by Don Wilcox
“One moment, please. I’ve made a mistake,” Dr. Silverhead said casually. He paused to consider. “This demonstration of the inadequacy of the faulty lens is entirely for your benefit. You should come back down and scrutinize the developments from this angle.” Linda Lee obediently crawled down the ladder and stationed herself in front of the pyramid.
“For a moment, I was being rather absent-minded. It would have been a mistake to let you serve as the subject. You’d have missed seeing what comes out—or rather, what doesn’t come out. I’ll be the subject myself.”
He turned on the switch and climbed to the top of the ladder. Then he slid down into the pyramid, and Linda Lee observed the results.
Precisely as he had predicted, nothing came out. After several minutes of waiting she decided the demonstration must be over. It was certainly the strangest demonstration she ever hoped to see. It was funny that the doctor would leave without saying a word about turning the switch off. But he didn’t reappear—anywhere—after that.
CHAPTER XXV
Money, Money, Money
There wasn’t much time to crow about it, but Marcus M. Drake knew he’d played into the good fortune of a lifetime. That was what came of keeping your nerve and not being scared out at the first signs of trouble. Detectives floating through the place, were there? Well, they’d better watch their step. Marcus Drake had one very special piece of work to do before he and his cronies were through around here.
“Hold tight to those money boxes, boys,” Drake growled, leading the way down to the stage. “Time’s short and nobody’s goin’ to block our path now.”
“It ain’t quite dark, Boss,” said Mac. “It ain’t a good time to risk any gunplay.”
“Nobody’s goin’ to block our path,” Drake repeated, a feverish eagerness in his voice. “We’ve invested too many slit throats in this wad to let it slip. But don’t worry, kid, there’ll be no shooting unless the cops gang up on us.
Hell, you think I’ve lost my touch? The well’s still out there.”
Drake lowered his voice to keep his enthusiasm under control. There was the towering pyramid of black tubes, still popping and crackling with streams of purple sparks. Where was the doctor?
“Is Silverhead up on the next floor? Scout around, Krug, and find out what’s happened to him.”
“I’ll get him,” said Krug.
“Hell, no. If he’s busy don’t bother him. As long as the damn thing’s running—Krug, come back. Get up the ladder and pour it in.”
“Can’t he drop it in, box and all, Boss?” Mac suggested. “Or does he have to send the bills through loose? You saw the Doc’s pocket-book go through.”
“Don’t quibble!” Drake roared. “Drop the box in. Throw it in. Kick it in. Hurry up about it . . . And the other box—”
“He’s got ’em both, if he don’t bust the damn ladder,” said Mac Krug made it to the top safely. He struggled to shift the weight of the two cases to the top of the slide.
Mac’s imagination was beginning to grasp the wonders of this machine. He followed Marcus Drake to the middle of the stage where the two lower chutes emerged from the base of the machine, apparently ready to pour wealth at their feet.
“All those thousands, Boss. Think of it. We’ll double ’em—”
“Double!” Drake sneered. “Didn’t you get past the first grade? We’ll put them through a hundred times, and then another hundred. Man, we’ll pile up a mountain of bills. All we can cart away in our ten-ton truck—”
Krug shouted down from the pinnacle. “Here they go!”
The two boxes swished down the slide. Purple sparks continued to flow over the black tubes of the pyramid. But nothing came out of the two lower chutes. Something was wrong.
Marcus Drake’s suspicions were always on tap. Had Krug sidetracked those boxes? “Go up that ladder, Mac, and see what’s wrong.”
For three frantic minutes Drake bounced around the machine, up the ladder, back down to the pay-off chutes. His mad investigation unearthed one shiny bit of evidence. Here was a substitute.
It was worth a try. He knew well enough after all of Dr. Silverhead’s profuse fussing, where that lens might belong.
His puffy fingers trembled, but he succeeded in making the exchange. It could be that the little operation would put the machine in order. He tossed a screw-driver up to Krug, who was still perched on the top of the ladder.
