boiled” Bland demanded more from his men than any other
editor ever has before or since. Nevertheless he got results, and none of his
experienced underlings ever kicked, for the pay was right. If a hapless scribe
had the temerity to enter the editorial sanctum with a negative report, the
almost invariable reply had been a glare and a peremptory order, “Get the
copy.”
And get it they
did. If a person refused an interview these clever fellows generally succeeded
in getting their information from the next most reliable source, and it arrived
in print just the same.
Of such a breed
was Perry. Handlon, being a more recent acquisition to the staff, was not yet
especially aggressive in his work. On this account the former took keen zest in
scaring him into displaying a bit more sand.
The train had
disappeared around a bend and the two reporters felt themselves marooned.
Keegan, without question, was a most forlorn looking spot. A dismal shanty,
much the worse for weather, stood beside the track. In front, a few rotting
planks proclaimed that once upon a time the place had boasted a real freight
platform. Probably, back in some long-forgotten age, a station agent had also
held forth in the rickety shanty. A sign hung on each end of the crumbling
structure on which could still be deciphered the legend “KEEGAN.” On the
opposite side of the track was an old, disused siding. The only other feature
of interest thereabouts was a well traveled country road which crossed the
tracks near the shanty, wound sinuously over a rock-strewn hill and became lost
in the mazes of an upland forest.
There being no
signboard of any kind to indicate their destination, the two, after a moment’s
hesitation, started off briskly in a chance direction. The air was hot and
sultry, and in the open spaces the sun beat down mercilessly upon the two
hapless ones. As they proceeded into the depths of the forest they were
shielded somewhat from the worst of the heat. Gradually upon their city-bred
nostrils there stole the odor of conifers, accompanied by a myriad of other
forest odors. Both sniffed the air appreciatively.
“This is sure the
life,” remarked Perry. “If I weren’t so darn thirsty now...” He became lost in
mournful thought.
A considerable
time passed. The newspaper men trudged wearily along until finally another bend
brought them to the beginning of a steep descent. The forest had thinned out to
nothing.
“Seems to me I
smell smoke,” blurted out Handlon suddenly. “Must be that we are approaching
the old party’s lair. Remember? Bland said that he––”
“Uh huh!” the
other grunted, almost inaudibly. Now that they seemed to be arriving at their
destination something had occurred to him. He had fished from his pocket a
sheaf of clippings and was perusing them intently. “Bland said, ‘Get the
copy’,” he muttered irrelevantly and half to himself.
The clippings all
related directly to Professor Kell or to happenings local to Keegan. Some were
of peculiar interest. The first one was headlined thus:
MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF ROBERT MANION AND
DAUGHTER STILL UNSOLVED
The piece contained a description of the missing
man, a fairly prosperous banker who had been seen four days previously driving
through Keegan in a small roadster, and one of the girl, who was in the car
with him. It told that the banker and his daughter were last seen by a farmer
named Willetts who lived in a shack on the East Keegan road, fleeing before a
bad thunder storm. He believed the pair were trying to make the Kell mansion
ahead of the rain. Nothing more of the Manions or their car had been seen, and
their personal effects remained at their hotel in a nearby village unclaimed.
The heavy rain had of course effectually obliterated all wheel tracks.
Another clipping
was fairly lengthy, but Perry glanced only at the headlines:
KELL
STILL CARRYING ON HIS STRANGE EXPERIMENTS
Has Long Been Known to Have Fantastic
Theories. Refuses to Divulge Exact Methods Employed, or Nature of Results
Still another appeared to be an excerpt from an
article in an agricultural paper. It read:
A prize
bull belonging to Alton Shepard, a Keegan cattle breeder, has created
considerable sensation by running amuck in a most peculiar manner. While
seemingly more intelligent than heretofore, it has developed characteristics
known to be utterly alien to this type of animal.
Perhaps the most noteworthy feature of the
case is the refusal of the animal to eat its accustomed food. Instead it now
consumes enormous quantities of meat. The terrific bellow of the animal’s voice
has also undergone a marked change, now resembling nothing earthly, although
some have remarked that it could be likened to the bay of an enormous hound.
Some of its later actions have seemingly added further canine attributes, which
make the matter all the more mystifying. Veterinaries are asking why this
animal should chase automobiles, and why it should carry bones in its mouth and
try to bury them!
The last one read in part:
Professor
Kell has been questioned by authorities at Keegan relative to the disappearance
there last Tuesday of Robert Manion and his daughter. Kell seemed unable to
furnish clues of any value, but officials are not entirely satisfied with the
man’s attitude toward the questions.
Somewhat bewildered by these apparently unrelated
items, the reporter remained lost in thought for quite a space, the while he
endeavored to map out his course of action when he should meet the redoubtable
Professor. That many of the weird occurrences could be traced in some way to
the latter’s door had evidently occurred to Bland. Furthermore, the Old Man
relied implicitly upon Perry to get results.
It must be said
that for once the star reporter was not overly enthusiastic with the
assignment. Certain rumors aside from the clippings in his hand had produced in
his mind a feeling of uneasiness. So far as his personal preference was
concerned he would have been well satisfied if some cub reporter had been given
the job. Try as he would, however, he could offer no tangible reason for the
sudden wariness.
He was aroused
from his absorption by his companion.
“Thought I
smelled smoke a while back, and I was right. That’s the house up in the edge of
the pines. Deep grounds in front and all gone to seed; fits the description
exactly. Thank Heaven we struck off from the station in the right direction.
This stroll has been long enough. Come out of it and let’s get this job
finished.”
Suiting the
action to the words Handlon started off at a brisk pace down the hill, followed
at a more moderate rate by Perry. At length they came within full sight of the
grounds. Extending for a considerable distance before them and enclosing a
large tract of land now well covered with lush grass, was a formidable looking
wall. In former days a glorious mantle of ivy had covered the rough stones; but
now there was little left, and what there was looked pitifully decrepit. They
continued their progress along this barrier, finally coming upon a huge iron
gate now much the worse for rust. It stood wide open.
The road up to
the house had long since become overgrown with rank grass and weeds. Faintly
traceable through the mass of green could be seen a rough footpath which the
two followed carefully. They met no one. As they approached the night of black
pines the mass of the old mansion began to loom up before them, grim and
forbidding.
Instinctively
both shivered. The silence of the place was complete and of an uncannily
tangible quality. Nervously they looked about them.
“How do you like
it, Skip?” The words from Perry’s previously silent lips broke upon the
stillness like a thunderclap. The other started.
“I should hate to
die in it,” Handlon answered solemnly. “I’ll bet the old joint is haunted.
Nobody but a lunatic would ever live in it.”
“I get a good
deal the same impression myself,” said Perry. “I don’t wonder that Bland sent
two of us to cover the job.”
As he spoke he
mounted a flight of steps to a tumbledown veranda. There was no sign of a door bell
on the weather-beaten portal, but an ancient knocker of bronze hanging
forlornly before him seemed to suggest a means of attracting attention. He
raised it and rapped smartly.
No answer.
Possessing all
the attributes of the conventional reporter and a few additional ones, Perry
did not allow himself to become disheartened, but merely repeated his summons,
this time with more vim.
“Well, Horace,”
grinned Handlon, “it does look as if we were not so very welcome here. However,
seems to me if you were to pick up that piece of dead limb and do some real
knocking with it... The dear Professor may be deaf, you know, or maybe he’s––”
“Skip, my boy, I
don’t know as we ought to go in right now after all. Do you realize it will
soon be dark?”
“To tell you the
truth, Horace, I’m not stuck on this assignment either. And I feel that after
dark I should like it even less, somehow. But, gee, the Old Man...”
“Oh, I’m not
thinking of quitting on the job. We don’t do that on the Journal.” Perry smiled
paternally at the photographer. Could it be he had purposely raised the other’s
hopes in order to chaff him some more? “But I was thinking that it might be a
good idea to look about the outbuildings a bit while we have a little daylight.
Eh?”
Handlon looked
disappointed, but nodded gamely. He delayed only long enough to deposit his
camera and traps behind a grossly overgrown hydrangea by the steps, then, with
a resigned air, declared himself ready to follow wherever the other might lead.
Perry elected to
explore the barn first. This was a depressing old pile, unpainted in years,
with what had once been stout doors now swinging and bumping in the light
breeze. As the two men drew nearer, this breeze––which seemed to sigh through
the place at will––brought foul odors that told them the place was at least not
tenantless. In some trepidation they stepped inside and stood blinking in the
half darkness.
“Pretty Polly!”
“Good God! What
was that?” Handlon whispered. He knew it was no parrot’s voice. This was a far
deeper sound than that, a sound louder than anything a parrot’s throat could
produce. It came from the direction of a ruinous stall over near a cobwebbed
window. As Perry started fearfully toward this, there issued from it a curious
scraping sound, followed by a fall that shook the floor, and a threshing as of
hoofs. Now the great voice could be heard again, this time uttering what
sounded strangely like oaths roared out in a foreign tongue. Yet when the
newspaper men reached the stall they found it occupied only by a large mule.
