The Scientists Revolt

by Edgar Rice Burroughs; Ray Palmer

  Young Donovan was looking at Saran, upon whom he kept his eyes as much as possible, and he saw the look of blank surprise that crossed the Assurian’s face.

  All the time that the search had been going on Donovan had been awaiting the discovery of the person he had seen enter the room only a minute ahead of them. As every nook and cranny was examined without revealing any hidden presence he was reduced to a state of surprise fully equaling that which Saran had revealed when no pistol had been discovered beneath the mattress. Walking to one of the windows he looked out and examined the roof along the front of the penthouse — there was no one there.

  They returned to the library just as the officer who had been detailed to find Greeves entered the room. “I’ve searched the whole place, Cap’n,” he said, “an he ain’t here. The penthouse is being watched outside, front an’ back, an’ there ain’t no one gone out.” Bushor nodded. “Then he must be inside,” he said. He turned to the company in the room. “You’ll all admit that there’s something peculiar about this case. I can lock you all up on suspicion, but I don’t want to do that. Right now there isn’t a case against anybody, and so I’ll give you your choice of remaining here under guard until morning, or goin’ to the station. Under the circumstances I can’t make any exceptions, and I’m stretchin’ a point in lettin’ you stay here. Which will it be?”

  They unanimously chose to remain in the house, under guard. “Now go to your rooms and stay there.” He walked from the room, beckoning Lieutenant Donovan to follow him. “I left ’em here,” he explained in a low voice, “because I think here is the best place to trap the murderer. He’s one of ’em, but I don’t know which one. Don’t let any one leave the house, and say, find that damned butler. See you about eight o’clock,” and he departed.

  CHAPTER IV Ghostly Disappearances

  AS the guests started toward their rooms Macklin found himself beside Mrs. Glassock and Genevive. “It has been a terrible experience for you,” he said. “I hope that it has no ill effects. If I can be of any service do not hesitate to call upon me.”

  Mrs. Glassock’s chin arose perceptibly. “The only service you can render us, young man, is to permit us to forget the humiliating position in which your imposture has placed us,” and she swept majestically up the stairway.

  Genevive paused beside him. “I am sorry for you, Mr. Donovan,” she said, coldly; “but you brought it upon yourself. One should not pretend to be what one is not,” and she followed her mother up the stairs to their rooms.

  Percy Thorn, assisting his aunt, followed them. As he passed Donovan he stopped and put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “I want you to know, Mackie,” he said, “that I think Saran is a damned liar.” “Thanks,” replied Donovan. “I knew you wouldn’t believe such a ridiculous charge.”

  “But who in the world could have done it?” asked Thorn.

  Donovan shook his head. “I wish I knew,” he replied.

  He remained a moment, after the others had gone, to speak to his father — to ask the latest news concerning his mother, only to learn that there had been no change, then he, too, ascended the stairs toward his room. As he reached the top step the door of Nariva Saran’s room opened and he saw her standing there. It was evident that she wanted to speak to him. She held a finger to her lips, enjoining silence, at the same time motioning him toward her. He had taken but a couple of steps in her. direction when the door of Saran’s room opened and he stepped into the hall. Simultaneously Nariva stepped back into her room and closed her door.

  “I thought your room was at the opposite end of the hall, Mr. Donovan/’ said Saran, with a slightly sarcastic inflection.

  “No one should know it better than you,” replied Macklin.

  Saran paled. “Keep away from my daughter’s room,” he said, nastily.

  Macklin bowed. “She has been absent from the library since the police came,” he said, “and I feared that she might be indisposed. I but wished to stop and inquire. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

  “My daughter is quite well, thank you,” replied Saran, and as Donovan bowed again and turned toward his room the other watched him until he was out of sight.

