Desperately O'Hara plunged into Prof. Kell's mysterious mansion.
For his friend Skip was the victim of the eccentric scientist's
de-astralizing experiment, and faced a fate more hideous than
death.
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 mares 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 naively, 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
_ex_plosion it might more properly be termed an _in_plosion, 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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