“Throw it in,” Drake yelled. “Maybe it’ll knock the money loose.”
Krug tossed the screw-driver into the slide. It disappeared. Ten or twelve seconds later two identical screw-drivers came out of the lower chutes, Drake held them up for the other to see.
“Now we’re on the right track. We’ve got to find something big enough to gouge that money loose. Get that chair, Mac.”
The chair went down the slide. Drake counted to ten. Two chairs struck the stage floor with a single thump.
But where was the money? Drake paced the floor like a madman. His henchmen felt black trouble looming around them. They made repeated experiments with other objects. The objects came through in duplicate—but no money.
Marcus Drake’s fury turned on Krug.
“Damn you, you threw it in. You go in and find it.”
“What? Me? Listen, Boss—”
“You heard me. Dive in, Krug. Go in kicking. Knock that dough loose, damn it, or I’ll paste you to the wall with lead!”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?” Drake swung his gun upward with a gesture full of blind rage. Krug dived into the slide and went down kicking.
Two Krugs came sprawling out of the lower chutes. They got up in unison and stared at each other with identical amazement. Then their glares turned upon Marcus Drake. Their not too friendly appearance had a calming effect upon their boss.
But he was still the boss. “Come here, you men. Come here, Mac. Let’s talk this over.”
“Well, what did happen to the money?” Mac growled.
“Whatever happened,” said Marcus Drake, with an inspiration that was more diplomacy than generosity, “we’ll have to re-divide it. There are four of us now.”
The two Krugs nudged each other.
“But we’d better face the bitter fact,” said Marcus Drake. “The machine gave us a misdeal. The only thing to do is start over. How much money have you men got on you? Get that cigar-box, Krug . . . Hell, I didn’t mean both of you . . . All right, toss your bills in, men, and we’ll get this business rolling.”
“It’ll take us a devil of a long time to work up a thousand—”
“I knew you never got to the third grade, Mac,” Drake taunted. “Now the idea is this. Every time two boxes come down we’ll dump all the bills into one and discard the other. After we get one box jammed full, we’ll tack it shut and get into high gear. Everything’ll come through full. We’ll stack half the boxes that come down and throw the other half back to the top for seed. Who’s good at pickin’ cigar boxes out of the air? You Krugs? All right, hike up the ladder, one of you. And for heaven’s sake, don’t fall in. I’ll go nuts if any more of you spring up.”
One of the Krugs ascended the ladder. Drake drew a satisfied breath and started to light a cigarette. But his shoulders stiffened and he tossed the cigarette aside.
“Anything wrong, Boss?” Mac asked.
“Keep the works goin’, Mac,” Drake bit his words. “I just saw a face at the door. To your left, toward the stairs.”
“Who was it?”
“Someone I haven’t seen for days—but I figure he’s the guy that nearly clogged our waterworks a couple of times. Keep things going, Mac. It’s dark out now. I’m going to take a little walk in the garden.”
CHAPTER XXVI
Long-Lost Archie
The person Marcus Drake had caught sight of had made his appearance on these premises about an hour earlier. Most of that hour had been spent in the bar on the west side of the block.
It had taken two police
officers several hours of cruising through the streets before they discovered that their passenger—whose memory was nearly a blank—must be familiar with this part of the city.
They had parked just off Southwest Boulevard and had led their charge along the streets, watching his reactions toward the various doorways.
“Do you know this place, young man?”
“I—I don’t remember.”
“We’ll take him inside,” said the sergeant.
The bartender blinked in surprise to see two strange officers entering. Then, noticing the young man between them, he said, “Hey, you’re Archie, ain’t you?”
“Is that your name?” the sergeant asked.
“I don’t remember—could be.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow. He hoped this lad wasn’t in trouble.
