The Red Gem of Mercury (3 page)

Uncle Tobe sprang forward as Stain turned to another case. The blue-veined old hand clutched a brawny arm. With a contemptuous grin the gangster swung his fist and knocked the grocer down.

From his hiding-place behind the curtain, Vane watched, feeling a hot tide of rage surge through him at the sight. Before he could move, however, Mickey had leaped forward and drove his small, hard fist into Stohm's stomach. The thug grinned. He picked up Mickey by the shirt, holding him helpless in midair.

Stohm said, “Don't get smart with me, sprout. I'm gonna twist your ears off—” Vane's hand lifted. He brushed the hat off his head. The Stone from the Stars flamed with unearthly crimson light.

The lawyer's lips moved silently. And Stohm stood helpless, frozen, still gripping Mickey …

“Don't move, Stohm,” Vane whispered softly. “Don't move a muscle. Just stay like that …”

The gangster's eyes were wide. His face was twisted into a grimace. He glared at Mickey as the boy twisted and struck out with his small, fury-driven fists. They drove into Stohm's face. They flattened his nose and split his lips. They blacked his eyes and raised red welts on his cheeks.

“Leggo o' me!” Mickey shrilled. “Lemme go!”

But Stohm didn't relax his grip, He couldn't. He couldn't even yell for help. Only his eyes spoke of stark horror as he continued to hold the boy before him. Blood spurted from the gangster's nose, dripped down his chin. Uncle Tobe staggered forward and seized Mickey about the waist. He tore the boy's shirt free from the iron fingers that held it.

“Mickey! Stop it! Stop!” He thrust the lad behind him. “Don't touch him, Stohm. If you do—”

Uncle Tobe stopped, staring at the other.

Vane readjusted the hat on his head and stepped through the curtains. He patted the grocer's shoulder.

“It's okay, Uncle Tobe. I told you it'd be. You're a good scrapper, Mickey. Now be quiet for a bit.”

He turned to Stohm.

“Where's Pasqual?”

The gangster's face remained expressionless, but his voice said thickly, “I dunno.”

“When were you to see him again?”

“Tonight. At eight. He's throwing a party tonight at his house. He's celebrating because Tony Apollo's dead.”

“Yeah,” Vane said thoughtfully. “That's right. Pasqual was always afraid of Apollo. Well, listen to me, Stohm. You're coming along to headquarters, and you're going to confess—answer truthfully every question that's put to you. Hear me?”

“Yes,” Stohm said dully.

“My God!” Uncle Tobe's thin frame was shaking. “What'd you do to him, Steve? Hypnotize him?”

“Call it that,” Vane nodded. “See you later.” He turned to the door.

“You can't go out in the street. You'll be recognized.”

The lawyer pulled the Homburg lower over his forehead. “Oh, I dunno. Even if I am—I don't think I'll be arrested.” He grinned at the old grocer. “You've helped me a lot, Uncle Tobe. And you, too, Mickey. Fists are better than knives, aren't they?”

“Me,” the boy said, eyeing his hands with awe, “they sure are, Steve.”

“Come on,” Vane commanded Stohm, and the gangster followed him out of the shop. Realizing that the latter's bruised face would attract attention, Vane soon managed to find a taxi. The driver was suspicious, but a brief command from the lawyer had instantaneous effects.

“Police station,” Vane directed, and settled back on the cushions beside the dazed Stohm.

Newsboys were yelling extras as they rode on. “Spaceship from Mars! Read all about it! Convict still at large!”

“Wonder why people figure Mars is the only planet that has life?” Vane mused. “Well—” His thoughts turned to Pasqual. Eight o'clock. He had a rendezvous with the underworld king at eight … He was conscious of an overwhelming hunger. What had the Mercurian said? Vane tried to remember. The Stone from the Stars feeds on life-energy—that would speed up his own basal metabolism, of course. And there was something else—some warning Zaravin had given. What—well, it didn't matter. Nothing could harm Vane as long as the red jewel glowed on his forehead.

He was soon to learn how wrong he was in thinking this.

Chief of Police Lankershim looked up casually as his office door opened. Then he caught his breath and rose half upright, staring at the man on the threshold. Lankershim's hard-bitten, tired face was suddenly ludicrous with amazement.

“Vuh—” he said, and tried again. “Vane!”