  Again in his room, Donovan threw himself into an easy chair beside the table, and sat pondering the occurrences of the night. That which occupied him 'most was a mad effort to discover some means of removing all suspicion connected with the attempt that he believed had been made upon his life by Nariva Saran. *He did not want to believe it. Yet, try as he would to reach another, the conviction remained unalterable that she had attempted to lure him to his death, and that by chance only Mason Thorn had approached her door at the very instant she had expected Donovan.

  It made him wince to even think it, and so he would set off each time upon a new tack in a fruitless effort to explain her various questionable actions upon some other hypothesis. But he could not explain away her evident surprise when she had discovered him alive; he could not explain why she had been the last to come to the hall after the firing of the fatal needle; he could not explain why she and Greeves alone of all the company had been absent from the library during the police investigation. His judgment told him that she and Greeves and Saran were at the bottom of the plot to kill him, yet but just now when she had attempted to speak to him Saran had prevented.

  Then there was the memory of those almost tragic words that still were ringing in his ears: “I do love you!” and recollection of the horror that had been in her eyes as she voiced the cry and fled up the stair-way. What did it all mean?

  Abruptly his eyes glued upon the floor at the bottom of the closet door, beneath which a piece of paper was slowly being pushed into the room.

  CAUTIOUSLY Donovan arose from his chair and tip-toed across the room toward the closet. He made no noise as he moved — none until his hand fell upon the knob and then, in the same instant, he flung the door wide. The closet was empty!

  He entered it and examined every inch of it. It was absolutely empty except for a couple of suits that he had hung in it the day before. Like all the other closets in the house it was wainscoted with cedar to the same height that the rooms were paneled in various ornamental woods.

  Hair crawling on his scalp with eerie pricklings, Donovan came from the closet and locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. Then he stooped and picked up the bit of folded paper. . It bore but a single word — the same word that the other message had borne — “BEWARE!”

  As he stood before the closet door turning the bit of paper over and over, he searched his mind for an explanation as to the means by which it had been shoved from under the closet door without being in the closet. Suddenly his attention was attracted by what seemed to be a shuffling sound from one of the balconies before the windows on the opposite side of the room.

  Cautiously he raised his eyes. The light from the reading lamp illuminated the table, the chair beside it, and a little area of the floor surrounding the two, leaving the balance of the room in a subdued light.

  Beyond the table was the window from which the sound seemed to come. As he watched he thought that he saw something move upon the balcony just outside. He remained very quiet, apparently examining the paper in his hand, his eyes barely raised to the window. Again he saw the movement without — a human hand clutching.

  There was the hiss of a needle gun. The hand disappeared. The tinkle of metal on stone. A curse. Silence: Donovan leaped for the window, threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. There was no one there — there was no one on any of the other balconies. A rich Irish voice rose from below: “What the devil’s wrong up there?” it demanded. Its owner was one of the officers left to guard the rear of the house.

  “I thought I heard a noise,” said Donovan. He said nothing about the figure on his balcony, for he had determined to ferret out the mysteries of that night unaided.

  He stooped and examined the stone floor of the balcony. There lay the dagger. He picked it up and carried it into his room. He could h
ear people running through the hall, aroused and alarmed by this second disturbance. He heard the gruff, low tones of the police, and the high, frightened voices of women. He carried the dagger to the table and held it close to the light. It was a weapon of foreign make, its velvet grip bound with cordis of gold. A faint fragrance was wafted to his nostrils. Quickly he raised the grip closer to them and inhaled, then he let the weapon fall to the table as his hand dropped limply at his side. His face was drawn and white — the hilt was scented with Nariva Saran’s perfume.

  For a moment he stood thus, then he turned and walked quickly to the door, opened it and stepped into the hall. He wanted to see who was there — or, more particularly, who was not. They were all there — Saran, Nariva, the Glassocks, servants and police. Percy Thorn came down a moment later, his aunt behind him. Greeves alone was absent. No one seemed able to know anything and Donovan kept silent as to what had transpired upon his balcony and within his room.