The animal was
lying on its side, its feet scraping feebly against the side of the stall. The
heaving, foam-flecked body was a mass of hideous bruises, some of which were
bleeding profusely. The creature seemed to be in the last stage of exhaustion,
lying with lips drawn back and eyes closed. Beneath it and scattered all over
the stall floor was a thick layer of some whitish seeds.
“That’s––why
that’s sunflower seed, Horace!” Handlon almost whimpered. “And look! Look in
that crib! It’s full of the same stuff! Where’s the hay, Horace? Does this
thing––”
He was
interrupted by a mighty movement of the beast––a threshing that nearly blinded
the men in the cloud of bloodstained seeds it raised. With something between a
curse and a sob, the mule lunged at its crib as if attempting to get bodily
into it. But no: it was only trying to perch on its edge! Now it had succeeded.
The ungainly beast hung there a second, two, three. From its uplifted throat
issued that usually innocuous phrase, a phrase now a thing of delirious horror:
“Pretty Polly!”
With a crash the
tortured creature fell to the floor, to lie there gasping and moaning.
Skip Handlon left
that barn. Perry retained just enough wit to do what he should have done the
instant he first saw the animal. He whipped out his automatic and fired one
merciful shot. Then he too started for the outside. He arrived in the yard
perhaps ten seconds behind Handlon.
“Good Heavens,
Perry,” gibbered Handlon. “I’m not going to stay around this place another
minute. Just let me find where I left that suffering camera, that’s all I ask.”
“Easy now.” Perry
laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder. “I guess we’re up against something
pretty fierce here, but we’re going to see it through, and you know it. So
let’s cut out the flight talk and go raise the Professor.”
Handlon tried
earnestly to don a look of determination. If Perry was set on staying here the
least he could do was stay with him. However, could Perry have foreseen the
events which were to entangle them, he probably would have led the race to the
gate. As it was, he grasped a stick and marched bravely up toward the front
door.
A sudden
commotion behind him caused him to wheel sharply around. Simultaneously a yell
burst from Handlon.
“Look out,
Horace!”
What he saw
almost froze the blood in his veins. From a tumbledown coach house had issued
an enormous wolf-hound which was now almost upon then, eyes flaming, fangs
gleaming horribly.
So unexpected was
the attack that both men stood rooted in their tracks. The next moment the
charging brute was upon them, and had bowled Handlon off his equilibrium as if
he were a child. The unfortunate photographer made a desperate attempt to
prevent injury to his precious camera, which he had but a moment earlier
succeeded in retrieving, and in doing so fell rather violently to the ground.
Every moment he expected to feel the powerful jaws crunch his throat, and he
made no effort to rise. For several seconds he remained thus, until he could
endure the suspense no longer. He glanced around only to see Perry, staring
open-mouthed at the animal which had so frightened them. Apparently it had
forgotten the presence of the two men.
Handlon regained
his feet rather awkwardly, the while keeping a watchful eye on the beast, of
whose uncertain temper he was by now fully aware. In an undertone he addressed
his companion.
“What do you make
of it?” he wanted to know. “Did the critter bite you?”
“No. That’s the
queer part of it. Neither did he bite you, if you were to think it over a
minute. Just put his nose down and rammed you, head on.”
The photographer
was flabbergasted. Involuntarily his gaze stole again in the direction of the
offending brute.
“What on earth––”
he began. “Is he sharpening his teeth on a rock preparatory to another attack
upon us? Or––What the deuce is he doing?”
“If you ask me,”
came astonishingly from the watchful Perry, “he’s eating grass, which is my
idea of something damn foolish for a perfectly normal hound, genus lupo, to
be––Look out!”
The animal, as if
suddenly remembering the presence of the men, suddenly charged at them again,
head down, eyes blazing. As before, it made no effort to bite. Though both men
were somewhat disconcerted by the great brute they held their ground, and when
it presented the opportunity the older reporter planted a terrific kick to the
flank which sent the animal whimpering back to its shed behind.
“Score one,”
breathed Handlon. “If we––” At a sudden grating sound overhead, he stopped.
Both turned to
face the threatening muzzle of an ancient blunderbuss. Behind it was an irate
countenance, nearly covered by an unclipped beard of a dirty gray color. In the
eyes now glaring at them malevolently through heavily concaved spectacles they
read hate unutterable. The barrel of the blunderbuss swung slightly as it
covered alternately one and the other. Both sensed that the finger even now
tightening on the trigger would not hesitate unduly. Being more or less
hardened to rebuffs of all kinds in the pursuance of their calling, the
reporters did not hesitate in stating their purpose.
“What?” yelled
the old man. “You dare to invade my grounds and disturb me at my labors for
such a reason? Reporters! My scientific research work is not for publicity, sirs;
and futhermore I want it understood that I am not to be dragged from my
laboratory again for the purpose of entertaining you or any others of your ilk.
Get away!”
Without further
ado the window was slammed down, a shutter closed on the inside, and once more
the silence of the dead descended upon the spot. The two men grinned ruefully
at each other, Handlon finally breaking the stillness.
“My idea of the
world’s original one-sided conversation. We simply didn’t talk––and yet we’re
supposed to be reporters. You’ve got to hand it to the Proff, Horace, for the
beautiful rock-crusher he just handed us.”
“You didn’t think
we had anything easy, did you?” said Perry irritably. “He’ll change his tune
presently, when––”
Handlon’s jaw
dropped. “You don’t mean you’re going to take any more chances! Would you rouse
him again after the way he treated us with that gun? Besides, the train...”
Perry bent a
scathing glance at his companion. “What on earth has the train to do with our
getting the Professor’s confession of crime or whatever he has to offer? You
evidently don’t know Bland––much. I deduce that a lot of my sweetness has been
wasted on the desert air. Once more, let me assure you that if you propose to
go back without the Proff’s mug on one of those plates you might as well mail
your resignation from here. Get me?”
The other wilted.
“I wonder,” Perry
ruminated as he stared in the direction of the shed wherein the canine
monstrosity had disappeared. “Do you suppose that you can get a snap of the old
boy’s mug if I can get him to the window again? If you can do that, just leave
the rest to me. I’ve handled these crusty birds before. What say?”
“Go as far as you
like.” The photographer was once more grinning as he unslung his camera and
carefully adjusted a plate in place. Everything at last to his satisfaction he
gripped flash pan and bulb.
“I’m going to
make some racket now,” announced Perry grimly. “If Kell shows up, work fast. He
may shoot at you, but don’t get excited. It’s almost dark, so his aim might be
poor.”
At this
suggestion his companion showed signs of panic, but the other affected not to
notice this. There came a deafening hullaballoo as Perry beat a terrific tattoo
on the ancient door. Followed a deep silence, while Perry leaped back to stand
in front of Skip and his camera. After perhaps a full minute’s wait he once
more opened up his bombardment, to jump quickly back to the camera as before.
This time he had better success. The window was again opened and the muzzle of
the blunderbuss put in its appearance. Handlon stood close behind Perry as he
silently swung the camera into a more favorable position for action. The face
at the window was purple with wrath.
“You damned
pests! Leave my grounds at once or I shall call my hound and set him upon you.
And when––”
Crack! Flash!
Click! Perry had made a sudden sidewise movement as Handlon went into action.
“Much obliged,
Professor,” said Perry politely. “Your pose with that old cannon is going to be
very effective from the front page. The write-up will doubtless be interesting
too. Probably the story won’t be quite so accurate as it would be had you told
it to us yourself; but we shall get as many of the details from the natives
hereabouts as we can. Good-day to you, sir!”
Motioning to the
other he turned on his heel and started down the driveway. It was an old trick,
and for a long moment of suspense he almost feared that it would fail. Another
moment––
“Wait!” The
quavering voice of the irascible old villain had lost some of its malice. “Come
back here a minute.”
With simulated
reluctance the two slowly retraced their steps. “Is there something else, sir?”
“Perhaps...” The
old man hesitated, as if pondering upon his words. “Perhaps if you care to step
in I can be of assistance to you after all. It occurs to me that possibly I
have been too abrupt with you.”
“I am very glad
that you have decided to cooperate with us, Professor Kell,” answered the
reporter heartily, as they ascended the steps. The old man’s head disappeared
from the window and shortly the sound of footsteps inside told of his approach.
Finally the oaken door swung open, and they were silently ushered into the
musty smelling hallway. Though outwardly accepting the Professor’s suddenly
pacific attitude, Perry made up his mind to be on his guard.
As they entered what had evidently been the parlor
in bygone days, an oppressive, heavy odor smote their nostrils, telling of
age-old carpets and of draperies allowed to decay unnoticed. On the walls hung
several antique prints, a poorly executed crayon portrait of a person doubtless
an ancestor of the present Kell, and one or two paintings done in oil, now
badly cracked and stained. Everything gave the impression of an era long since
departed, and the two men felt vaguely out of place. Their host led them to a
pair of dilapidated chairs, which they accepted gratefully. The ride to Keegan
after a hard day’s work had not tended to improve their spirits.