“Hello,” the intruder smiled. “How are you, Chief?”

Lankershim's eyes flickered to Vane's hands, empty at his sides. Then he looked again at the other's face.

“Give a dog a bad name,” Vane observed. “I'm not armed.”

“How the devil did you get in here? I—” The chief of police abruptly shot out his arm toward the call-buzzer on his desk.

“Stop,” Vane said.

Lankershim's forefinger touched the little button, but did not press it. The chief stood there, his left hand flat on the desk, his right arm extended. Slowly his gaze swiveled toward Vane.

His mouth gaped for a shout to summon aid, but no sound emerged. “That's it,” the lawyer nodded. “Remain perfectly quiet and don't say a word. Just listen. I've got a prisoner for you. I left him outside—Stohm, one of Pasqual's men. He'll talk. All you have to do is ask him questions.” Vane glanced at his watch. “I've an appointment soon. See you later. You're an honest cop, Lankershim, and I remember when you used to pound the pavements on the East Side. So I'm turning Stohm over to you. You won't need to third-degree him. For myself—” He hesitated “—I'm not going back to prison. It'll do you no good to throw out a dragnet for me.”

Vane turned to the door. “You'll be all right in three minutes. Adios, Chief.” He went out, leaving Lankershim an apoplectic statue. The hall wasn't empty. Vane pulled the Homburg lower over his eyes and walked swiftly toward the door. Uniformed men eyed him and turned away.

But one man didn't turn. Vane saw his face light with recognition. He opened his mouth and thrust out a finger in a swift gesture.

He stayed that way, briefly. He was paralyzed, immobile, with one foot in the air and his arm extended. Then, off balance, he flopped to the floor, while a nearby officer stared and came hurriedly forward to administer first-aid. No one else recognized Vane, and he left. Nobody expected to see him in police headquarters, so he had no difficulty in walking out and hailing a taxi. He was driven to Pasqual's home.

It was an old-fashioned mansion set alone amid wide grounds. Vane noticed a number of cars parked nearby. He remembered that Big Mike was throwing a party that night.

He was again conscious of an overwhelming hunger, and a strange, inexplicable lassitude that weakened him. He fought it down, staring at the frog-faced man who opened the door.

“Yeah?”

“Tell Pasqual Steve Vane's here,” the lawyer said.

The other stepped back a pace. His hand dived into his pocket.

Vane extended his arms slightly from his sides.

Frog-face said, “Come in,” and closed the door as the lawyer entered. Then he deftly frisked his guest. After that he nodded to a chair set against the wall and vanished hurriedly.

Vane sat and looked around. This had once been a palatial Georgian mansion, but Pasqual had redecorated it to suit himself. The bright hall was furnished in the height of garishly bad taste. Vane blinked sleepily. He felt very tired …

Frog-face returned. “Come along, he grunted, and led the way upstairs. He paused before a door, thrust it open, and gestured. Vane stepped over the threshold. He heard the door shut behind him—and lock. He was in a bare room, empty save for curtains that covered one wall. There were no windows. Two men stepped out from behind the drapes. They held guns aimed unwaveringly at Vane.

“Pasqual's busy,” one of them said jeeringly. “He sent us to—”

Briefly the odd lassitude left Vane as he realized the death that menaced him. He snapped, “Drop those guns! Quick!”

“Like hell!”

The automatics clanked on the bare floor. The killers stared down at them, at Vane, and simultaneously lunged forward. They halted in mid-course, paralyzed. Vane said, “Go tell Pasqual I want to see him.”

The two turned Stimy and vanished behind the curtains. A door shut metallically. The lawyer rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand, wincing as he felt the chill surface of the jewel. He felt weak and sick. And tired. His thoughts spun chaotically. What—

The room was moving. No, it was his dizziness. There was a choking, unfamilar odor in Vane's nostrils. Reeling a little, he went to the drapes and drew them aside.

There was a metal door in the wall. It was locked.

Vane felt icy cold. His head was bursting.

It was extremely difficult to move. He turned, staggered, and fell full length on the bare floor.

His body was like ice. He could not move a muscle. He was paralyzed… Gas! Pasqual had pumped anesthetic gas into the room. Vane recognized the strange odor now. But what manner of gas could have this effect? His brain was perfectly clear, yet he was immobile as a statue. He lay, waiting.

