by Harold Ward
They were too late.
The message that Ricks dictated to the radio operator within the fortress to be sent to Holm was, like the man, terse and to the point.
Death had crept upon them through the air, flying at a great height. He had showered the grim citadel with bombs. The entire north wing had been demolished. Luckily, no one had been in that part of the building, thanks to Holm’s idea of keeping all of those left behind in the one big room.
Such of the aircraft as were left on the island, detecting the presence of Death’s ship through the microphonic “ears,” had hastily taken to the air. The intrepid pilots had been hurled to their deaths as the sinister old scientist brought to bear on them the weird compensator rays which he had, in some way, connected up with his machine.
Again governmental “red tape” had taken its toll. Had the planes been equipped with the robot steering devices, as Jimmy Holm had requested, a score of lives would have been saved to their country.
Instead, because some one man, inflated with his own authority, had held up the purchase of the gyroscopes and saved a few thousand dollars, Doctor Death had been able to make his escape. Again he was at large and the nation was in danger.
In spite of his anger and anxiety, Holm was forced to smile at thought of what the President would say when he learned the catastrophe this newest advocate of officialdom had brought about. For official “red tape” was an anathema to the President—something that he had always been fighting.
Through the narrow, slippery shaft—dragging their equipment after them—they crept out on all fours. Finally the waterfall loomed before them. With the extemporized ladder that they had built, they negotiated the gap in the shelf of rock and came out in the cave where Holm had had his experience with the revolving eye.
Then up the stairs they charged.
Death had, in his hurry, blundered again. The door leading into the airdrome was open. They rushed through and opened the door.
Darkness had fallen. There was an answering flash from the edge of the forest in reply to their signals. Then a group of the men from the other launches hastened up to meet them.
“They’ve been working the ‘short wave’ from the island to beat the devil!” one of the officers exclaimed excitedly, bringing his hand to his visor to a smart salute. “Washington’s been calling for you at five minute intervals. The President wants you at once!”
Chapter XV
Nation Undermined
THE President was pacing his office nervously when Holm, flying from the fortress to Washington, hastily entered the executive offices next day. With him were Blake and David. Caminetti had been left on the island with Ricks and Nina in case an emergency arose.
“Thank God, you’ve arrived!” the Chief Executive exclaimed, seizing both of Jimmy’s hands in his own. “We’re quite at the end of our rope here. Denton, Blake’s assistant, confesses himself beyond his depth while the Librarian’s worried, almost to death—”
Holm held up his hand with a smile.
“Just a second, Mr. President!” he interrupted. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
The President accepted the rebuke with a boyish grin and seated himself at the huge desk. He went on.
“I stand corrected, Holm. Here, then, is the story in a nutshell: They’ve discovered that some of the most valuable secrets have been filched from the archives of the Library of Congress. Two of the guards have been found dead—”
“What leads you to believe that Death is connected with the crime?” Holm interrupted again. “The mere fact that a crime has been committed that is bizarre and a trifle out of the ordinary need not mean that he is at the bottom of it. In spite of the taboo put upon the underworld by Caminetti, there are, doubtless, certain men outside the pale who are cashing in on Death’s reputation—imitators, as it were—”
The President halted him with a gesture.
“Just a moment,” he smiled. “It happens that I know whereof I speak.”
HE opened the top drawer of his desk and took out an envelope. Even at a distance, Holm could see and recognize the crabbed chirography that he had learned to know so well. The President extracted a small card and passed it across to the detective.
“It came by mail only a short time ago,” he said. “Although I had guessed that Death was at the bottom of the affair and had already sent for you.”
Holm took the small card that the envelope contained and held it to the light. The message read:
I warned you. I have removed such secrets as I will need when I rule the world. Naturally, with all scientists gone, there will be certain things that must be done, so that I cannot destroy everything.
Now the work of destruction commences.
Doctor Death.
For an instant no one commented. Then the President rose and reached for his hat.
“Let us see the Librarian of Congress in person,” he said. “He can tell you far more than I can.”
He led the way to the waiting car and, five minutes later, they were seated in the private office of the head of the great library. The latter, notified by telephone by the President’s secretary that the party was coming, was pacing the room nervously. He met them at the door.
“Horrible!” he exclaimed, after the preliminaries had been exchanged. “Come with me, please.”
He led the way between great rows of steel cabinets and books, to one of the wings where two men in uniform were on guard in front of a huge steel door.
“It is in this particular room that we guard our most valuable secrets,” he said, waiting until one of the attendants had produced a key and unlocked the door. “In this steel and concrete vault, gentlemen, the fate of nations is kept. Here are the various secret formulas which we are convinced would work to the injury rather than the benefit of mankind, if given into the wrong hands. It was from this room that everything was filched.”
He swung around the corner in a long, narrow “L” guarded by another huge steel door. Opening it with his key, he motioned the others to enter.