“He’s had a bad bump,” said one of the officers. “And he came pretty near drowning a half mile out from shore. But he can’t remember anything. Outside of that he’s in pretty good shape. Aren’t you, Archie?”
“I’m feeling all right.”
“Remember me?” the bartender asked. “No? . . . Say, I’ve got a letter someone left for you. Is it O. K., officer, if I give him a letter?”
“Sure, go ahead. Maybe it’ll put him on the track.”
The officers watched Archie’s puzzled face as he studied the letter. They took pride in taking the bartender aside and telling him all about the case.
They were following through because they believed this young man must know about a gang of criminals. Some of his unconscious mumblings a few hours after his rescue had sounded as if he knew plenty.
But that wasn’t all they had to go on. They had found him floundering in the sea a half mile out from the storm-sewer—only an hour after they had found the body of a murdered man along that same shore. This all appeared to be a follow-up of other similar murders as yet unsolved.
“If he gets his memory back,” said the sergeant, “he may tell us things. And I figure we’re on the right trail to bring him back.”
“Didn’t he have any identification?”
“Too badly soaked to make sense. He mumbled something about losing a gun. All he had besides his clothes was a little leather book. Would you believe it—they found him holding a wad of something up out of the water. It was a calm sea, and when he’d turn on his back he’d pack this wad on his chest, like he thought he could keep it out the water. He might have swum all day if they hadn’t found him. Had no idea where he was going. His only purpose was to keep his packet dry. Of course it got soaked all the same.”
“What was it?”
“His coat all bound up around this little leather book—hey, Archie!” Archie looked up listlessly. He had laid the letter aside, preferring to devote his attention to his sandwich. “Show the man your book, Archie.”
Archie unpinned the safety pin in the over-size coat the first-aid station had furnished him. He snapped the little leather book cover open long enough to reveal the single shiny white card it contained. Then he pinned it back in his pocket and went on eating his sandwich.
“Funny thing was, that card didn’t seem to be wet,” said one of the officers. “Some unusual material.”
“A secret message, maybe,” the bartender suggested.
“Just a blank card. No invisible ink or anything. We’ve hounded him to tell us what it means to him, and he says it’s the only thing of any importance. That’s all you can get out of him. I’m sure he’s forgotten why it’s important. Or else he’s got his wires crossed and it don’t amount to anything—”
“But just try to take it away from him,” the other officer added. “To change the subject, am I right in figuring that that big storm-sewer crosses under this hill?”
“Damfino,” said the bartender.
The officers asked Archie for his letter, and he welcomed them to read it aloud.
“Dear Archie: Drake’s next snip will be a pip. Haw, haw! Get it? Some gag. It only cost a quarter.”
“But I don’t get it,” Archie commented.
“He was drunk when he wrote it,” said the bartender. “He was always drunk.”
The officer read on:
“By the way, Archie, that sock in the jaw knocked sense in me. Not much but a little. Been meaning to see your boss but always forgot what I wanted to tell him. It’s about my niece, Grace. She’s really one swell kid—I know. If your boss only knew it, she would be one angel believe me, and I think I’ll get out and quit making trouble. Tell him for me, will you, Archie?
Yours,
P. Parker.”
“That’s a queer letter,” said the sergeant. “Who’s P. Parker? . . . You don’t remember anyone by that name? Or the niece? . . . What’s the name of your boss?”
Archie shook his head slowly. “I’m trying—give me time.”
“Take it easy,” said the sergeant. “Tell you what. You just start out and walk around—anywhere you feel like walking. We’ll talk with you some more after while. Go ahead.”
Archie Burnette strolled halfway around the block, drifted through the old hospital building into the court. He followed along under the arcade, entered an open door, looked into the laboratory.
And thus it was that he saw the Drake gang working feverishly around the big scientific instrument.
Archie frowned. This was all so very vague, yet not completely unfamiliar. That thick-set man putting a monocle to his eye—hadn’t Archie seen him before?