“Now to
business.” Perry went straight to the point, desiring to get the interview over
as soon as possible. “We have heard indirectly of various happenings in this
vicinity which many think have some connection with your scientific
experiments. Any statement you may care to make to us in regard to these
happenings will be greatly appreciated by my paper. Inasmuch as what little has
already been printed is probably of an erroneous nature, we believe it will be
in your own best interest to give us as complete data as possible.” Here he
became slightly histrionic. “Of course we do not allow ourselves to take the
stories told by the local inhabitants too literally, as such persons are too
liable to exaggerate, but we must assume that some of these stories have
partial basis in fact. Any information relative to your scientific work,
incidentally, will make good copy for us also.”
Perry gazed
steadily at the patriarch as he spoke. For a moment, a crafty expression passed
over the old man’s face, but as suddenly it disappeared. Evidently he had
arrived at a decision.
“Come with me,”
he wheezed.
The two newspaper
men exchanged swift glances, the same thought in the mind of each. Were they
about to be led into a trap? If the old man’s shady reputation was at all
deserved they would do well to be wary. Perry thought swiftly of the clippings
he had read and of what gossip he had heard, then glanced once more in the
direction of Handlon. That worthy was smiling meaningly and had already arisen
to follow the Professor. Reluctantly Perry got to his feet and the three
proceeded to climb a rickety stairway to the third floor. The guide turned at
the head of the stairs and entered a long dark corridor. Here the floor was
covered with a thick carpet which, as they trod upon it, gave forth not the
slightest sound.
The hall gave
upon several rooms, all dark and gloomy and giving the same dismal impression
of long disuse. How could the savant endure such a depressing abode! The
accumulation of dust and cobwebs in these long forgotten chambers, the general
evidence of decay––all told of possible horrors ahead. They became wary.
But they were not
wary enough!
The uncouth
figure ahead of them had stopped and was fumbling with the lock of an ancient
door. Instinctively Perry noted that it was of great thickness and of heavy
oak. Now the Professor had it open and was motioning for them to enter. Handlon
started forward eagerly, but hurriedly drew back as he felt the grip of the
other reporter’s hand on his arm.
“Get back, you
fool!” The words were hissed into the ear of the incautious one. Then, to the
Professor, Perry observed: “If you have no objection we would prefer that you
precede us.”
A look of insane
fury leaped to the face of the old man, lingered but an instant and was gone.
Though the expression was but momentary, both men had seen, and seeing had
realized their danger.
They followed him
into the chamber, which was soon illumined fitfully by a smoky kerosene lamp.
Both took a rapid survey of the place. Conceivably it might have been the scene
of scientific experiments, but its aspect surely belied such a supposition. The
average imagination would instantly pronounce it the abode of a maniac, or the
lair of an alchemist. Again, that it might be the laboratory of an extremely
slovenly veterinary was suggested by the several filthy cages to be seen
resting against the wall. All of these were unoccupied except one in a dark
corner, from which issued a sound of contented purring, evidently telling of
some well-satisfied cat.
The air was close
and foul, being heavy with the odor of musty, decaying drugs. In every possible
niche and cranny the omnipresent dust had settled in a uniform sheen of gray
which showed but few signs of recent disturbance.
“Here,
gentlemen,” their host was saying, “is where I carry on my work. It is rather
gloomy here after dark, but then I do not spend much time here during the
night. I have decided to acquaint you with some of the details of one or two of
my experiments. Doubtless you will find them interesting.”
While speaking he
had, mechanically it seemed, reached for a glass humidor in which were perhaps
a dozen cigars. Silently he selected one and extended the rest to the two
visitors.
After all three
had puffed for a moment at the weeds, the old man began to talk, rapidly it
seemed to them. Perry from time to time took notes, as the old man proceeded,
an expression of utter amazement gradually overspreading his face. Handlon
pulled away contentedly at his cigar, and on his features there grew an almost
ludicrous expression of well-being. Was the simple photographer so completely
at ease that he had at length forsaken all thought of possible danger?
As Professor Kell
talked on he seemed to warm to his subject. At the end of five minutes he began
uncovering a peculiar apparatus which had rested beneath the massive old table
before which they were sitting. The two men caught the flash of light on glass,
and a jumble of coiled wires became visible.
Was the air in
the laboratory getting unbearably close? Or was the queer leaden feeling that
had taken possession of Perry’s lungs but an indication of his overpowering
weariness? He felt a steadily increasing irritation, as if for some strange
reason he suddenly resented the words of their host, which seemed to be pouring
out in an endless stream. The cigar had, paradoxically, an oddly soothing
quality, and he puffed away in silence.
Why had the room
suddenly taken on so hazy an aspect? Why did Handlon grin in that idiotic
manner? And the Professor ... he was getting farther and farther away ... that
perfecto ... or was it an El Cabbajo? What was the old archfiend doing to him
anyhow?... Why was he laughing and leering at them so horribly?... Confound it
all ... that cigar ... where was it?... Just one more puff...
Blindly he groped
for the missing weed, becoming aware of a cackle of amusement nearby. Professor
Kell was standing near the spot where he had fallen and now began prodding him
contemptuously with his toe.
“Fools!” he was
saying. “You thought to interfere with my program. But you are in my power and
you have no hope of escape. I am unexpectedly provided with more subjects for
my experiments. You will...” His words became hazy and unintelligible, for the
hapless reporter was drifting off into a numb oblivion. He had long since lost
the power to move a muscle. Out of the corner of an eye, just before he lost
consciousness altogether, he perceived Handlon lying upon the floor still
puffing at the fateful drugged cigar.
Eons passed.
To the reporter
came a vision of a throbbing, glaring inferno, wherein he was shaken and tossed
by terrific forces. His very vital essence seemed to respond to a mighty vibration.
Now he was but a part of some terrific chaos. Dimly he became aware of another
being with whom he must contend. Now he was in a death struggle, and to his
horror he found himself being slowly but surely overpowered. A demoniac grin
played upon the features of the other as he forced the reporter to his knees.
It was Handlon... Once more he was sinking into soft oblivion, the while a
horrid miasma assailed his nostrils. He was nothing...
Slowly, and with
infinite effort, Perry felt himself returning to consciousness, though he had
no clear conception of his surroundings. His brain was as yet but a whirling
vortex of confused sounds, colors and––yes, odors. A temporary rift came in the
mental cloud which fettered his faculties, and things began to take definite
shape. He became aware that he was lying upon his back at some elevation from
the floor. Again the cloudy incubus closed in and he knew no more.
When he finally
recovered the use of his faculties it was to discover himself the possessor of
a violent headache. The pain came in such fearsome throbs that it was well nigh
unendurable. The lamp still sputtered dimly where the professor had left it. At
the moment it was on the point of going out altogether. The reporter noticed
this, and over him stole a sense of panic. What if the light should fail
altogether, leaving him lying in the dark in this frightful place! Still dizzy
and sick, he managed to rise upon his elbows enough to complete a survey of the
room. He was still in the laboratory of Professor Kell, but that worthy had
disappeared. Of Handlon there was no sign. The mysterious apparatus, of which
he now had but a vague remembrance, also had vanished.
His thoughts
became confused again, and wearily he passed a hand over his brow in the effort
to collect all of his faculties. The lamp began to sputter, arousing him to
action. Desperately he fought against the benumbing sensation that was even
again stealing over him. Gradually he gained the ascendancy. He struggled
dizzily to his feet and took a few tentative steps.
Where was
Handlon? He decided his friend had probably recovered from the drug first and
was gone, possibly to get a doctor for him, Perry. However, he must make some
search to determine if Skip had really left the premises.
As he walked
through the open door the lamp in his hand gave a last despairing flicker and
went out. From there he was forced to grope his way down the dark hall to the
stairs. Just how he reached the lower floor he was never able to remember, for
as yet all the effect of the powerful drug had not worn off. He had a dim
recollection of being thankful to the ancestor of Kell who had provided such
thick carpets in these halls. Thanks to them his footsteps had been noiseless,
at any rate.
What was Kell’s
real object in giving them those drugged cigars? he wondered. How long had they
been under the influence of the lethal stuff? Surely several hours. Upon
glancing through a hall window he found that outside was the blackness of
midnight.
Cautiously he
explored the desolate chambers on the ground floor: the kitchen––where it could
be plainly seen that cooking of a sort had been done––the barn, and woodshed.
Not a living thing could he find, not even the huge wolf-hound which had
attacked them in so strange a manner that afternoon.
By now he was
quite frankly worried on Handlon’s account. At that moment, could he have known
the actual fate that had overtaken his companion, it is quite probable he would
have gone mad. He stumbled back and into the dark front hall, shouting his
friend’s name. The response was a hollow echo, and once or twice he thought he
heard the ghost of a mocking chuckle.
At length he gave
up the search and started for the door, intent now only upon flight from the
accursed place. He would report the whole thing to the office and let Bland do
what he pleased about it. Doubtless Handlon had already left. Then he stumbled
over Handlon’s camera. Evidently the Professor had neglected to take possession
of it. That must be rescued, at all costs. He picked it up and felt the exposed
plate still inside. He started again for the door.
What little light there was faded out and he felt
stealing over him a horrid sensation of weakness. Again came a period of agony
during which he felt the grip of unseen forces. Once more it seemed that he was
engaged in mortal strife with Skip Handlon. Malevolently Handlon glared at him
as he endeavored with all his strength to overcome Perry. This time, however,
the latter seemed to have more strength and resisted the attack for what must
have been hours. Finally the other drew away baffled.