Time passed. A burly man in a gas mask pulled through the drapes, a gun in one hand. He paused to eye the figure on the floor. Then he pocketed the gun, bent, picked up Vane, and carried him into the next room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

Vane's vision was restricted. He could only stare up at the ceiling. Then a new face appeared, swart, thick-lipped, and brutal. It was Pasqual.

The stocky gangster stood looking down at Vane. His hoarse voice asked, “Dead?”

“Yeah.” The other man was removing his gas mask.

Pasqual put his palm flat on Vane's breast. He took a small mirror from his pocket and held it to the lawyer's lips.

“He's stiff, all right,” the gangster nodded, rising. “Didn't take much gas to knock him out, either. I dunno what he did to Jim and Oscar, but they said he hexed ‘em. Well—” Pasqual's gold teeth flashed in a grin. “That settles one thing. It was Tony Apollo who fell into the gorge up in the mountains. This calls for a celebration, all right.”

He pulled at his thick lip, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. “I don't want Vane's body found here. Get the boys to dump him in the river.”

The Homburg was still jammed over Vane's forehead. Pasqual bent, tugged at it, and changed his mind. He stood up again.

“Okay,” he grunted. “Snap it up. When the boys get back, they can help celebrate. I spent a cool thousand on champagne.”

He went out. Vane tried desperately to move, to speak. It was useless. Yet he wasn't dead. He could hear and see. But he wasn't breathing. His heart had stopped beating. Poison gas—that didn't explain it.

Quite suddenly Vane remembered a sentence Zaravin, the Mercutian, had emphasized.

“The owner of the gem at times falls into a state of suspended animation, during which the jewel rests and revitalizes itself.”

Suspended animation! Good God! How long would it last? Vane thought frantically, Will l come back to life at the bottom of the river, with rocks tied to my ankles? How long—

Rough hands lifted him. He was wrapped in sacking and carried. Downstairs, by the feel of the jolting motion. Then he lay motionless, till he heard the sound of a car's motor starting.

“Head for the river,” a low voice commanded.

Traffic sounds came to him. Someone muttered, “Hurry up. There's a police car next to us—”

And a siren began to scream ominously.

What was happening? Vane cursed silently, furiously. If he could only move! But no, he could merely lie helpless as the roar of the motor mounted louder and louder and the car jolted more uncomfortably.

“They're catching up…”

“Throw the stiff out,” somebody suggested. “Under their wheels. That'll stop ‘em. If we don't—”

A door-latch clicked. Vane felt himself moving. He fell heavily, rolled over and over, and lay still.

Brakes screeched. Footsteps pounded on the pavement. The gunny-sacking was stripped from Vane's face.

Staring up glassily, he saw a uniformed officer bending over him, dim against a star-sprinkled night sky.

“It's Vane!” the man gasped. “The escaped con!”

He turned, shouting. “Keep on after those mugs. Radio headquarters to send a car out. Tell ‘em I got Vane—and he's dead!”

The Road to Life

Vane lay on an operating table, a sheet over his naked body, and stared blankly at a bare white ceiling. He could not move. He could not tell the coroner or the medical examiner that he was alive, that an autopsy would be murder, that he had agonizingly felt the cut of a scalpel into his arm, though no blood flowed from the pale-lipped wound.

The coroner, his face partly hidden under a gauze mask, came forward, holding a probe. He bent over Vane and delicately felt around the edges of the jewel on the lawyer's forehead.

“Funny,” he said over his shoulder. “I've never seen anything like it. By rights it ought to have killed the man—it goes right through the bone. Maybe it did kill him. I can't find any surface wounds on the body.”

A deeper voice growled, “Too damn bad the murderers got away. I know Pasqual did this, but I can't pin a thing on him.”

Vane realized that Chief of Police Lankershim was speaking.

“And there's something funny about this whole thing, Doc,” the official went on. “When Vane walked into my office an hour or two ago—well, I told you what happened, didn't I?”

The coroner's gray eyebrows drew together. Level dark eyes scrutinized the jewel on Vane's forehead as the medico nodded.

“About Stohm? Yes. He confessed, didn't he?”

Lankershim expelled his breath with an angry sound. “He started to—answered every question I asked him. But he was so bruised up I sent him to the hospital for first and. And—now he's dead.”