by Clark South
Elaine is captive--"
Mark laughed harshly.
"Wrong, professor! I've got the most accurate focal point in the world.Or I will have--"
"The most accurate--? What do you mean?" The old man's face wasbewildered.
"I'll have the same focal point Elaine had, sir: Gustav Jerbette'spainting, 'Elaine Duchard's Escape'." Again that laugh. "I'm going nowto steal it from Adrian Vance!"
The house of Adrian Vance was one befitting a professional dealer inantiquities. It set far back from the street, towering against the skylike the black bulk of a medieval castle. A high iron fence surroundedit.
At this moment Mark Carter stood surveying the estate from the shelterof a nearby clump of trees.
"It's like a damned fortress!" he muttered to himself. "He's taking nochances on anyone getting in."
* * * * *
Turning, then, he gripped a branch of the nearest tree. Swung up intoit. Clambered out, cat-like, until he lay beyond the fence and above thegrounds of Vance's home.
The limb bowed under his weight as he proceeded until at last he wasable to drop lightly to the ground.
One hazard passed!
"And with no worries about that fence being wired for an alarm system,either!" he told himself triumphantly.
He hurried toward the house, thankful for the darkness of the night.
On one side of the big building lay a terrace. French windows openedonto it.
Like a wraith in the night, taking advantage of every shrub and patch ofshadow, Mark crept close to the casements.
They were locked.
The trespasser stripped off his coat. Wrapped it around his hand, abulky, protective wad of cloth covering the flesh. Then, as silently aspossible, he pressed on one of the small panes of glass close beside thelock. Harder ... harder ... harder....
With a faint tinkle of falling glass, the pane gave way.
Tense seconds crawled by on leaden feet. Mark's mouth was dry, histhroat cottony. He stood taut, his back to the wall, waiting fearfullyfor some sign that Vance had been aroused.
At last he relaxed again. Reached through the broken pane and unlockedthe big window. Swung it open, ever so gently, and stepped inside,fading swiftly into the thick blackness of the nearest corner.
Once Mark had interviewed a burglar as a feature assignment. Heremembered the man's words now.
"Gettin' in ain't the hard part," the second-story worker had explained."It's gettin' out that's tough. The first thing you gotta do on a job isto line up an exit."
Now, as his eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, Mark searched for ameans of escape. There was a window at the far end of the room. Heapproached it with swift, silent strides. Opened it wide.
The slightest of creakings caught his ear. Instantly he was on thealert, every muscle tense.
The sound was not repeated. He relaxed.
Where would the picture be?
A large canvas hung above the fireplace. He tiptoed over to it.
The lovely face of the first Elaine Duchard looked down at him!
With trembling fingers he whipped a knife from his pocket. Looked aboutfor a chair to stand on--
"It ain't smart to work a room without fixin' the door first," theburglar had said. "You feel lots better if you know nobody ain't gonnastumble in on you unexpected."
Ten seconds later Mark had wedged a straight-back chair under the knobof the only door leading into the rest of the house.
Turning, he hurried back to the Jerbette painting. With swift, deftslashes he cut it from its frame. Started to roll it up.
"Ah! A visitor!"
* * * * *
The trespasser whirled as if he had been stabbed. He stumbled from thechair on which he stood. As he did so, the brilliant beam of a five-cellflashlight hit him square in the face like a physical blow. It blindedhim. Left him helpless.
"No doubt this is just a social call. Too bad that the police will callit breaking and entering with larcenous intent!"
It was the oily, mocking voice of Adrian Vance, and it came from theFrench window through which Mark had entered.
"Try to lie out of it!" Vance gloated. "Just try to explain that picturein your hands!"
"I don't have to explain, Vance. You know why I'm here."
The wail of a siren sounded in the distance.
"Oh, of course I know." The other was laughing softly, greasily. "Butwill the police understand, Carter? That siren you hear--it's cominghere, you know; I called the station before I came down to grab you."
Mark's heart jumped like a wounded stag. He looked around wildly. Wasthis to be the end of it all? Was he to lie in jail while Elaine went toher death, back there in Bourbon France?
His captor was speaking again:
"I didn't dream I could have this much luck! To see that slut Elainedead--that was the height of my ambition. But now--to have you sent tothe penitentiary for burglary--"
The words ended in a roar of laughter. It died, and Vance went on, histone grim and deadly:
"It's time you dropped that picture, Carter. Drop it--and put your handsup!"
The picture! The one link between 1942 and 1780!
"Drop it!"
Slowly, Mark's hands relaxed. He let the picture fall to the floor.
"Now--raise your hands and walk over to the corner. Stand with your faceto the wall!"
Mark moved like one paralyzed. His hands came up as if they wereweighted with lead. His brown eyes were fixed on the shadowy finger backof the flashlight, and impotent rage and hatred seethed within them.
Yet what could he do? Jump Vance? Try to wrest the inevitable gun fromthe antiquarian's hand?
Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. No. It was impossible. Hisslug-riddled body would pitch lifeless to the floor before he could taketwo steps forward.
Nor was it mere fear of death that made him halt. That he would havefaced, and gladly.