At this the mental incubus surrounding Perry’s
faculties broke. Dimly he became aware of a grinding noise nearby and a
constant lurching of his body. At length his vision cleared sufficiently to
enable him to discover the cause of the peculiar sensations.
He was in a railroad coach!
He took a rapid glance around and noted a drummer
sitting in the seat across the aisle, staring curiously at him. With an effort
Perry assumed an inscrutable expression and determined to stare the other out
of countenance. Reluctantly the man glanced away, and after a moment, under
Perry’s stony gaze, he suddenly arose and chose a new seat in front of the car.
Perry took to the solace of a cigarette and stared out at the flying telegraph
poles. From time to time he noted familiar landmarks. The train had evidently
left Keegan far behind and was already nearly into the home town.
For the balance of the ride the reporter
experienced pure nightmare. The peculiar sensations of dizziness, accompanied
by frightful periods of insensibility, kept recurring, now, however, not
lasting more than ten or fifteen minutes at a time. At such times as he was
conscious he found opportunity to wonder in an abstracted sort of way how he
had ever managed to get on the train and pay his fare, which must have been a
cash one, without arousing the conductor’s suspicions. Discovery of a rebate in
his pocket proved that he must have done so, however. The business of leaving
the train and getting to the office has always been an unknown chapter in
Perry’s life.
He came out of one of his mental fogs to find
himself seated in the private editorial sanctum of the Journal. Evidently he
had just arrived. Bland, a thick-set man with the jaw of a bulldog, was eyeing
him intently.
“Well! Any report to make?” The question was
crisp.
The reporter passed a hand across his perspiring
forehead. “Yes, I guess so. I––er––that is––you see––”
“Where’s Handlon? What happened to you? You act as
if you were drunk.” Bland was not in an amiable mood.
“Search me,” Perry managed to respond. “If Skip
isn’t here old man Kell must have done for him. I came back alone.”
“You wha-a-t?” the irate editor fairly roared,
half rising from his chair. “Tell me exactly what happened and get ready to go
back there on the next train. Or––no, on second thoughts you’d better go to
bed. You look all used up. Handlon may be dead or dying at this minute. That
Kell could do anything.” He pressed the button on his desk.
“Johnny,” he said to the office boy, “get O’Hara
in here on the double quick and tell him to bring along his hat and coat.”
He turned again to Perry, who was gazing nervously
at the door. “Now tell me everything that happened and make it fast,” he
ordered.
The reporter complied, omitting nothing except the
little matter of his mental lapses at the house of Professor Kell and later on
the train. The incident of the drugged cigars seemed to interest the Old Man
hugely, and Perry did not forget to play up Handlon’s exploits in getting the
picture of the Professor. All through the recital he was in a sweat for fear
that he might have a recurrence of one of his brain spells and that Bland would
become cognizant of it. When would the Chief finish and let him escape from the
office? Desperately he fought to prevent the numbing sensation from overcoming
him. All that kept him from finally fleeing the place in panic was the entrance
of Jimmie O’Hara.
Slight, wiry and efficient looking, this
individual was a specimen of the perfect Journal reporter. This is saying a
good deal, for the news crew and editorial force of the paper were a carefully
selected body of men indeed. Bland never hired a man unless experience had
endowed him with some unusual qualification. Most of them could write up a
story with realistic exactitude, being able in most cases to supply details
gleaned from actual experience in one walk of life or another.
Of this redoubtable crew probably the queerest was
Jimmie O’Hara. Jimmie had just finished a sentence in the “pen” for
safe-cracking at the time he landed the job with the Journal. Theoretically all
men should have shunned him on account of his jailbird taint. Not so Bland. The
Chief was independent in his ideas on the eternal fitness of things and allowed
none of the ordinary conventions of humanity to influence his decisions. So
Jimmie became one of the staff and worked hard to justify Bland in hiring him.
His former profession gave him valuable sidelights upon crime stories of all
kinds, and he was almost invariably picked as the man to write these up for the
columns.
“Jimmie,” said the Chief, “we have need of an
experienced strong-arm man and all around second story worker. You are the only
man on the force who fills the bill for this job. Perry here has just returned
from Keegan, where I sent him to interview Professor Kell. Skip Handlon went
with him, but failed to return. We want to know what happened to Skip. That is
your job. Get Handlon! If he is dead let me know by long distance phone and
I’ll have a couple of headquarters men down there in a hurry. Get a good fast
car and don’t waste any time. That’s all.”
O’Hara stopped long enough to get the location of
Professor Kell’s place fixed in his mind, then abruptly departed. Bland gazed
after him musingly.
“The Professor will have some job to put anything
over on that bird,” he said grimly. “Personally, I’m sorry for the old soul.”
After leaving the Journal office Jimmie proceeded
directly to a certain stable where he kept his private car. It was a long, low
speedster with a powerful engine, and capable of eating up distance. It was the
work of a minute to touch the starter and back out of the yard.
For the next hour he held the wheel grimly while
the car roared over the seventy-odd miles to Keegan. Would he be in time? At
last a sign post told him that he was within five miles of the railroad
crossing at Keegan. Now the headlights were picking out the black outlines of
the freight shed, and the next moment he had swept over the tracks. The
luminous dial on his wrist watch notified him that he had been on the road but
little over an hour, but his spirits somehow refused to revive with the
knowledge.
About a mile beyond the station he drove the car
into a dark wood road and parked it, turning off all lights. The rest of the
way to the Professor’s mansion he did on foot. Rather than approach from the
front of the grounds he nimbly climbed a stone wall and, crossing a field or
two, entered the stretch of woods which extended just behind the mansion. His
pocket flashlight here came into use, and once or twice he gave a reassuring
pat to a rear pocket where bulged a heavy Colt automatic.
What was that? He had approached very close to the
rear of the house now. No lights were visible as yet, but unless he was greatly
mistaken he had heard a muffled scream. He stopped in his tracks and listened
intently. Again it came, this time with a blood-curdling cadence ending in what
he would have sworn was a choking sob.
The little job of getting the old-fashioned rear
window open was a mere nothing to the experienced O’Hara, and in a moment he
was inside the house. His feet struck soft carpet. Catlike, he stepped to one
side in order to prevent any hidden eyes from perceiving his form silhouetted
in the dim light of the open window. He dared not use his flashlight for fear
that the circle of light would betray his position, thus making him an
excellent target for possible bullets. Following the wall closely he managed to
circle the room without mishap. His searching fingers finally came in contact
with a door frame, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Here there was nothing to
bar his progress except some moth-eaten portieres. These he brushed aside.
The room which he now entered was probably the
same into which the Professor had ushered Handlon and Perry the day before.
There being still no sign of life about, the reporter decided to throw caution
to the winds. He brought his flash into play. Quickly casting the powerful beam
around the chamber he examined the place with an all-searching glance.
Nothing.
With a stifled oath he turned his attention to the
other rooms in the immediate vicinity. The brilliant light revealed not the
slightest trace of a person, living or dead. The sound must have come from the
second story or from the cellar. He decided on the upper floor.
Feverish with impatience because of the valuable
time he had already lost, he bounded up the heavily carpeted stairs two at a
time. Now to his keen ears came certain faint sounds which told him that he was
on the right track. Before him extended a long, dusty hall, terminating in a
single heavy door. Several other doors opened at intervals along the corridor.
One or two of these were open, and he threw the beam from his flash hastily
into one after another of them. He saw only dusty and mildewed chamber
furnishings of an ancient massive style.
Suddenly he pricked up his ears.
The door ahead of him was creaking slowly open.
Instantly he extinguished his torch and leaped into the nearest room. Whoever
was opening that end door was carrying a lamp. What if the Professor had
accomplices who might discover him and overpower him by force of numbers!
O’Hara drew the automatic from his pocket, deriving a comforting assurance from
the feel of the cold steel. Here was something no man could resist could he but
get it into action. The light was now nearly abreast of his door, and for a
sickening instant he thought the prowler was coming into the room. He held his
breath. Now the lamp was at the open door, and now it was quickly withdrawn.
After a breathless second he tip-toed forward and peered cautiously down the
hallway.
About here it was that James O’Hara began to
realize that this was going to be a horrible night indeed. He had wondered why
the progress of the light had been so deathly slow. Now he knew why, by reason
of what he saw––and what he saw made him feel rather sick. The man with the
lantern was quite plainly Professor Kell, bent nearly double with the weight of
a grotesquely big thing on his back, a thing that flung a dim, contorted shadow
on the ceiling. And that thing was a dead man.
A corpse it was––the attitude proved that. With a
numb relief O’Hara realized it was not the body of Skip Handlon. This had been
a much larger man than Skip, and the clothing was different from anything
Handlon had worn.
The light was now disappearing down the stairway.
For a moment O’Hara felt undecided as to his next move. Should he follow Kell
and his burden, or should he not take advantage of this fine opportunity to
continue his search of the upper story? That scream still rang in his ears;
there had been a very evident feminine quality in it, and the remembrance of
that fact reproached him. Had he been guilty of mincing daintily about in this
old house while a woman was being done to death under his nose, when a little
bolder action on his part might have saved her?