  Tired, haggard, nerve wracked the occupants of the penthouse returned once more to their rooms. Macklin threw himself upon his bed, fully dressed, after switching off the lights. He did not intend to sleep. He wanted to wait until the place quieted, if it ever did, that he might, in comparative safety from discovery, go to Saran’s door and listen. He had an idea that Greeves was there and he wanted to make sure. But he was very tired — almost exhausted — and he dozed before he realized the danger. It could have been for but an instant before his sleep was shattered by a piercing scream.

  MACKLIN leaped from his bed and ran toward the hall door. As he did so, from the closet door on the opposite side of the room a pistol hissed in the dark and a needle sang by his head. As he had no weapon he could not return the fire, but he sprang to the switch and turned on the lights. Then he wheeled and faced the closet door. It was closed and the key was still upon the outside, where he had left it. He crossed the room and tried the knob — the door was locked!

  Entering the hall again he found it filled with nervous men and terrified women. Everyone was talking at once. Only the police were near normal, and even their nerves were a bit on edge.

  Lieutenant Terrance Donovan was among them. “Who’s missing, Macklin?” he demanded of his son.

  “The butler, John Saran and his daughter,” replied young Donovan.

  “The butler is not on the premises,” said his father. “Which is Saran’s room?”

  “Here,” said Macklin, leading the way. The others crowded in their rear.

  Lieutenant Donovan opened the door and fumbled for the light switch. His son stepped past him and found it, flooding the room with light. “Look!” he exclaimed, and pointed toward the closet.

  There, on the floor, his body in the room, his legs extended into the closet, lay John Saran upon his back, blood running from a needle wound in his forehead. Macklin Donovan turned and ran toward the hall. “Miss Saran!” he cried. “Something may have happened to her.”

  His father followed him, and again the others swarmed behind. Macklin knocked upon the girl’s door — there was no response. He knocked again — louder. Silence. Motioning the others aside he stepped back, paused, hurled himself against the door with all his weight, striking it with a shoulder. The bolt and keeper tore through the wooden frame and the door swung inward. A single lamp burned upon a table. The room was empty, as were the dressing room and bath and closet.

  Macklin called the girl’s name aloud: “Nariva! Nariva!” but there was no response. He looked blankly at his father. “What do you make of it, Dad?” he asked.

  The older man shook his head. “It’s got me,” he admitted; “but we’ll find her — she must be in the house.”

  “That’s what you said about Greeves,” his son reminded him; “but you haven’t found him yet.”

  “I’ll search the house myself this time,” replied Terrance Donovan. “I want to have a closer look at Saran’s room and the body, then we’ll lock it up, and I’ll go through the place.”

  Together they went into the hall and approached Saran’s door. It was closed — they had left it open. The elder Donovan tried the knob, then he stooped and looked through the key hole.

  “The door is locked, Mackie,” he said. “Locked on the inside,” he turned to one of his men. “Break it in McGroarty,” he said.

  The huge Irishman had to do little more than lean against the door to send it crashing into the room. The lieutenant smiled. “There is nothing heavier than a ton of Irish,” he said, and McGroarty grinned, but the smile and the grin both faded as the two officers stepped into the room, for Saran’s body was not there —only a little pool of blood marked the spot upon the floor outside the open closet door where the dead man’s head had rested.

  Terrance Donovan scratched his head, then he turned and looked accusingly at the company clustered in the dooway. A wide eyed, terrified house maid was sobbing, hysterically. “Shut up!” admonished Donovan, whose own nerves were on edge by the various happenings in this penthouse of mystery.

  “I c-can’t,” sobbed the girl. “If ever I lives through this night, I quits. The house is haunted. I’ve said so right along. The noises I’ve heard — my gord!”

  “What noises have you heard?” demanded Lieutenant Donovan.

  “Footsteps at night w’en I’d be a-comin’ home late. I’d run all the ways up stairs as fast as I could go, ’til I got scairt to go out o’nights.”