But what actually held him back was that such a suicidal attempt wouldavail him nothing. It would bring him no nearer his real goal thanbefore: Elaine still would meet that awful doom which history hadrecorded as her fate!
"Turn around, damn you! Get over to the corner! Put your face to thewall!"
Ever so slowly, Mark turned. His brain was pounding with frantic effortas he strove to find some flaw in the awful wall of circumstance thatrose about him.
* * * * *
And then he saw the curtain!
It was just an ordinary curtain, buff-colored and a trifle stiff withstarch.
But it hung in front of the window he had opened as an emergency exitwhen he came in. At the moment, it swayed ever so slightly in the rippleof draft.
Most important of all, that window was set in the wall against whichAdrian Vance had directed that he stand. The corner Vance had indicatedwas a step to the right of where Mark now stood; the window, a step tothe left. And a grand piano half-sheltered it from the antiquarian'sline of fire!
"Hurry up! Get into that corner!"
Instinctively, the captive tensed to leap.
But the picture! What about it? He must have it! Without that painting,the time mirror Professor Duchard was constructing would be useless!
Then, suddenly, a grim smile played across Mark's lips. There was anangle! There was one wild chance by which he might escape alive and takeJerbette's masterpiece with him!
"Hurry up, or I'll shoot!"
Like a stone from a sling, Mark hurled himself toward the window in aheadlong dive. The blackness of the outer night engulfed him.
In the room behind, Vance's Magnum roared a cannonade of death.Copper-jacketed slugs splintered the sill at the fleeing man's heels.
Mark landed on one shoulder in a somersaulting roll. The next instant hewas on his feet and sprinting for the shadows at the corner of thehouse.
Flashlight in hand, Vance sprang to the open window.
On Mark ran, and on. Around the hou
se as fast as he could go. Then thesmooth plateau of the terrace loomed before him, with its wide-openFrench window.
He slowed, silenced his pounding footsteps.
On the other side of the big room, still peering out the window throughwhich Mark had hurled himself, stood Vance. His sleek form wassilhouetted behind the flashlight's beam.
Like a wraith in the night, the other slipped inside. He crossed theroom on tiptoe. His hand darted down to snatch the rolled picture fromwhere it still lay on the floor.
* * * * *
And then Vance turned. His flashlight caught Mark.
But this time it was the antiquarian who was surprised. He jerked back.Already his adversary was leaping for the cover of a heavy mahoganytable. Vance snapped a shot at him. Tried again to place him with thelight.
Mark's hand came down on a porcelain vase. He hurled it at Vance withall his might.
Vainly, his enemy tried to dodge. But too late. The vase _thunk'd_ homeagainst his left shoulder. The flashlight fell to the floor.
Like a thunderbolt, Elaine's fiance lunged forward. His left handslashed down; pinioned the arm that held the Magnum. His right fist cameup with express-train speed. Smashed home on the point of Vance's jaw.The antiquarian's body jerked spasmodically. Went limp. Sagged to thefloor.
But now the sound of harsh voices and running feet came to Mark's ears.
Clutching the Jerbette painting in one hand, he ducked back out thewindow. Even in the gloom he could see black figures converging on thehouse. A sedan stood in the driveway, its spotlight sweeping the house.
"The police!"
Cold sweat stood out on Mark's forehead as he gasped the exclamation.But he did not hesitate. Keeping to the shadows, he headed for thestill-open gate through which the car had come.
The iron fence loomed close. He ran along it in a half-crouch.
"Hey, you! Stick 'em up or we shoot!"
For the barest fraction of a second Mark halted in mid-stride. Thespotlight was swinging toward him.
But the gate was only a dozen yards away. He made for it in a mad rush.Bullets sang about him. Slugs ricocheted from the iron spikes. But on hewent. Lunged through the opening and into the shadowy fastnesses acrossthe street.
The return to Professor Duchard's laboratory was a nightmare of maddashes and narrow escapes. Squad cars seemed everywhere. Police alwayson his heels.
And then--
He was slipping through the door, alive and unharmed, with the pictureclasped under his arm!
The professor jerked about from the task of hanging a new and biggertime mirror on the easel. It still was shrouded with a heavy cloth.
"It's ready?"
The scientist nodded.
"Yes. I got special co-operation from an old friend who is manager of aglass works." He paused. "And you?"
Mark waved the Jerbette.
"I got the picture," he clipped, "but we're going to have to work fast.The police probably are on their way here now. Vance caught me in theact of stealing the painting." He still was panting from the exertion ofhis race here.
"Then clip it to this frame quickly!" The professor indicated anarrangement like an oversize drawing board. He hurried to assist theyounger man. In a moment their work was done.
There, at last, was "Elaine Duchard's Escape." Mark for the first timestudied it carefully.
* * * * *
Four people were shown. The central figure was that of the first ElaineDuchard. She was in the act of entering a carriage, her lovely facealive with panic. Beside her a young man--his face in the shadows--helda horse pistol on another man. This second man's features were twistedwith hate; Mark thought he never had seen such malevolent eyes.
"Baron Morriere" the professor explained. "The younger man is JacquesRombeau, Elaine Duchard's lover."