Stepping once more into the hall he advanced to the
door just closed behind the Professor and tried it, only to find it locked. Out
of a pocket came several articles best known to the “profession”––a piece of
stiff wire, a skeleton key and other paraphernalia calculated to reduce the
obstinate mechanism to submission. For a minute, two, three, he worked at the
ancient lock; then, without a creak, the door swung open. A touch of oil to the
hinges had insured their silence. Jimmie O’Hara believed in being artistic in
his work, especially when it came to fine points, and he was.
He found himself in the same room where the
drugged cigars had been proved the undoing of Handlon and Perry. In order not
to alarm the Professor unduly by chance noises and perhaps invite a surprise
attack upon himself, O’Hara closed the laboratory door behind him and let the
lock spring again. Hastily he made search of the place. No trace of the missing
reporter could he find, except two half-consumed cigars in a corner whence the
Professor had impatiently kicked them.
On the big table in the center of the room,
however, was an object which excited his interest. It was apparently nothing
more or less than a giant Crookes tube, connected in some way with a
complicated mechanism contained in a wooden cabinet under the table. Probably
this apparatus was concerned in the Professor’s weird experiments which had so
aroused the countryside. He studied it curiously, his eyes for the moment
closed in thought, until a slight sound somewhere near at hand caused him to
open them wide. Was the Kell returning?
Quickly he extinguished the lamp and glided to a
nearby door, thinking to secrete himself here, and take Kell by surprise. To
his consternation the door swung inward at a touch. He prepared instinctively
for battle against any foe who might present himself. For a moment he held
himself taut; then, nothing of an alarming nature having happened, he drew a
swift breath of relief and flashed on his light. He gave vent to a low
exclamation. The swiftly darting shaft from the torch had revealed the figure
of a girl, bound and gagged.
The girl lay trembling on a wretched bed in a
corner of the dilapidated old chamber. O’Hara crossed the room and bent over
her. Still wary of a trap he glanced back in the direction of the laboratory
door: all safe there. Jimmie made haste to remove the cruel gag from her mouth.
“Courage,” he whispered. “Half a minute and you
will be free.”
He produced a knife with a suspiciously long blade
and cut her bonds. He then assisted her to her feet, where she reeled dizzily.
Realizing the need for fast action he made her sit down while he massaged the
bruised arms and ankles, which were badly swollen from the tight ropes. The
girl had apparently been in the grip of such terrible fright that she had
temporarily lost her power of speech. Mentally he chalked up another score
against the Professor as the girl made several ineffectual attempts to speak.
“Easy, kid,” Jimmie whispered. “Just sit tight,
and when you feel able you can tell me all about it. I’m going to get him good
for this, you can bank on that.”
She thanked him with a faint smile, and of a
sudden she found her voice.
“Who are you? Where is father? Oh, tell me,
please! I am afraid that horrible man has murdered him. Are you a servant here?
Oh, I don’t know whom to trust.”
“My name is Jimmie O’Hara,” replied the reporter
briefly; “and I hope you won’t worry about me. I am gunning for the Proff
myself. Tell me as quickly as you can what you know about him.” He still kept
an eye on the door of the adjoining laboratory. Any moment he expected to hear
the sound of the old man’s approach. The room would make an ideal place to
ambush the maniac, he had swiftly decided.
“I am Norma Manion. Please don’t delay, but see if
you can locate father.” The girl’s voice was agonized. “I heard him groan a
half-hour ago, and a little later came a terrific crash. Oh, I’m afraid he’s
dead!”
Reluctantly Jimmie gave up the idea of ambushing
the Professor.
“Wait here,” he commanded curtly. “If you hear a
shot join me as soon as you can. I want to take him alive if I can, but...”
With this parting hint he disappeared through the door into the laboratory.
Down the carpeted hall he crept to the stairway. Here he stopped and listened,
but to his sensitive ears came no sound from below.
“Must have gone down the cellar with the body,” he
muttered. “Here goes for a general exploration.”
With more boldness than the occasion perhaps
really justified he descended the stairs and proceeded to examine the ground
floor rooms minutely. The first was the room through which he had made entrance
to the house. It proved to be but a storeroom containing nothing of interest,
and he soon decided to waste no more time on it.
The adjoining chamber, however, yielded some
surprising finds. He had pushed back a dusty portiere to find himself in what
could be nothing less than the Professor’s sleeping chamber. At present the bed
was unoccupied, though it showed signs of recent use. The electric torch played
swiftly over every possible corner which could constitute a hiding place for an
assassin, revealing nothing. Now the ever-searching ray fell upon an
old-fashioned dresser, on which was piled a miscellaneous array of articles. Here
were combs, brushes, a wig, a huge magnifying glass, and a gold watch. With a
barely suppressed exclamation, Jimmie pounced upon the gold timepiece.
Handlon’s! So well did he know the particular
design of his watch that he could have recognized it in the dark by sense of
touch alone. So the old man was not averse to robbery among his other
activities! The former two-story man thought fast. Handlon had probably been
done in, and the body had been disposed of in some weird manner. The only thing
that remained to be done, since the unlucky photographer was evidently past
human help, was to cut short the Professor’s list of murders.
With the intention of missing no essential detail
O’Hara swept the ray of the searchlight around the chamber once more, but
discovered no more of importance. Deciding that the sleeping chamber could
yield no further clue he shut off the tell-tale ray and stepped noiselessly
back into the next room. Here he groped his way around until he encountered a
door, which stood open. A moment’s cautious exploration with an outstretched
foot revealed the top step of a descending staircase. No faintest glimmer of
light was visible, but muffled sounds proceeding from the depths told him that
someone was below.
With infinite care, feeling his way gingerly over
the rickety old steps and fearful that an unexpected creak from one of the
ancient boards would at any moment prove his undoing, he commenced the descent.
Once a board did groan softly, causing him to stop in his tracks and stand with
bated breath. He listened for sign of a movement below, while his heart loudly
told off a dozen strokes. Stealthily he continued his progress, until finally
soft earth under his feet told him he had reached the cellar bottom.
Now his straining eyes perceived a tiny bit of
light, and simultaneously he became conscious of a deathly stench. The damp
earth padding his footsteps, he advanced swiftly toward the source of light,
which now seemed to lie in stripes across his line of vision. He soon saw that
the stairs gave upon a small boarded-off section of the cellar proper, and
light was seeping between the boards. Ah, and here was a rickety door,
fortuitously equipped with a large knot-hole. O’Hara applied an eye to
this––and what he saw nearly ruined even his cast iron nerve.
The Professor was working beside a heavy wooden
cask, from which issued the horrible stench. From time to time a sodden thud
told that he was hacking something to pieces with an ax. Now and then he would
strain mightily at a dark and bulky thing which lay on the floor, a thing that
required considerable strength to lift. It seemed to be getting lighter after
each spasm of frenzied chopping. For a second Kell’s shadow wavered away from
the thing, and the enervated newspaper man saw it plainly. His senses almost
left him as he realized that he was witnessing the dismemberment of a human
body.
As he hacked the fragments of tissue from the
torso the fiend carefully deposited each in the huge cask. At such times a
faint boiling sound was heard, and there arose an effluvium that bade fair to
overcome even the monster engaged in the foul work. At last the limbs and head
had been entirely removed. The Professor evidently decided that the trunk
should be left whole, and he put his entire strength into the job of getting it
into the cask. It was almost more than he could negotiate, but finally a dull
splash told that he had succeeded.
At this moment Jimmie O’Hara came out of his
trance. The horrible proceeding had left him faint and shaken, and he wished
heartily that he could leave the disgusting place as fast as his legs could
carry him. But there was still work to be done and he resolved to get it over.
The lantern! First he must put that out of
commission. The maniac would then be at his mercy. Slowly, steadily he stole
through the doorway, his eyes glued to the Professor’s back. Now he was within
a yard of the lantern, and he drew back his foot for the kick.
Next moment Jimmie found himself gazing into the
glaring eyes of his intended victim. Instinctively he struck out with the
clubbed automatic, but the blow must have fallen short, or else the Professor
had developed an uncanny agility. Now to his horror he saw the flashing blade
of the bloodstained ax raised on high. He had no time to dodge the blow. He
pressed the trigger of the Colt from the position in which he held it.
The bullet grazed the upraised arm. The ax fell
toward O’Hara from fingers lacking strength to retain it, and he grasped it by
the handle in midair. The next moment the assassin collected his wits and
sprang at him. Silently, the breath of both coming in gasps, the two men
strove, each clawing desperately at the other’s throat. The reporter fought
with the knowledge that should he lose he would never again see the light of
day, the other with the fear of the justice that would deal with him.
The maniac hugged his arms tightly about Jimmie,
pinioning him so tightly that the reporter could not use his gun. At length
their convulsive movements brought the men close to the lantern, and the next
instant the cellar was plunged in darkness. A second later the Professor
tripped over some hidden obstruction and fell, dragging his opponent with him
to the earthen floor. To Jimmie’s surprise there was no further movement from
the body beneath him. Could the old villain be playing possum? He cautiously
shifted his hold and grasped the hidden throat. He pressed the Professor’s
windpipe for a moment, but there was no answering struggle. Slowly the truth
dawned upon him. The heavy fall to the floor had rendered the older man
insensible.
