Death out of Thin Air (23 page)

As Perry paid the driver and started to lead the way up to the door, Don flipped his note into the driver's lap, gave him a wink, and immediately engaged Perry's attention with a question.

“I thought you said Eight-eighty-four Riverside? This doesn't seem to be—”

Perry looked at him with skillfully raised eyebrows. “Eight-eighty-four? Oh no, you misunderstood. I said eight-forty-eight.”

“Oh,” Diavolo said. “My mistake.” He spoke as if it were of no importance, but now, suddenly, he was beginning to realize just how important this little change of address really was. His quick eyes had caught sight of a familiar figure standing at the bus stop on the corner — one of the Inspector's men. And, as they passed through the lobby, he saw still another writing a letter at a desk in the lounge. That was when Don remembered where he had seen the address 848 Riverside Drive before — in yesterday's papers, given as the home address of Nathan Ziegler!

Perry put a key in the door of Apartment 12 E. A butler came toward them as they entered, a large man whose otherwise immaculate uniform was a trifle short in the sleeves and whose right hip pocket bulged interestingly.

Diavolo took off his hat, handed it to the man, getting as he did so, a quick glimpse at the small mirror which he carried fixed to the inside of the crown. This was a useful conjurer's gimmick of his own invention that often supplied him, as it did now, with interesting bits of information. He distinctly saw Mr. Victor Perry, behind his back, give the butler an almost unnoticeable nod.

Don Diavolo was as certain as he had ever been of anything that his interview with Mr. Julian Dumont was going to be something to remember. He felt a warning, wholly instinctive tension tug at his spine, and the skin on the back of his neck went suddenly cold.

Mr. Dumont was a distinguished looking, gray-haired man with nose-glasses and a small VanDyke. He looked a lot like the pictures of the wealthy chemical-company president that Don had seen now and then in the papers, but, by this time, Don was inclined to be suspicious. He thought he detected one or two minor flaws. But his apparently relaxed body gave no indication that he was prepared to send it into instant action. That sort of inner tautness covered by the deceptive appearance of ease was part of Diavolo's stock in trade.

Dumont nodded at him across the top of the broad desk in his study. “I'm delighted to meet you, Don Diavolo,” he said. “I've seen your act often. I particularly like your marvelous handcuff and straitjacket escapes. They are really uncanny. I've a little problem here.” He waved his hand toward the large safe that stood in a small alcove off the study. “Mr. Perry has explained our dilemma?”

Diavolo bowed. “Yes. He tells me that it is locked and that you seem to have mislaid the combination.” Don approached the safe and pretended to examine it. He squinted at the shiny dial so that the light from the window fell on it obliquely. And he saw what he had hoped might be there. Fingerprints — one of which was a thumbprint cut diagonally by the now-familiar line of a scar!

T
HEN
Diavolo turned and, as his eyes quickly surveyed the room, he saw one other thing. A cigarette box on a side-table, a small black rosewood affair whose cover bore the inlaid initials: N.Z. So, Diavolo thought, that's that. Ziegler's apartment. The question would seem to be: Where is Nathan?

Dumont said, “Well, Mr. Diavolo. Do you think you can open it for us? I must get those documents out by noon, without fail. That gives you half an hour.”

Don was thinking that it would be just about that before Chan and the others could possibly arrive. He decided he'd better do a bit of stalling. Just to see what would happen, he threw a bomb.

“I'm afraid it will be difficult to open it that soon,” he said. “Mr. Perry told me that this was a Holmes & Watson No. 1 Double Dial Bank Lock. But I find that it is their 1930 model. I assumed you'd have one of the more recent ones. I'll need a few instruments that I didn't bring. If I may phone my assistant.”

He moved toward the phone, but Dumont swiftly raised his hand. Perry took a swift step forward as Dumont said: “Our phone is not working. It's been an extremely unfortunate day. Mr. Perry can go down to the lobby and make the call for you if you think it is necessary. But I'm afraid your assistant would not be able to get here in time—”

“No, perhaps not,” Diavolo said, afraid of just that. He knew it was useless to send Perry down. He doubted if the man would phone at all. Don turned again toward the safe. “Well,” he said slowly, “I'll have a go at it, but I won't promise—”

Somewhere close by there was a sudden rapid, frantic pounding on a closed door and a girl's voice screamed, “Let me out, you—”

Diavolo heard the butler's quick footsteps in the hall, he heard a door open and the sound of a quick scuffle. The girl's voice stopped abruptly.

He saw Perry frown and he heard Dumont say:

“My daughter, Mr. Diavolo. Since her mother died a few years ago, she has developed psychopathic symptoms to such an extent that she cannot be allowed out of her room. Paranoic delusions of persecution. Perry, perhaps you had better phone Dr. Llyons. She seems to be worse this morning.”

“I'll have him come at once.” Perry nodded quickly, and left the room.

Don Diavolo turned to the safe, conscious that Dumont's eyes were boring a hole in his back. These boys were first-class actors and fast thinkers. The act was almost good enough — but not quite. Yesterday's newspapers, Don remembered, had stated that Nathan Ziegler had a daughter with whom he lived. The picture behind the false front that Dumont, Perry and the butler were putting up was beginning to emerge. It was an unpleasant picture tinged with distinct overtones of peril.

Don didn't care for any part of it. He particularly disliked the fact that Julian Dumont had never once raised his right hand above the top of the desk behind which he sat. Don was sure that he didn't need X-Ray Vision to know that that hand was holding a gun. He had a healthy suspicion, too, that the butler was just outside the door holding another of the same in his hand. Don also had a gun, but he realized that getting the drop on these men was growing to be rather like trying to catch a train that has left the station ten minutes before.