Mark nodded. Turned to scrutinize a third man, unidentifiable, who wasclambering to the driver's seat of the coach.
The next instant the laboratory was re-echoing with the sound of heavyblows upon the door.
"Open up!" roared a muffled voice. "It's the law!"
"The police!" Mark's face went pale.
Professor Duchard darted to the bench which lined one wall. Seized astrange-looking helmet which stood there. Rushed with it to Mark.
"The insulator-helmet!" he explained hastily, his blue eyes feverishwith excitement. "Strap it on! Quickly!"
"Open up!" the alien voice roared again. "We want in!"
And then the angry accents of Adrian Vance:
"Break it down, officer! Don't let them get away!"
Mark hauled the frame on which the painting was stretched to a positionin front of the mirror. Whirled back. Gripped his companion's hand.
"Will it work, professor? Will the mirror take me back through time?"
"That I cannot tell you, my boy. But it should. You know the formula Iworked out. You understand the process by which it was constructed." Asecond's pause. "Actually, I believe it should work far better than theprevious time mirror. The one Vance gave Elaine was very old, verycrude. This one is the product of modern science, modern workmanship. Itcreates a tremendously larger rift in the space-time continuum--"
A shot rang out.
At the other end of the laboratory, the outside door burst open, lockshattered. Uniformed police rushed in, Adrian Vance at their head.
"Mark! Quickly! I shall hold them!"
With a savage jerk, Elaine's fiance ripped aside the cloth that veiledthe new time mirror. The reflection of Jerbette's painting sprang acrossits silver surface.
Mark's jaw went hard with tension. He glued his eyes to the figure ofJacques Rombeau, Elaine Duchard's lover.
Behind him, Adrian Vance charged down the laboratory, struggling toshake off the frail, tenacious figure of Professor Duchard. He broughtup his heavy Magnum.
But Mark paid him no heed. Already his brain was spinning, his sensesreeling. Yet still he concentrated on the lithe, tense figure of JacquesRombeau holding the fuming Baron Morriere at bay. And through his mindthe words kept ringing:
"I shall take over the brain of Jacques Rombeau! I shall save Elainefrom her fate!
"_I shall change history!_"
* * * * *
"You dog!" said Baron Morriere in a voice that trembled with passion."I'll see you drawn and quartered for this! You'll swing from thehighest gibbet in all France--"
"Save your breath!" snapped Mark--and then nearly dropped the horsepistol he grasped as the sound of his voice struck his ears. For hespoke in the French of the late eighteenth century, and the voice wasnot his own, but that of Jacques Rombeau!
From behind him came another voice--faintly tremulous, the voice of awoman:
"Jacques, _mon cher_! We are ready! Quick!"
"Right!"
Then, prodding the baron's stomach with the gun barrel:
"Why I don't kill you now I'll never know. _Le Bon Dieu_ knows I've gotcause enough. And may He have mercy on your soul if you try to followus!"
Turning on his heel, Mark sprang aboard the coach. From the driver'sseat came a shout and the crack of the whip. With a jerk that nearlythrew Mark to the floor, they were off!
"Oh, Jacques! I was so afraid! The baron--"
He turned in his seat. Looked into the lovely, appealing face of ElaineDuchard. Her arms reached out to him. Instinctively he accepted theembrace. He held her close, and his lips sought hers.
It was strange; incredible. Even as he kissed the girl, Mark realizedit. He was two people simultaneously--Mark Carter and Jacques Rombeau.The brain of the former had traveled back through time into the body ofthe latter. In so doing, it had somehow acquired all the knowledge, thepersonality, the character traits of Rombeau. Yet because the mind ofMark Carter had been protected by Professor Duchard's insulating helmet,he still was able to think independently--almost as if his own twentiethcentury being was held apart in a special brain lobe within J
acquesRombeau's skull!
"I knew you would come, Jacques! I knew it!"
A wave of sentiment choked off Mark's reply. Again he kissed the softhollow of that first Elaine Duchard's throat, trying the while to fightoff the awful sense of futility that swept over him as he rememberedhistory's verdict as to her fate.
Then, suddenly, the coach was halting.
"Whoa, there!" came the voice of the burly man on the box. And then:"Well, Jacques, what now? We're away from the castle, but where do wego?"
Mark swung to the ground. Glanced back to where the Chateau Morrierestill loomed black and menacing on a distant ridge.
"Every road and bridge is blocked," the other went on. "The peasantry'snone too peaceful in these parts, and the baron's taking no chances."
Mark nodded slowly.
"What do you think, Baroc?" he asked. Somehow, he knew that was theman's name.
The burly one scowled.
"Paris, I suppose," he grunted. "If you once get there, and into theslums, the devil himself couldn't rout you out."
"Do you think we can make it?"
"Maybe." A shrug. "We could try the post road."
"All right. Let's go."
* * * * *
They jogged on through the night, the coach swaying and bumping over therough track. Then lights began to sparkle ahead. Baroc pulled up.
"The Golden Cock Inn," he grunted, nodding toward the lights."Morriere's guards will be there. We'll have to run for it, so be readyfor rough going."
The next instant they were rolling again. Closer the lights