He must work fast. Reaching into his pocket he
brought out the ever handy electric torch and flashed it over the features of
his prisoner. Kell was breathing heavily. With dexterous hands O’Hara swiftly
went through the old man’s pockets, removing all which might tend to make that
worthy dangerous––an ugly looking pistol of large caliber, a blackjack similar
to his own and a small bottle.
The latter item Jimmie examined curiously, finally
uncorking it and inhaling the contents. He inhaled, not wisely but too well.
The fumes from the vial were nigh overpowering, and he reeled back nauseated.
The cork he hastily replaced. Just what the nature of the powerful stuff was he
never attempted to discover. One acquaintance was enough.
He staggered to his feet and got the lantern
lighted, then sat, gun in hand, waiting for his prisoner’s return to his
senses. This was becoming increasingly imminent, judging by certain changes in
the Professor’s respiration. Finally there came a series of shuddering
movements as the man attempted to raise his battered body.
“Get up, you damned butcher,” ordered Jimmie, “and
march upstairs. And just remember that I’ve got you covered; don’t make any
false moves.” He prodded the prostrate form of the by now glaring fiend before
him. The stench of the place was nearly overcoming him, and again he felt an
overwhelming desire to dash madly from that den of evil, and once more breathe
God’s fresh air. Under the stimulus of several shoves the Professor finally won
to his feet and stumbled up the stairs. Jimmie was taking no chances and kept
the automatic sharply digging into the ribs of his prisoner. The fight,
however, seemed temporarily to have been all taken out of the old man, and he
made no resistance as the reporter drove him on up to the laboratory.
The room he found exactly as he left it. At a word
from him Norma Manion came from her hiding place in the horrible room where she
had been kept prisoner.
With an hysterical scream she fell limply to the
floor. The sight of her father’s murderer had proved too much for her.
Forgetting his prisoner for the moment Jimmie sprang to the girl’s side.
Kell chose this moment to make a dash for freedom.
His footsteps, however, were not as noiseless as he had intended, and O’Hara
whirled just in time to see his quarry about to throw open the hall door.
Jimmie dove for his gun, only to encounter the Professor’s mysterious vial,
which, though forgotten, still lay in his pocket. With no time to think, he
acted purely upon instinct. His arm drew back and the bottle flew straight for
the Professor’s head.
By a miracle the missile missed its mark. Came a
shivering crash, as the bottle struck a stud in the massive door. Of a sudden
recalling the terrific potency of the contents of that particular bottle,
Jimmie gasped in dismay. Norma Manion’s safety drove every other thought from
his mind. At any cost he must remove her from the proximity of those lethal
fumes.
Hastily and without a backward glance, he gathered
the girl into his arms and dashed into the room where he had first found her.
Ascertaining that she had but swooned he placed her gently on the bed. In some
perplexity as to his next move he stared at the beautiful face now so wan and
white. Queer that he hadn’t noticed the fact before––she was beautiful. He even
took a second look, then noting a continued absence of all sound from the
laboratory decided to investigate.
Gingerly he pushed open the door, sniffing the air
cautiously as he advanced. To his nostrils gradually came a slight scent, which
though almost imperceptible made his senses reel. As he approached the hall
door he found the atmosphere heavy with the soporific vapors from the broken
vial, and he staggered drunkenly.
He gave a start of surprise. On the floor, lying
in a grotesque huddle which suggested a most unpleasant possibility, was the
inert body of Professor Kell.
Jimmie bent over the body and put an experienced
ear to the heart. Yes, there as a faint beat––very faint. Even as he listened
he perceived a slight increase in the respiration. Now the breath began coming
in great, choking gasps, only to die suddenly to next to nothing. At last with
a rueful sigh Jimmie reached to his hip and produced the private O’Hara flagon.
He stooped over the Professor’s form once more and by dint of much prying at
clenched jaws managed to force a sizeable charge of fiery liquid down the old
man’s throat. Jimmie had just begun to entertain a strong hope that this latter
effort would bring the Professor to life, when his keen ear detected signs of a
commotion below.
He sprang from his position over the slowly
reviving Kell and leaped to a vantage point beside the door. A blackjack
miraculously appeared from some hidden part of his anatomy and the
ever-dependable Colt also became in evidence. Now came the banging of a door,
muffled voices, a crash as of a chair overturned in the dark. Up rolled a
horrible oath, and the same was rendered in a voice to Jimmie sweetly familiar.
Came the sound of footsteps on the stairway and several persons coming along
the hall.
“Where in hell is Jimmie?” roared a wicked voice.
“If he’s met with any monkey business in this hell-hole I’ll see that the
damned place burns to the ground before I leave it!”
Delightedly Jimmie jerked open the door.
“Still alive, Chief,” he chirped as the Old Man
strode into the laboratory. Bland was followed by Perry, who seemed to be in a
sort of daze. Bringing up the rear were a pair of plainclothesmen whom Jimmie
knew very well––almost too well. One of these gentlemen bore a lantern which
reminded Jimmie strongly of some he had seen that night guarding an open ditch
in the public highway.
The Professor had fully regained consciousness and
was struggling to his feet. As for Norma Manion, she had suddenly appeared,
leaning weakly against the door casing, and was surveying the group in great
alarm.
After being assured by O’Hara that they were her
friends she smiled wanly. To Bland and the others she was, of course, an
unexpected factor in the weird night’s doings, and for several moments they
regarded her curiously.
At length Jimmie, sensing the question in the Old
Man’s eyes, elected to offer a few words of explanation.
“Miss Manion has just been through a terrible
experience,” he said. “She and her father have been for some time at the mercy
of this monster”––indicating Kell––“and her nerves are completely shattered.
We’d better get her out of this as quickly as we can.”
“Mike!” Hard Boiled Bland glared at one of the
officers. “Don’t stand there with your teeth in your gums like that. Take this
girl out to my car and let her lie down. She needs a stimulant, too. If you
search my car and find any red liquor in the left back door pocket, I don’t
know a thing about it. And stay with her so she won’t be afraid to go to
sleep.”
She smiled in silent gratitude and allowed the
plainclothesman to lead her away from that chamber of horror.
The reporter lost no time in telling Bland of his
failure to find Skip Handlon. He went on to acquaint his Chief with the facts
of all that had occured while he had been at the Professor’s house.
The fiery old fellow listened grimly. When Jimmie
came to the story of the corpse and the cask the editor breathed one word,
“Manion!”
Jimmie nodded sadly. All eyes turned to the
dejected huddle on the floor that was Professor Kell. Finally Bland could wait
no longer, but fixed a terrible eye on the murderer and demanded harshly,
“Where’s Handlon?”
Now the Professor burst into a fit of insane
laughter, laughter that curdled the blood of the listeners.
“You ask me that! It’s almost too good. Hee-hee!
You sent your two precious reporters out to my house to pry into my secrets,
and thought to display my name all over your yellow sheet; but you forgot that
you were dealing with Professor Anton Kell, didn’t you?” The last he fairly
shrieked. “A lot of people have tried to intrude upon me before, but none ever
escaped me!”
“We know that,” cut in Jimmie, for he was getting
impatient and the old man’s boastings seemed out of place. “You are slated for
the rope anyway, after what I discovered down cellar.” He jerked his eyes in
the direction of the door significantly. “Now we propose to find Handlon, and
the better it will be for you if you tell us what you have done with him.
Otherwise...”
“You can go to hell!” screamed the maniac. “If you
are so clever, find out for yourselves. He isn’t so far away that you couldn’t
touch him by reaching out your hand. In fact, he’s been with you quite a while.
Hee-hee-hee! Well, if you must know––there he is!” With an insane chuckle he
pointed at Horace Perry. And Perry did a strange thing.
“Yes, you fiend, here I am!” Whose voice was that?
Was it Perry speaking, or was it Skip Handlon? Most assuredly Perry stood
before them, but the voice, in a subtle manner, reminded the group strongly of
poor old Skip.
As he spoke Perry had launched himself at the
Professor’s throat and had to be restrained by the others. Savagely he fought
them but slowly and surely they overcame his struggles and placed him,
writhing, in a chair.
Of a sudden Bland leaned forward and scrutinized
Perry’s face sharply. Had the reporter gone insane too? The pupils of the eyes
had taken on a sort of queer contraction, a fixed quality that was almost
ludicrous. He looked like a man under hypnosis. He had gone limp in their
grasp, but now suddenly he stiffened. The eyes underwent another startling
change, this time glowing undoubtedly with the look of reason. Bland was
mystified and waited for Perry to explain his queer conduct. The latter seemed
finally to come to. Simultaneously he realized that his peculiar lapse from consciousness
had been observed by the others.
“Guess I may as well admit it,” he said with a wry
smile. “Ever since I came back from my assignment with Kell I have had a hell
of a time. Half the time I have been in a daze and have not had the least idea
what I was doing. Funny part of it is that I have seemed to keep right on doing
things even while I was out of my head.” He told briefly of the visions he had
had in which he had seemed to contend with his brother reporter, the horrid
sensations as he felt himself overcome, the black oblivion in which he then
found himself, and the mysterious manner in which he had left Keegan on that
ill-fated assignment.