Diavolo turned the big dial of the safe thoughtfully. Since this had something to do with Nathan Ziegler, it also concerned the Invisible Man. That being true, the game these boys were up to was big-time stuff, and they would very probably shoot at the first false move.

It might be a good idea not to make aly just yet. Don could see only one thing to do at the moment — stall, if possible, until reinforcements arrived, or until he got something that was half way like a break.

Don's hand went to his pocket. Dumont's arm at once raised perceptibly. Don, watching for it out of the corner of his eye, suppressed a grim smile as he produced a metal screw clamp, a length of string, and a chamois watchcase. The latter held an ordinary watch which, after Karl Hartz had worked on it, now served an unusual purpose. It no longer told the time, but instead was capable of giving information of quite another sort. Karl had removed the mainspring and attached a small projecting arm to the main wheel. The slightest touch on this arm caused the second hand to vibrate wildly. It was sensitive to deviations of less than one-thousandth of an inch — one-tenth the thickness of a sheet of paper.

A rubber suction cup was also affixed to the back of the watch case so that the watch could be attached instantly to any smooth surface — such as the face of a safe. Don screwed the metal clamp on to the knob that threw the bolt within the lock once the combination had been dialed. From its outer end, by means of the string, he hung a heavy brass poker which he found by the fireplace.

Then he put the watch-micrometer in position on the face of the safe so that the weight pulled the outer end of the clamp down against and just touching the smaller projecting arm that issued from the watch.

Then, slowly, drawing out the process as much as possible, Don Diavolo began to turn the safe dial so that the inner combination wheels revolved one at a time. It is mechanically impossible to make these wheels so exactly alike in diameter that such a safe-opening micrometer is not able to detect some difference.

As each wheel revolved, Diavolo, his eyes on the watch dial, waited for the tell-tale quiver which would tell him that the slot of one wheel had lined up with the bolt. Then the ultra-sensitive hand twitched as he turned the third inner wheel. Looking at the dial, he saw that it read seven and knew that this was the third number in the combination for which the lock was set.

Then, he began again, rotating each inner wheel in turn except the third, and watching until his micrometer should tell him when another wheel had lined up. He took his time, and his eyes fell now and then to the more ordinary watch on his wrist that counted off seconds rather than fractions of an inch. Fifteen minutes more of stalling would be necessary before he could expect Chan.

Don got another quiver, this time on dial number five. The fifth number on the combination was twenty-four.
¹⁹

At that moment, Don, listening intently to every sound in the room behind his back, heard footsteps followed by Perry's voice. It wasn't quite the same voice. The polite smiling tones had gone from it completely and left a harsh, hard residue.

“This guy's pulling our legs,” it said. “He's wise. He gave Louie this note.”

C
HAPTER
X

Memory is Murdered

D
ON
D
IAVOLO
felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured suddenly down his back. His hands dropped from the safe dial and he turned on his heel slowly.

The taxi driver stood beside Perry, an automatic in his hand, his small, piglike eyes as cold and emotionless as glaciers. The muzzle of the gun, from where Don viewed it, was a perfectly round black hole. It was utterly motionless.

Dumont looked at the note that Perry gave him, read it aloud and then growled at Perry. “He rumbled you on the way up. I hope you can explain it to the boss. He isn't going to like—”

“
I'll take care of him later!
” The voice was in the room; there was no doubt of that. It was low-pitched — too low to have come from outside. Don had been waiting for this. It was the voice of the Invisible Man!

Perry's face was two shades whiter. The taxi driver licked his lips nervously, but it would have taken Don's sensitive micrometer to detect any motion in the hand that held his gun.

The voice spoke again. “
Dumont
,
put your gun on the desk!
”

Dumont's hidden hand came up and placed an automatic on the blotter. Dumont got to his feet and moved hastily to one side.

Except for St. Louis Louie, all eyes were on the gun. And then, like a movie scene dubbed in by one of Hollywood's trick photographers, the gun slowly tilted upward to a vertical position. The movement continued; the gun rose in midair, its nose pointing at Don Diavolo. Two feet above the desk it stopped and hung there, not as steady as the gun in Louie's hand, but, because the man who held it was invisible, twice as menacing.

“All right, Diavolo,” the voice said then. “Get busy. Your friends, you see, won't be coming. You don't need to stall any longer. Open that safe.”

Don's eyes had a light of understanding in them now. He was beginning to understand the Invisible Man's methods. But he wasn't in any position to make use of the knowledge.

“And I wouldn't advise you,” the voice went on grimly, “to try to destroy the interesting apparatus you have set up. I am an excellent shot. And St. Louis Louie is a perfect one. You may have ten minutes. Time him, Dumont.”

“And if the safe isn't open by then?” Don asked, his eyes watching for the break it didn't look as if he was going to get. The chill had spread from the back of his neck, reaching its icy fingers to his whole body.

“A good shot practices constantly. Neither Louie nor myself have done so yet today. If the safe isn't open….”

“Never mind,” Don said shortly. “I get it. You don't need to talk like a bad play.”

Diavolo turned to the safe and again began his careful turning of the dial. “And you don't need,” he added,” to continue calling Glenn Collins, Dumont. A man with a scar on his thumb should always wear gloves.”

He heard Dumont, behind him, gasp. The Invisible Man said, “You'll work faster if you don't talk. Perry, make ready to clear out of here.”