Upon the floor lay the bodies of two men in uniform.
Both had been killed in the same manner. A knife had been driven into the throat at the jugular. The blow had been terrific, almost severing the heads from the trunks.
“Who discovered them?” Holm demanded.
“I did,” the clerk in charge of that particular division spoke up. “Just at closing time last evening one of the clerks made the alarming discovery that some of our most important documents were gone. He was looking up some references for one of the cabinet officers.
“I might say,” he continued, “that this particular room is seldom used. The Library of Congress was, as you are probably aware, established in 1800 and was burned by the British in 1814 and again burned in 1851, after which this building was constructed at a cost of $6,500,000. It contains the largest collection of books in the world, there being over 3,000,000 volumes, 200,000 maps and over 500,000 rare prints.
“There are,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low whisper, “secrets contained in these archives which would wreck the world were they known. It is many of those documents that have been taken. Naturally, I made a hurried investigation, then reported the theft immediately to the Librarian. He took the matter to the President.”
“We did not, at that time, connect the matter with Doctor Death,” the Librarian interrupted. “We naturally inferred that they had been stolen by someone connected with the institution—some one who recognized their great value and intended to hold them for ransom. Then when the President received a threatening note from Doctor Death, we became more worried than ever.”
“I came into this vault to interrogate the guards, two of whom are always here,” the clerk in charge said, taking up the thread of the story again. “They were missing. Saying nothing to anyone—as I had been instructed by my chief—I made a hurried search. I found their bodies where you see them now, tucked away in this little niche.”<
br />
He stopped in the middle of the sentence and, dropping into a nearby chair, buried his face in his hands.
“I immediately placed a guard about the entire building,” the Librarian said grimly. “The guards were ordered to let no one in or out. Aside from the two men who were murdered, none of the regular employees is missing. I ordered a strict search made of every one. Nothing of an incriminating nature has been found on anyone. Luckily, few outsiders were in the library. I have even held them until your arrival, although some of them are men prominent in the affairs of the nation—men who threaten trouble unless they are speedily released.”
“I will be responsible for any trouble that falls upon your head,” the President interrupted.
Holm turned away. For a moment he made no comment as stepping into the other, and larger, room, he glanced hurriedly about. He came back in a moment. “You have questioned your men? None of them saw a man answering the description of Doctor Death in or about the building?” he demanded.
The librarian shook his head.
“Guarded questions show that none of them saw anyone even remotely like the sinister scientist,” he responded. “From the number of pictures of him that have been published, however, I doubt if he would show himself in such a public place.”
“Remain here, please, all of you,” Holm said, stepping outside. He was gone at least half an hour. When he returned there was a worried look on his face.
HE leaned against one of the huge files and turned to the others.
“I have a shocking account to give, gentlemen,” he said quietly.
“Electrolysis,” he went on in a matter-of-fact tone, “is the decomposition of chemical compounds by electricity and, to the average man, means the condition which causes decomposition of gas and water pipes buried under electric wires. But, in later years, we have learned that, under certain conditions, it may decompose all metallic substances.
“As long ago as 1800 it was discovered that the earth could be used as a part of a circuit to carry electric current. Until the introduction of electric cars the men depended almost wholly on the earth for the return current required by telephone and telegraph apparatus.
“When electricity passes through moist earth,” he went on, “it causes decomposition of the water and the formation of oxygen and hydrogen gases. The oxygen, reaching metallic surfaces, causes oxidation and ultimate destruction. The time required is wholly dependent upon the volume of current, the size of the conductor and the amount of the oxygen liberated.”
“Of which we are all well aware,” the Librarian interrupted impatiently. “That, however, fails to explain how Doctor Death—and we are all agreed that he is the man—got into this room, killed my two guards and absconded with some of the more important documents.”
Holm took a step forward, his finger pointing to the clerk in charge.
“Doesn’t it?” he snarled. “Then let that drop for a moment. I arrest you, sir—”
“What?” the President exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that this trusted clerk is an accessory to this horrible affair—a traitor to his country?”
“I mean to say,” Holm snapped, “that this man who stands before us is none other than—Doctor Death!”
The clerk leaped from his chair, placing the table between himself and his accuser. His hand leaped to his pocket. It appeared with a deadly death-ray gun. He seemed to be having trouble with the trigger guard.
Holm’s hand flew upward. He closed his fingers. From beneath his sleeve protruded the muzzle of a tiny pistol. He aimed it at the face of the accused man.
There was a click. The clerk’s body disappeared. Where he had been standing a moment before was now only a vacant space.
“The dissolution-ray gun that we captured from Death long ago,” Holm said. “It was in the archives of the War Department for experimental purposes. I hastily procured it, attaching the trigger to my finger ring by a string. There was no other way to halt him in time, Mr. President.”