“What have you done to Handlon?” Jimmie’s voice
cut in. He was standing over the form of the maniac, rigid and menacing. “You
have exactly two minutes to go.”
“Find out for yourself!” snarled the bruised and
battered fiend.
“I will,” was the answer, and on the instant a
horrible shriek rent the air. Jimmie had quickly grasped both of the
Professor’s arms at the wrists and was slowly twisting them in a grip of iron.
Kell’s face went white, the lips writhed back over toothless gums, the eyes
closed in the supreme effort to withstand the excruciating pain. Then––
“Enough, enough!” he screamed.
O’Hara eased the pressure slightly but retained
his hold upon the clawlike hands. “Talk fast,” he ordered.
The old man struggled futilely in the grasp of the
powerful reporter, finally glancing in the direction of the others. Would they
show signs of pity? Surely not Hard Boiled Bland. The Chief was watching the
struggles of the victim through a cloud of tobacco smoke which he was slowly
exhaling through his nose. The plainclothesman displayed no sign of interest at
all. The game was up!
“Very well,” he said sullenly. “Handlon and Perry
are both occupying the same body.”
“Wh-a-a-t?” roared Bland. “Jimmie, I guess you’ll
have to put the screws to him some more. He’s trying to make fools of us at the
last minute!”
“No, no!” screamed the Professor. “What I say is
true. I have been working for years on my system of de-astralization. This last
year I at length perfected my electric de-astralizer, which amplifies and
exerts the fifth influence of de-cohesion.”
The whole party began to look uneasy and gazed
apprehensively at the huge Crookes tube which still stood in its supporting
frame on the table.
“I have been forced to experiment on animals for
the most part,” the Professor continued. “I succeeded in de-astralizing a dog
and a bull and caused them to exchange bodies. The bodies continued to
function. I was enthusiastic. Other experiments took place of which I will not
tell you. Finally I began to long for a human subject on which to try my fifth influence.”
“Just get down to cases, if you don’t mind, Kell.”
The Chief wanted action. “Suppose you tell us just what you did to Handlon and
where we can find him. I may as well mention that your life depends upon it. If
we find that you have done for him, something worse than death may happen to
you.” The tone was menacing. Although Handlon was a comparatively late
acquisition to the old Chief’s staff, still he had been loyal to the paper.
“When your two damned reporters entered my
driveway,” Kell resumed. “I saw them coming through a powerful glass which I
always have on hand. I had no desire to see them, but they forced themselves
upon me. At last I determined that they should furnish material for my
experiments.
“If your men had looked into the grove behind the
barn they would have found the automobile which furnished two more subjects I
was keeping on hand in a room upstairs. Old Manion and his daughter gave me
quite a bit of trouble, but I kept them drugged most of the time. He broke out
of the room to-night though, and I had to kill him. It was self defense,” he
added slyly.
“Anyway, I found it was possible to make two
astrals exchange bodies. But I also wanted to see if it were possible to cause
two astrals to occupy the same body at the same time, and if so what the result
would be. I found out. It was rare sport to watch your star reporter leave my
house. He was damned glad to leave, I believe...” Again came the insane cackle.
“Guess we have to believe him whether we want to
or not.” The detective came to life. “How about making him release
Handlon’s––what d’ye call it?––astral––from Perry’s body?”
“Just a moment.” The voice now was unmistakably
Handlon’s, though it was issuing from the throat of Perry. “In the minute I
have in consciousness let me suggest that before you do any more de-astralizing
you locate my body. Until then, if I am released from this one I am a dead
man.”
The words struck the group dumb. Where was Handlon’s
body? Could the Professor produce it?
That worthy looked rather haunted at that moment,
and they began to see the fear of death coming upon him.
“Mercy, mercy!” he begged as the four men started
to advance upon him. “As soon as I had de-astralized Handlon I destroyed his
body in my pickling barrel down cellar. But there is another way...” He paused,
uncertain as to how his next words would be received. “Go out and get the
Manion girl. She can be de-astralized and friend Handlon can have her body.”
At this suggestion, advanced so naïvely, the four
men recoiled in horror. It was entirely too much even for Hard Boiled Bland,
and he could hardly restrain himself from applying the editorial fist to the
leering face before him. Undoubtedly Professor Kell was hopelessly insane, and
for that reason he held himself in leash.
“Kell, you are slated to pull off one more stunt,”
Jimmie addressed the cringing heap. “You know what it is. Get busy. And just
remember that I am standing over here”––he indicated a corner well separated
from the rest––“with this cannon aimed in your direction. If things aren’t just
according to Hoyle, you get plugged. Get me?”
“What about it, men?” Bland spoke up. “Is it going
to be treating Handlon right to de-astralize him now? It will be his last
chance to have a body on this earth.”
“Unfortunately that body never belonged to
Handlon,” said O’Hara. “Hence I fail to see why Perry should be discommoded for
the balance of his life with a companion astral. Perry is clearly entitled to
his own body, free and unhampered. Friend Skip is out of luck, unless––Well, I
don’t mind telling you, Kell, that you just gave me an idea. Snap into it now!”
The Professor dragged himself to his feet and
under the menace of the automatic fumbled under the table until he had located
the intricate apparatus before mentioned.
“Now if Mr. Perry––or Handlon––will kindly recline
at full length on this table,” he said with an obscene leer, “the experiment
will begin.”
“Just remember, Kell, this is no experiment,”
advised Bland, fixing the Professor with an ugly eye. “You do as you’re told.”
The other made no reply, but threw a hidden
switch. Perry, lying flat on his back on the ancient table, suddenly found
himself being bathed by what seemed to be a ray of light, and yet was not a ray
of light. What was it? It was surely not visible, yet it was tangible. A
terrific force was emanating from that devilish globe above him, drawing him
out of himself––or––no––was he expanding? Again his ears became filled with
confused, horrible sounds, the outlines of the room faded from sight, he felt a
strange sense of inflation ... of lightness... Oblivion!
From where the others sat a gasp of wonder went
up. At the first contact of the switch there had been a momentary flash of
greenish light within the bulb, and then a swift transition to a beautiful
orange. It had then faded altogether, leaving the glass apparently inert and
inactive.
But it was not so! The form lying beneath the bulb
was evidently being racked with untold tortures. The face became a thing of
horror. Now it had twisted into a grotesque semblance of Handlon’s––now it
again resembled Perry’s. The Professor quietly increased the pressure of the
current. From the bulb emanated a steel gray exhalation of what must be termed
light, and yet so real it was seemingly material. Assuredly it was not a ray of
light as we understand light. It came in great beating throbs, in which the
actual vibrations were entirely visible. Under each impact the body of Perry
seemed to change, slowly at first, then with increasing speed. The body was now
swelled to enormous size. Bland reached forward to touch it.
“This de-cohering influence,” the Professor was
murmuring, almost raptly, “causes the atoms that go to make a living body repel
one another. When the body is sufficiently nebulized, the soul––Back! Back, you
fool!” he suddenly shrieked, grasping Bland by the arm. “Do you want to kill
him?”
Bland hurriedly retreated, convinced perforce that
Kell’s alarm was genuine. The editorial fingers had penetrated the subject’s
garments without resistance and sank into the body as easily as if it were so
much soft soap!
The body continued to expand until at length even
the hard-headed plainclothesman realized that it had been reduced to a mere
vapor. Within this horrid vaporized body, which nearly filled the room and
which had now lost all semblance to a man, could be discerned two faint shapes.
Swiftly the Professor extinguished the lantern. The shapes, vague though they
were, could be recognized as those of Horace Perry and Skip Handlon. And they
were at strife!
All eyes were now focused on Professor Kell, who
was evidently waiting for something to happen. The two apparitions within the
body-cloud were at death grips. One had been overcome and was temporarily
helpless. It was that of Handlon. And then again the astral of Perry forcibly
ousted that of Handlon from the cloud-cyst. And at that instant Professor Kell
shut off the influence-tube.
At once a terrific metamorphosis took place. There
came a sharp sound almost like a clap of thunder, with the slight exception
that this was occasioned by exactly the reverse effect. Instead of being an
explosion it might more properly be termed an inplosion, for the mist-cloud
suddenly vanished. The de-cohering influence having been removed, the cloud had
condensed into the form of Perry. Apparently none the worse, he was even now
beginning to recover consciousness. The astral of Handlon was no longer visible,
though hovering in the vicinity.
Perry’s body was again his own.
At this time Jimmie O’Hara elected to start
something new by hitting the Professor a workmanlike blow on the back of the
head with the butt of his automatic. The next thing Bland or anyone else
present knew the unconscious body of the Professor was on the table and Jimmie
was groping for the concealed switch. At length he found it, and the green
flash of light appeared in the bulb, followed by the brilliant orange
manifestation.
“What in hell are you doing?” gasped Bland.
“De-astralizing the Professor,” replied O’Hara
cheerfully. “Don’t you get the idea yet? Watch!”
Fascinated, the four men saw the terrific
emanation take its baleful effect. As before, the body commenced to expand and
gradually took on a misty outline. Larger and larger it grew, until finally it
had become a vast cloud of intangible nothingness which filled the room like
some evil nebula.