  “Footsteps where?” asked the officer.

  “In those rooms when there wasn’t nobody in ’em — on this floor mostly. This floor’s the worst.”

  “Didn’t you ever tell anyone about ’em?” pursued Donovan.

  “Sure! Didn’t I tell Mr. Greeves half a dozen times?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I was just a nervous little girl afraid of the dark — that it was all my imagination. Imagination! I suppose poor Mr. Thorn a-lyin’ down stairs there dead, is imagination. An’ this here dead man wot gets up an’ locks his door an’ vanishes — I suppose 'he’s imagination, too. My gord!”

  Donovan turned to the others. “If you would feel safer together,” he said, “you may go to the library and remain there the balance of the night—it will not be long now until daylight. There are officers all around the penthouse—you will be perfectly safe there.”

  “I wouldn’t go back to my room alone if you’d star me in the Television Follies,” said the house maid. The others appeared to feel similarly, for they moved toward the stairway and down to the library in a huddled group. There were no stragglers.

  CHAPTER V The Vanishing Mr. Greeves

  LiEUTENANT DONOVAN, with Macklin and McGroarty, searched the penthouse from top to bottom—there was not a room, or closet, or cupboard that they did not investigate—but their search revealed no trace of Miss Saran, the butler, or the body of John Saran. They had vanished as utterly as though they had never existed.

  “It’s got me,” said Lieutenant Donovan.

  Macklin shook his head. “There’s some explanation,” he said.

  “Of course there is.”

  “And I intend to find it. Good night, Dad, I’m going to my room again.”

  The older man reached into a pocket and produced a needle gun. “Take this, Mackie,” he said, “you may be needin’ it. I found it in the library table. And I’m goin’ to send a couple of the boys up to sit with you.”

  “What for?” demanded the young man.

  “I can’t be tellin’ you, Mackie — you wouldn’t understand; but I’ve got my own reasons, and they’re good ones. I been puttin’ two and two together this night—an’ they don’t make eight either.”

  “I can take care of myself, Dad.”

  ^ “Sure you can. That’s probably what Thorn and Saran thought, too. Now look at ’em.”

  Macklin shrugged. “All right,” he said; “but remember that I’m working on a case and tell them not to interfere with me.”

  “They’ll be under your orders, me boy.”


  Shortly after Macklin Donovan entered his room the two police officers knocked at the door.

  “Make yourselves at home, boys,” he said as the two entered, and going to the table he brought cigars for them. “I don’t want to talk,” he said, after they |ad seated themselves and lighted their cigars, “I want to listen.” They nodded.

  Both the officers were sleepy and in a few minutes were half dozing. Macklin was listening and thinking. He was trying to figure some explanation that would account for the mysterious disappearance of two living inmates of the penthouse and a dead man. He attempted also to fathom to the causes underlying his father’s recent apprehension concerning his own safety. If Terrance Donovan had known all that had occurred in the house and especially in Macklin’s room there would be ample grounds for his fear; but he did not. He must know something else, then. What was it?

  Both the officers were dozing and Macklin was deep in thought when he was startled by a sibilant “S-s-st! ” from somewhere at his right. He wheeled around, facing the two officers. Neither one of them had moved, and their deep, regular breathing attested the fact that both were asleep. In the middle of the floor, between Donovan and one of the officers, lay a bit of paper folded into a small cylinder about which was a rubber band.

  Donovan rose and stepped quickly to the window. There was no one on any of the balconies. Then he turned to the closet door which he found still locked and the key on the outside where he had left it. He moved on tip toe to avoid arousing the officers, and thus he investigated both his room and the bath. Finally he returned to the room where the policemen still slept and picked the piece of paper from the floor. As he unfolded it he expected to find the usual message — Beware; but this was something different.

  “Be quick! Get out of this room. Your life is in danger,” it read, in the same crude printing that had marked the others.