Now the man slipped into a rough jacket and came over to Archie. He began talking about his garden. He carried a pair of pruning shears.
He led the way to an old well. He was being very friendly, but Archie wished it weren’t so dark out here. What had happened to his friends, the officers? Were they following?
At the gardener’s suggestion Archie bent down to try to see the water. Instantly the friendly hand on his shoulder became a heavy pressure on the back of his neck. Instantly the pruning shears came up and snapped at his throat.
It was an exceedingly strange experience. Did the gardener mean it for a joke or was he trying to do Archie injury?
The darkness was suddenly banished. All over the court there was bright light. A battery of floodlights had come on.
The gardener was snarling, glaring at the ineffectual tool in his hands.
“Rubber blades!” he growled, flinging the tool in the bushes. He grabbed Archie with both hands. But two of his friends were rushing out to him yelling at him to lay off and come out of the light. Then Archie knew he felt like fighting, and he fought.
He whirled out of the grip of those puffy, sweaty hands. He smashed out with his fists. He landed a hard right that sent a shudder through the gardener’s frame.
Then the fists flew. Under the floodlights the streaks of shadows jumped and crossed. Suddenly Archie caught a terrific blow on the point of the chin.
He was seeing colored lights—lights in the back of his head. He bounced against the stone railing of the well.
That blow left him terribly groggy—but in some strange way it made everything clearer. That man was Marcus Drake, whose business was murder.
CHAPTER XXVII
Free for All
Guns began to pop. Archie sat up and rubbed his swollen cheek and gave his head a few twists to make sure it was still attached. The fight had almost done him in. Like a revolt breaking out over a peaceful village, the fracas had suddenly spread to all corners of the court.
A few police officers had bobbed up from somewhere and gunplay was the order of the day. Drake’s slippery band leaped for cover and moved back toward the laboratory doorway, returning shot for shot.
Once Archie saw two Krugs running in the same direction, and he thought he was seeing things.
Once he saw a beautiful girl hurrying in through a doorway ahead of the gangster retreat, and she looked so much like Hetty that he knew he was seeing things.
But his hand slapped against his side and suddenly he knew. He
was up with a bound, racing across the garden. That recent fist fight with Drake had ripped his coat pocket off and torn the leather book open. So Hetty had come to life! And now she was in the path of fire!
Hetty wasn’t the only girl mixed up in this miniature war. Archie caught a glimpse of a Craigette with red hair, her eyes full of fire and hands full of brickbats. He ducked. She let fly with a brick and her aim was good. It caught one Krug in midflight and brought him down, and a second later an officer was on him.
“Not bad, sister!” the officer shouted.
“Tell it to Craig,” the girl snapped, beating it for cover.
Archie couldn’t have taken a straighter course for the laboratory if he had been a bullet. As a matter of fact, he had flying bullets to direct him most of the way. He heard his sergeant shout, “Get that girl out of there!”
That was exactly what he meant to do. But Mac and Drake were following her. Not only for protection from bullets. As Archie cut in ahead of them he realized there was something else—a camera, What it contained would send Drake to the electric chair in a minute. It was like Drake to think he could still beat this game.
“Get rid of it, Hetty!” Archie, shouted. “They’re after it, not you! Throw it away!”
She heard, and as she ran she looked for some place where she could safely hide it. But now Archie overtook her in a dead-end passage—a room on the second floor level, whose floor terminated before stage ropes, a ladder and some scientific apparatus.
Drake and Krug were pounding up the stairs.
Hetty hesitated at the brink, completely out of breath. Her sharp eyes were tinged with fear for once. She looked at the stage, and knew that the ladder was the only chance—and that she wasn’t equal to it. Not with the camera.
“Give it to me,” Archie snapped. “Anything to get rid of it.”
He took it from her hands, tossed it at the one spot where he thought it might fall safely out of sight—a smooth metal slide at the top of the huge black electrical instrument. Then he caught