A cry of consternation from the detective aroused
Jimmie. Skip Handlon’s astral had appeared within the field of the nebula to
fight for possession. There ensued what was perhaps the weirdest encounter ever
witnessed. Though he was in poor physical shape, the Professor seemed to have
an extremely powerful astral; and for some time the spectators despaired of
Handlon’s victory. Once the latter, evidently realizing that the powerful
influence tube had rendered him visible, glanced sharply in Jimmie’s direction.
O’Hara was considerably puzzled at this, but watched the progress of the
struggle tensely. At length the moment seemed to arrive which the reporter’s
astral had been awaiting. It turned tail and fled away from the astral of the
Professor, disappearing beyond the outer confines of the nebula.
Jimmie suddenly divined the other’s purpose and
dived for the hidden switch. As he had anticipated, Handlon had finally given
up the attempt to overcome the astral of Kell by force and had made up his mind
to accomplish his end by strategy. Almost on the instant that Jimmie’s hand
closed on the switch the reporter’s astral again leaped into the field of the
nebula. Fiercely it signalled to the former second story man to shut off the
current, but the admonition was unnecessary, for Jimmie had already done so.
Swiftly the cloud-cyst faded. Even as the group
caught a fleeting sight of Skip Handlon, the last that mortal eyes would ever
see of him as he actually was, there came a violent disturbance at the edge of
the shrinking nebula. Would the speed of condensation of the atoms which
comprised the body of Professor Kell serve to shut out the pursuing astral of
Kell?
Even Bland held his breath!
The cloud lost its luminous quality, the action of
condensation increasing in speed. It was barely visible in the enshrouding
gloom. An astral had long since been enveloped within the rapidly accumulating
substance. Came a sudden clap of sound as before, and the final act of
resolution had been accomplished. Whether the Professor had succeeded in
regaining a position within the cloud-cyst before the crucial second none could
say.
Jimmie relighted the lantern. Apparently the
effect of the love tap administered by his automatic was more or less of a
lasting character, and the men were put to some ado to restore the body of Kell
to consciousness. At length their efforts began to bear fruit, however, and it
became expedient to remove the patient to the softer couch in the sitting room
below. As they moved forward to lay hold of the limp body a figure appeared in
the doorway to the hall. It was the plainclothesman, Riley.
“How about getting under way for town,” he wanted
to know. “Is the old party croaked yet? Miss Manion has had a fierce time and
says she won’t stay near this house another minute. I don’t like this place
myself either. Do you know I just got kicked by a poll parrot? Let’s get away
from here.”
“Hold on, Riley, what are you talking about?”
growled Bland. “Kicked by a poll parrot! You’re––”
“That’s all right, Chief,” broke in the now
thoroughly cheerful Perry. “That jackass I shot could probably have told us all
about it. I positively know the beast could talk.”
“Humph!” snorted Bland, “Well, if a donkey can
talk, and a bull can bite, and a hound can hook, why shouldn’t a parrot––Judas
Priest, I’m getting as crazy as the rest of you! Hurry up and get Kell
downstairs so we can see who he is. There I go again! Oh, go lie down, Riley.”
“But look, Bland, look!” Riley was pointing a
demoralized finger at a cage in the corner. He tugged frantically at Bland’s
coat sleeve. “See what’s in there, won’t you? I––well, I did find some liquor
in your car, and Miss Manion made me take some. I––I didn’t know it would do
this to me. Look in there; please, Mr. Bland!”
Bland gave Riley a dark look, but nevertheless he
reached for O’Hara’s flashlight. In the cage two yellow eyes blinked sleepily
out at him. Perry began to laugh.
“Why, there’s nothing in there but a cat. Skip and
I heard it purring when we first came in here this afternoon. Guess Riley––”
“Great God, Jimmie, give me your gun!” Hard Boiled
Bland for the moment failed to merit his sobriquet. The torch in his hand threw
a trembling beam full into the cage. “It’s a snake! And––there! It’s doing it
again!”
A snake it was, indubitably, a huge black specimen
with bright yellow stripes. Bland’s frenzied yell seemed not to have excited it
at all, for now the sleek fellow had arched its body neatly and was calmly
licking its sides with a long forked tongue. After a moment it halted the
operation long enough to rub its jaw against a bar of its cage, and gave vent
to a sociable mew!
Even this could not dash the spirits of Horace
Perry. He laughed delightedly again as he laid Bland by the arm.
“That creature is perfectly harmless, Chief,” he
told the editor. “Somewhere I suppose there’s a mighty dangerous kitty cat at
large, but there’s no sense in taking it out on this poor reptile. Let’s live
and let live.”
With a show of reluctance Bland returned Jimmie’s
automatic, then strode over to where lay the form of Kell. Perry and O’Hara
lingered by the cage long enough to arrange a plan to let the snake out doors
as soon as opportunity offered, after which they joined their Chief. Riley went
out to resume his vigil in Bland’s car, while his fellow sleuth prepared to
light the way downstairs. Under his guidance the sick man was carried below
without mishap.
Downstairs the now conscious form of the venerable
Professor was laid out on the ancient sofa until his senses could clear a bit.
Presently the eyelids fluttered open and a feeble voice asked, “Where the deuce
am I, and how did all you guys get here?”
A joyous gasp went up. That voice! Although
uttered in somewhat the same vocal quality as Kell’s the intonation and accents
had strangely altered. O’Hara leaned eagerly over the figure on the couch. The
question he asked was startling in its incongruity:
“How are you feeling, Skip!”
“Rotten,” was the reply from the lips of Kell.
“What hit me such a crack on the dome? I feel as if I had been dragged through
a knot-hole. Lemme up.”
“Stay still,” commanded O’Hara, kindly but firmly.
“You aren’t fit to move yet. You are going on a long ride and will need your
strength. Don’t talk, either.”
A half-hour later they left the house. In the
front yard the editor called a hasty conclave which included the entire party.
Hard Boiled Bland has never been known to talk so much at a stretch, before or
since.
“Before we start back,” he began, “we had better
come to an understanding. In the first place––Skip, come over here a minute.”
Norma Manion uttered an involuntary cry of fear as
the aged form of Kell passed by her. Skip’s instant response to his name had,
of course, been perfectly natural to him. But it had an odd effect on the
others.
“Miss Manion, and gentlemen,” Bland went on, with
a bow of mock ceremony, “I want you to meet Mister––er, Mister––oh hell, call
him Saunders. This is Mr. Kenneth Saunders, ladies and gentlemen. When he gets
a shave and has his new face patched up I believe you will like his appearance
much more than you do now.
“Seriously though, folks, I hope that with a
little fixing up the gentleman will hardly resemble Professor Anton Kell. Kell
is dead. Obviously, however, this gentleman can hardly continue his existence
as Skip Handlon. Hence––well, hence Mr. Saunders. And don’t forget the name.
“Now another little matter. This house has proven
a curse to humanity. What has transpired here need never be known. Would it not
be the wiser to eliminate all traces of to-night’s happenings? There is a way.”
He looked significantly at the others.
“You mean––” began Perry.
“That we destroy all traces of Professor Kell’s
villainy. Although he is no more, still someone might notice that his body
actively remains. And no one wants to do any explaining.”
“It’s the only way we can protect Handlon,” one of
the sleuths ruminated, half to himself. “No judge would ever believe a word
about this de-astralization business. The chances are we would all go to the
booby hatch and Handlon would go to prison for Kell’s crimes.”
“There were four of us that witnessed the fact of
the––the soul transfusion, though,” Perry objected. “Wouldn’t that be enough to
clear Skip? Besides, wouldn’t it be possible for us to lead a jury out here and
duplicate the experiment?”
“Too much undesirable publicity,” growled Bland,
who for once in his life had found reason to keep something good out of the
headlines. “What do you say, people?”
“I move we move,” from the detective who had had
the uncomfortable job of attending to Norma Manion.
“Gentleman, I believe we understand each other,”
said Jimmie quietly. “Now I am going into the barn”––significantly––“to see if
everything’s all right. While I am there something might happen. You
understand?”
The others nodded silent assent.
In the snug seat of Jimmie’s speedster Norma
Manion shivered as she followed the direction indicated by her companion’s
finger. It was that darkest hour which comes just before the dawn.
To the westward could be perceived a dull, red
glow, which, even as they watched with fascinated eyes, developed into an
intense glare. Gradually the fading stars became eclipsed in the greater glory.
Three cars, motors throbbing as if eager to be
gone, stood a space apart on the main road. The car behind O’Hara’s was the
Manion machine, now occupied by Bland and Riley. The remaining one was a
touring car and contained the balance of the party. Perry was at the wheel, and
beside him sat the Handlon-Kell-Saunders combination.
“Thus passes a den of horror,” whispered Jimmie to
his companion.
“It is the funeral pyre of my father,” the girl
answered simply. She had long since recovered from her initial outburst of
grief at her loss, and now watched the progress of the conflagration dry-eyed.
At length Jimmie slipped an arm protectingly about the trembling shoulders.
“You have seen enough,” he said. As the three cars
raced from the scene of the holocaust, faint streamers in the east told of the
rising orb of day.
“Good-by, Keegan, forever,” murmured Norma.
“Amen,” O’Hara devoutedly agreed.
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