The President had slumped into a chair, overcome by emotion. Holm picked him up and half carried him to the outer room. The window was fastened, but he managed to get it open.
“The fresh air will do you good, sir,” he said.
WHIRLING on his heel, he charged back to where Blake was still standing, a look of amazement on his face.
“You killed him—killed Death!” the Secret Service man said joyfully, wiping the tears of joy that welled into his eyes.
Holm shook his head.
“Would that I had,” he said sadly. “Instead, Death has killed the clerk. It was a dead man to whom we have been talking, Blake. Again Death, in order to carry out his diabolical plans, has resorted to Black Magic—to metempsychosis. He has killed this man just as he killed Gilroy—and assumed his body to carry out his own heinous ends.”
“And now, Mr. Librarian,” Holm said, turning to the official, “suppose you tell us what the secrets were that Death stole from this vault.”
For an instant the Librarian made no reply. Then his voice dropped to an awed whisper.
“Largely the writings of Cagliostro,” he said. “Those and other works of Black Magic.”
Cagliostro! The very mention of the fiend’s name caused a shiver of apprehension to creep over Jimmy Holm.
He turned to the others.
“Cagliostro, Mr. President, in case you are not aware of the fact, has the reputation of being the world’s wickedest man. His correct name was Guiseppe Balsamo. He was an Italian born in Palermo in the early seventies. He was the son of poor parents and, after attending the schools of Palermo, became a member of the order of the Brothers of Mercy, a monkish organization, where he acquired a knowledge of the elements of chemistry and medicine.
“Forced out of the order because of his wickedness, be committed so many crimes in Palermo that he was compelled to abscond. He traveled through many countries, assuming many other names beside that of Cagliostro and, because of his supernatural powers, he soon amassed a great fortune.
“He was finally foolish enough to return to Rome, but his underground retreat was discovered and he was committed to St. Angelo’s castle, condemned by the Pope to imprisonment for life as an arch-heretic. He is presumed to have written a great many treatises on necromancy and the Black Arts, none of which were found at the time. Nevertheless, the printed volumes are known to exist, although probably in the hands of people who wish to say nothing of their possession. I presume, Mr. Librarian, that it is one of these rare volumes to which you referred as being missing.”
The Librarian nodded.
“I refer to such a volume,” he said. “But I meant even more.”
He leaned forward, his voice dropping.
“The original writings of Cagliostro were in this library,” he said. “Many of them concerned such subjects that no one would have dared publish them. We had them in their original, unexpurgated condition. They are gone—all of them.”
Holm nodded thoughtfully.
“No one but a man like Death would care for such things,” he said.
“And I cannot understand why even he would take such risks—go to such trouble to secure them,” the President remarked.
“Because you do not know Death as I know him, Holm answered. “He loves the weird, the mysterious, the supernatural. He is a worshipper of the Black Arts, a necromancer of unusual ability. I believe that he is an even greater magician than was the Italian. Think you, then, that he would take a chance of missing any of the works of that master of mystery—that sorcerer? But there is another reason.
“In the beginning of his campaign, Death made certain threats. He has commenced the work of carrying them out. In fact, he probably started his hellish machinery going at the same time he sent his first threat to you.
“It is my suggestion, Mr. President, that you get into communication with the supervising architect immediately. Have every available man put to work at once. Order an immediate inspection of every government b
uilding.”
The President looked at Holm questioningly.
“I fail to understand you, Mr. Holm,” he said. “You will have to give some reason before I can take such drastic measures.”
Holm nodded.
“And I am prepared to give them,” he said. “I am confident that the most skilled men employed by the government will sustain my findings. Listen, sir. Doctor Death, from some hidden, cavernous power plant, is impregnating the earth throughout this entire area with electricity.
“The result is electrolysis. It has attacked every bit of metal in the building. During my short absence from the room, I took the opportunity of going down into the underground vaults where, thanks to my credentials as head of the Secret Twelve, I was allowed to go unhampered.
“Some of the steel girders in the dark, wet corners, are so badly crystallized that it will take but a few days more to eat them through!
“Every government structure is liable to crumble at any time—to sink down into its basement as the steel beams and girders, upon which rests the heavy load of brick, stone and concrete, give way. Death is carrying out his threat, Mr. President.
“Declare a national holiday immediately. Get every man and woman out of the government buildings. And, at the same time, see that the downtown structures are inspected, although I doubt if he is working in that direction.
“He came here, assuming the guise of that poor clerk, in order to save for himself many of these works, such as Cagliostro’s. That alone is an indication that the day of reckoning is close at hand.
“Whatever apparatus he is using, he will throw into high now in an effort to bring about the catastrophe as soon as possible. And in the meanwhile—”
THEY were interrupted by one of the President’s secretaries. He was whitefaced, his lips twitching with emotion. For a moment, as he faced the President, words failed him.
“It’s horrible—unthinkable!” he exclaimed.
The President leaned forward.